On the Day You Were Born...

I wish you could have seen your mother when I arrived at the visitor center. She was wearing her park service uniform with an olive green cardigan buttoned low and tight across her swollen belly. She smiled as I walked up to hug her and I saw the excitement in her eyes. She had started feeling mild contractions just a little while before I arrived, but she wasn’t yet convinced that you were on your way.

We took our lunch out to a picnic table in the sunshine and enjoyed the unusual December warmth. A hermit thrush hopped through the underbrush near the edge of the steep slope that dropped down to the Kaweah River. Your mom lamented the fact that they only sang their beautiful song during the springtime in the forests higher up the mountain. The small contractions continued as we talked and laughed under the bright blue sky.

I ended up driving your mom home early from work, as the contractions become stronger and more frequent with each passing hour. We walked into an empty house and I admit that I felt a little scared of what was to come, but your mom was all strength and confidence. She assured me we had many hours still ahead of us and that your dad would be there soon.

One by one they all arrived. First came your mom and dad’s curious friend from down the street, whom your dad had just called with the news. She was a neonatal nurse and a mother of three, and we were grateful for her guidance. Shortly after, your dad rushed through the door from his job at the hospital and seamlessly transitioned into making preparations for your delivery. Then your grandparents and your little brother stopped by to cheer on your mom through the first part of her labor. The only person yet to arrive was the midwife and it was quickly becoming clear that she might not make it in time.

Ten minutes became five and then two as the frequency of the contractions increased and still no midwife. We sent your brother and grandparents on their way and brought your mom out into the living room to lie down on the bed we had prepared. There was no longer time for worry or apprehension. We put all our energy toward becoming a team, each assuming the role for which we hoped we were most qualified. Your dad and family friend took over the responsibilities of the midwife, which left me to comfort and support your mom.

As she entered the depths of her labor, she began calling out the sound that would carry her through to the end. "Hass, hass, hass," she repeated with changing volume and intensity as the contractions built and subsided. She gripped my hand and squeezed down tight, letting her other arm wave up and over her head in an expanding motion as she focused on allowing her body to do what it needed to do. During the short breaks between contractions, I gave her small sips of water and marveled at the fact that she was the one reassuring us throughout this process.

Your dad was so strong. He held fast to his training as a critical care nurse even as he choked back excited tears the first time he saw the top of your head. The midwife provided instructions over the phone, telling your mom that it was time to put all her effort into pushing and so she gripped both my hands tight and we pulled against each other as she gritted her teeth and pushed. Once, twice, three and four times. With each contraction a little more of your head became visible, until finally you emerged into the waiting arms of your overjoyed dad. Within a few seconds you turned bright pink and let out a strong, healthy cry. We sighed with relief as we let out shouts of joy. Your dad placed you on your mom’s chest and we covered you up with towels warm from the dryer and suddenly there were five people in the room.

Every moment that came after was filled with quiet joy. Your dad dimmed the lights and put on some classical music. Your mom cuddled with you as you nursed. The midwife finally arrived with little fanfare and assured us that all was well. We helped you and your mom into the bedroom and straightened up the living room, so that by the time your grandparents and big brother arrived you were swaddled in a blanket and both resting peacefully on the bed. While they visited with you, I made your mom scrambled eggs and toast and standing there at the stove I could not believe that such arduous and life changing circumstances could lead to this moment, which felt so utterly and completely normal. As if you had been here all along and the past few hours were only a dream.

We all took our turn that evening holding you and fawning over your tiny fingernails and pouting lips, each time returning you to your mom’s waiting arms. From across the bedroom I caught a glimpse of your parents both peering over the blanket at you as you slept. They looked at each other and exchanged a million unspoken words about all that had transpired earlier that evening and all that was still to come in the years ahead. She gave him a tired, contented smile as she nestled you into the crook of her arm and then closed her eyes to rest.

On the Move Again

View from the Skyline Trail in Three Rivers, California

Packing and moving have been a regular part of my life since I moved out west over ten years ago. Every few years possessions get put into boxes and carted off to the next destination, with the excitement of new adventures usually outweighing any other concerns. This time, however, we took a leap of faith when we landed in the little town of Three Rivers almost two years ago. Though it went against my better judgement to leave my job and sell our house in New Mexico, after briefly visiting the town one weekend the decision to move ultimately felt like the right one. And since sentiment seems to regularly trump reason in my life, I jumped. Over time we’ve come to know this place and many of the people who live here, and while we see that it's perfect for some, it does not fit us. Many residents of Three Rivers like their little corner of the world to be quiet and separate. It’s a place to rest and retreat from the hectic pace of life in Southern California and to escape the often drab polluted skies of the Central Valley. Those who stay – outdoor enthusiasts, artists and craftspeople, ranchers and farmers, families and retirees – sing the praises of this community for these virtues. 

I’m certainly glad to have spent time here in this place, but I’ve been wanting something more. More of exactly what has been a little hard to define. Perhaps more opportunities – I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. More community would be nice too. Rest and retreat are fine every now and then, but a thriving downtown where people regularly go to experience a shared life is something I look forward to having again. A chance to put down roots is also welcome. Until now, our moves have served as stepping stones on an ever changing path as we, both separately and together, attempt to shape our lives. Because this job is an excellent opportunity for Peter to take his career in a new direction, and because there are a myriad of possibilities for me to explore, we’ve placed our bets and purchased a house.

Sierra live oaks

Some things with this move are going to change very little, for which I am grateful. We’ll still be in California, the complicated and beautiful state that has finally become a place I love to call home.  We’ll still be living in the lovely foothills of the Sierra Nevada, this time a little higher up in the chaparral where the graceful Sierra live oak trees grow. We’ll still be only a few hours from family and friends living elsewhere in California, which is like having them as neighbors in such a large western state (frame of reference for those living in the more densely populated eastern half of the country - people living in Hawai’i who found out we were from California called us practically neighbors).

Our house in Mariposa (P. Lindstrom)

I confess that I often have a sense for how things will work out in advance of the unfolding. I knew Peter was going to get his job in Three Rivers before he got the offer. I knew we were supposed to move here, even though it wasn’t a place we were going to stay. It took me a while to figure out why being in Three Rivers was a necessary step, and then the data manager position in Yosemite opened up – the one that Peter said he’d love to eventually have when he first learned a year ago that such a position existed. Eventually turned out to be only a few months later when a retirement made the position available for the first time in over a decade. I knew the weekend that we went up to check out the town of Mariposa after his interview that he was going to get this job. I knew the moment we walked in the door of that little white house that it was meant to be ours. And every time we’ve been back for a visit, I'm thrilled about the idea of living in Mariposa. It wouldn't surprise me if after eleven years, five moves and four different national parks, I just might finally stay put for a while. 

The August River

The river behind our house is a reflection of the seasons. In the fall and winter, its flows fluctuate with the rain and then ebb with the snow. The moisture remains locked up within the frozen high mountains until the warmth of spring returns. Thin ribbons of melting water descend and merge along the length of the mountain until finally they converge, turning the river into a roaring torrent.

The Kaweah River is an altogether different body of water in the late summer season. As the weeks pass, it flows gently through the valley with ever decreasing velocity and volume, creating a serene oasis of cool moisture in the hot, dry foothills. Aside from an unusual pulse of tropical moisture which pushed its way up into the central Sierra for one day at the end of July, the mountains have not seen a drop of precipitation since late May. All but the last remaining patches of stubborn snow have melted in the high Sierra, feeding the river with scant trickles of moisture.

The gradient of the riverbed is more perceptible now that the level is lower, turning torrid rapids into steps and terraces which create a cascading effect. The resulting white froth contrasts sharply with the earth toned rocks obscured just under the surface. Paths of safe passage out into and across the river emerge as the shallow water allows increased visibility of rocks both above and below.

 The rounded angles of the boulders create all manner of seats and perches for experiencing the flow of the water. Although cold to the touch at first, it takes only a minute to recognize the temperature as refreshing rather than freezing. Sitting on a boulder above the water, flecks of cool spray periodically jump up to dot my back and legs. Fingers outstretched with palms upstream I feel the buffeting current thread through my fingers.

One of last year’s sycamore leaves long since dried and curled, is dislodged from its limb by the breeze and descends, gently landing onto the surface of the river. Its golden orange color is similar to the patch of rocks in the water below. I watch it bob and shift with the current, navigating the ripples for a while before tipping and plunging under the water. It moves swiftly now with the flowing water in the direction I expect it to go until suddenly it veers sharply with a much stronger current. I follow it just a little further before it gets sucked into an eddy amongst the boulders and I lose sight of it altogether. My gaze returns to the bed of the river and I notice that it is a patchwork of yellow, cream, dark gray, reddish brown and tan interlaced with and covered by clear greenish blue water. Looking upstream the rounded granite boulders are awash in sunshine, suspended in a plain of undulating glass.

The golden summer season will linger for many more weeks, but in spite of the scorching direct sun and brittle blanket of spent vegetation covering the ground, the days are somehow sweeter this time of year because of the knowledge that they will not last. Long to-do lists and a hurried pace are not compatible with this time of year. Better to make a priority of finding some time to take a dip in the river or rest in a cool patch of shade along its banks. Flowing water demands alignment, which is easy to realize when dangling a foot in the water. Kept toes pointed up or down stream, it’s possible to achieve relative stability and balance, but the moment your foot turns broadside to the current, the river exerts its force. Observing the river, I’m reminded of the peace that comes with slowing down and the awareness that even subdued pressure can realign obstacles.