Incline

So, I hiked the infamous trail in Manitou this afternoon. It used to be a cog-style railroad famous for being the steepest section of train tracks in the known universe. I rode it a time or two as a kid, and remember the cold feeling I got in my chest when we had to go back down and I realized that, if the cable broke, we'd plummet straight down into hell. The railroad stopped operating in 1990, when a rock slide mercifully took out the tracks. Click here if you want the full story, or pictures.

Now used strictly for hiking by insane and sadistic people, it is a near-vertical scree slope crisscrossed with railroad ties, exposed rebar, and open drainage pipes begging to give you a justifiable reason for another a tetanus shot. It takes you, at the top, 2000 feet higher in elevation than you were when you started, in less than a mile, at grades of up to 68%. (Most staircases are about 35-40%.) Among locals it is known simply as "The Incline", which is, in my humble opinion, a gentle and benign description meant to lure you quietly to your hypoxic demise. It's more like "Steep-ass-suffer-fest-with-a-bunch-of-shit-you-could-hurt-yourself-on" trail, and you have to pay $5 just to park at the bottom. There is even a row of port-a-potties lining the trailhead in case you look at it before you start walking, in which case your insides will instantly turn into water.

For those of you who are deathly afraid of heights, it really is best if you just keep moving forward (or, up, as it were) and don't look behind you, lest you are able to take in the incredible vista that stretches across the city all the way to Kansas. But don't look up, either, because that's just as bad--maybe worse--unless your brain is already so deprived of oxygen that you notice the 3-inch lizards scampering out of your clumsy path to take refuge under a rock, or hear the whistling buzz of hummingbirds pulling you up one more step. If you look--really look--up, you can even see the false summit which looks for all the world like the top until you are two steps below it. At that moment, it is not uncommon to hear people curse their very existence as you pass them, especially when they are young, fit, Army Rangers, and you are a middle-aged mother of three who keeps a little extra padding around the hips in case there is a famine. (Granted: they were from sea level Georgia, and I live here.)

If you make it to the top (and you will, because once you pass the halfway point, going down is certain death for your knees and ankles) you appreciate all the work that has gone into making that trail fit for foot traffic. The railroad ties have been reinforced in many places, and you can see where a zillion feet have worn gently curving groves in them. There are rough wooden bridges over the sharpest drainage pipes, and strategically placed rocks as extra steps for us vertically challenged types. There are even places where you can stop to slosh a gulp of water into your face in hopes that some of it will make it to your mouth, and you can hope for two seconds that the apocalypse would come RIGHT NOW to end this torture.

But, you keep moving, because there might be a cold beer at the bottom (plan ahead!) and chances are high that the deranged person who passed you at a trot a few minutes ago will be at the top with a high-five. They might even offer to take a real picture to save you, in your state of duress, from taking a selfie.

My time was 46 minutes. And I didn't even cry.

Breath

There is nothing trivial about coming home every night. Even on the days when I know my rockstar hubs is going to be gone, which means I have to figure out what to feed the short people (who eat ALL. THE. TIME--thankfully, they don't seem to get tired of the eggs-quesadilla-tomato soup rotation). 

Every day, over and over, I am reminded that not everyone gets to come home. Or, at least, not to their earthly one. 

There are days I am just glad to get the heck back to my rockstar and kiddos, glad that we're all mostly healthy and mostly happy most of the time; other days, I need to take my time coming home to process the empty spaces in my heart that people leave after they are gone. Then there are days that I have the chance to talk with people about the hole they are going to leave in a few days, or weeks. Every time I do that, I seem to focus on their breathing. My attention is naturally drawn to the rhythm of breath, even near the end when it is studded with gaps and rents and discordant hollows. 

Those are the really, really special (not easy, mind you) times that mean I work out on the rowing machine (even though I have never actually rowed a real boat on real water) because I can do it with my eyes closed, listening only to my breathing. That's when I can reach out and let my spirit fall into the rhythm of the air around us that we breathe that is filled with those who still want to be near us. 

It fascinates me that the original pronunciation of YHWH is lost. Scholars assume it to be Yahweh, but, like so much about history, this is an educated guess based on what we know about the context. Biblical and Pentatuch scholars alike note that YHWH is used most often when describing God's relationship with people. This intimacy is like breath, and when you say YHWH slow, without a lot of vocalization, it sounds like breathing. 

Maybe it's a stretch, but it doesn't seem completely accidental that the one thing that comes most automatically, and that we need most desperately to survive, sounds like the Name itself. 

Think about that for a second. Listen to your own breath. Feel it moving in and out, rhythmic. 

. . . YH-WH . . . YH-WH . . . YH-WH . . . 

Even when we are not thinking, or even believing, our very breathing says the Name. 

The dependency of our spirits on the YHWH is as automatic as our bodily lives are on breathing. Even though I can't completely wrap my mind around that, I know I don't have to, because I  . . . can . . . . just . . . . . breathe . . . . . . .

. . . YH-WH . . . YH-WH . . . YH-WH . . . 

On Easter and Nerdlings

This season of spiritual holidays left me in a state of near-constant reflection. I am always captivated by the very secular interpretation of Easter and the fact that it is kind of a made up holiday, for which a translation accident is partly responsible. (For more specific information, click here for a succinct and accurate summary by the History Channel). 

Don't get me wrong, the religious significance is massive, and represents the crux (play on words intended. Thank you.) of THE love story of all time. The political significance is also staggering, especially if you put the character of Christ in modern-day geo-politics. The saying "live like Christ" takes on a whole new--and, face it, terrifying--significance. 

I also love Love LOVE the Jewish tradition of Passover. The events and story of the Israelites leading up to the Passover is one of the most meaningful stories in religious and global history. It really is the first salvation story. And the fact that it is paired with the Passover Moon, or Blood Moon, makes my breath catch every time I am blessed with clear skies to see it. 

But, more on my spiritual musings later. Here is where Easter week and "Real Life: Holidays with Nerdlings" intersect:

Dyeing Easter eggs is a loosely held tradition in my upbringing, usually culminating in green dye being spilled on a green-and-brown calico carpet, and massive amounts of deviled eggs and egg salad, and at least one egg that gets missed for months, only to be discovered after an argument that culminates in a fistfight about who farted. 

This year, we skipped the tradition, and opted for an early Easter egg treasure hunt in KS over spring break. In the mix of festivities, no one really missed it this past week. 

We did, however, embark on a discussion at breakfast one morning about where eggs come from and how humans might have figured out they were edible. I'm pretty sure there is a fine line between genius and insanity, and I won't place bets on which side of that line the person was on when they figured it out (along with drinking 'whatever comes out of those things when I squeeze them' regarding milk--it was probably the same person).

I am also pretty sure I have the only kids in the world who call each other "cloaca".

It is decidedly more disgusting than calling each other "butt-face" or "fart-head", although it doesn't generally cause quite the same reaction amongst peers on the playground.  In case you aren't familiar, a cloaca is the "the common cavity into which the intestinal, urinary, and generative canals open in birds, reptiles, amphibians, many fishes, and certain mammals", according to Webster. In other, less elegant terminology (thank you, Sister) it is the butt-gina where the eggs fall out.

I am quite certain that zoo camp this summer will provide even more fodder for unusual insults, which may or may not require the insulted to google the term on one's smartphone while the insultee gloats over his superior intelligence, even though he may or may not be bothered to tie his shoes. 

Nine Unicorns

There are precious few things I believe with absolute certainty. One of the things I believe with absolute certainty is STUPID. I believe in STUPID.

There was a debate today between Bill Nye (Bill Nye, the Science Guy, is an Emmy Award-winning science educator) and Ken Ham ("leading creation apologist and bestselling Christian author"). Neither of them are STUPID. They are both highly educated men with advanced degrees who are scholars at heart and aren't shy about speaking publicly about their beliefs.

But.

The debate was about creation vs evolution, and was sponsored by Answers in Genesis. The debate advert states, "Each man delivers what he believes is the best information currently available for his case. Each then has an opportunity for rebuttal and afterward answers questions submitted by the audience." Obviously, the debate is about whether or not God created the universe in 7 days or not.

Tickets sold out in two minutes.

STUPID. STUPID. STUPID.

My question from the audience would have been: "Is it true that the King James version of the Bible mentions unicorns NINE TIMES?"

(The answer is 'yes'. When it was translated, editors didn't know exactly what one particular Hebrew word meant. Creation apologist theory states that these probably represented "the great aurochs or wild bulls which are now extinct." Do you see the impossible double-standard here? Or am I just STUPID?)

Theory of Evolution

I am quite certain I have produced offspring which are better adapted for the changing environment than I am. I have a 10-year-old who can explain Newtons Laws of Motion, and a six-year-old who told me today he learned multiplication at school with the second graders. I am joining the ranks of genetically obsolete and intellectually inferior species than successive generations. My grandchildren will likely grow wings and fly to the grocery store, instead of walking on the common ground like the rest of us. 

It should come as no surprise, then, that my youngest made me wonder if I should commit myself to Neanderthal Science as a subject of study first thing in the morning when she asked me, "Mommy, what comes after sticky?"

Um. *blink* Ummmm. Sticky. I repeat the question in my feeble mind, then aloud, just to be sure I heard correctly. 

"Sticky what?"

"You know: Sticky. What. Comes. After. Sticky." (Carefully annunciated so I can process each word individually.)

This question is coming from a three-year-old blonde missile who is uncomfortably familiar with various viscosities of "sticky". 

"Wash your face and hands? Washing comes after sticky."

She stares at me for a moment with a blank expression, as if trying to figure out how I missed left field so completely that I'm not even in the free parking 2 miles from the stadium. I can see her trying to decide if it is worth her while to bother repeating the question, or perhaps she should ask to borrow my iPhone to watch 'Daniel Tiger' and secretly Google her question. Somehow, she decides that--if nothing else--she may gain some additional amusement from seeing what nonsense her less-evolved mother might come up with. 

She takes a deep breath, and re-states her question slowly and clearly.

"Mommy. What comes . . . after . . . sticky."

I cast about for a reference, some semblance of context to form my response around. What comes after . . . before? 

"Well, what comes before sticky?"

Again, an uncomfortable stare. I have flashbacks to high school trigonometry, or whatever class it was that our teacher was trying to help me understand the value of imaginary numbers. My answer was always reaching towards the theory that, since they are imaginary, they can be whatever I needed them to be to get the correct answer and pass the quiz, which I never did. I ended up taking remedial algebra and finally convinced Will Brenneman that as long as I could consistently balance my checkbook, I would faithfully use a calculator for any other necessary calculation. Or Google it. 

She looks out the window for a moment, as if she can feel her wing buds sprouting out her back. She is clearly annoyed. 

She gathers her patience, turns back to me and gently, ever so gently, explains the context of her question.

"You know. Twenty. Firty. Forty. Fifty. Sticky. What comes," she pauses to make sure I'm still with her, "after sticky?"

It takes me a moment to C.O.M.P.L.E.T.E.L.Y. reorient myself to her question. I feel relief flooding me like baptism. I know this one. 

"Seventy!"

I am triumphant. Perhaps I will be smarter than her for another year. 

Living Better

I think one of the lies of Satan is the definition of 

BETTER. 

 When we are small, we begin to believe the lie, as we are held away from things we want.

"Wait until you are bigger."

And, thus, we begin to believe the lie. 

As we grow, we work more to earn more to spend more so that we can be bigger. Bigger house, bigger car, bigger vacation, bigger retirement, bigger birthday parties, bigger gifts, bigger restaurant tabs, bigger business, bigger debt. Bigger anxiety, bigger stress, bigger schedule.

And when we get to the end, we realize it isn't better. Just bigger.

Bigger regret.

Last weekend, I had the honor and sacred privilege of caring for my husbands grandfather before he died. He was, by the standards of his community, wealthy. He channeled his wealth back into his community and opened a summer resort and winter ski area that was open to the general public in a generation when skiing was only available to the elite who were wealthy enough to purchase a membership to the Country Club. He gave local kids cheap lessons, jobs, instructor certification and a ticket to a different life, where choices were made based on character and not by how much bigger they were able to live. Many left the community for higher education and different opportunities. Almost as many come back every season to pour their hearts back in to their home. 

This makes it better. 

Lloyd seemed to know the difference early enough to mold his life's choices around being better. And, when the time came, he was able to reflect and say, "I've had a good life," and then wait to greet death like an old friend instead of something to be feared. 

The gift of the dying is that we have a window to what is most important. The things that are bigger are not what make life better. Easier, perhaps, at certain times. But not better. We are given direct insight to the difference between bigger and better.

And we can choose BETTER.

New Year's Un-Resolution

2013 is gone and I'm pretty sure I missed it. I got to the end of the year and felt like I didn't check nearly all the things off my list that I had written there. Even though I did get to go camping a couple times with the kids at the Sand Dunes (which is the most peaceful place on earth, in case you were wondering).

So. I wrote down the events I will do in 2014. Some of them are written on the calendar in permanent marker, others will happen spontaneously when there is a nice day. Many of them are simply spaces that fill me up, that help me center on the people that are most important to me. Some of them will require a babysitter or Camp Grandma. Some of the will require doing extra laundry. Some of them will mean skiffing an assignment at school or taking an extra day of precious PTO. But they WILL happen. In no particular order:

1. Stay at the Parlin house with good friends (preferably in the summer when we can be outside fishing in the pond or drinking coffee on the deck.
2. Camping at the Sand Dunes (because it's tradition. And peaceful and beautiful and reminds me how my insignificant troubles are--no bigger than a grain of sand). 
3. King Reunion (July)
4. Buffalo Creek Bike/Camping trip
5. Take Liam and Wyatt hiking at the Crags
6. Cross Wedding (June)
7. Eitzen wedding (July)
8. Sipapu ski trip for Clown Clinic (February)
9. Scrapbook Retreat (January)
10. Ski with the family another weekend, just for kicks.
11. Family bike ride
12. Hubby bike ride
13. Eat at Mountain Flying Fish
14. Hubby Hike
15. Spend a day at Mt Princeton Hot Springs
16. High School Reunion (I'm not going to tell you what year. You get to guess.) 
17. Talk with "Dear Kate" at least once a month, either by text, FB, phone or (ideally) in person. 
18. Seven. Seven minutes of a workout and seven minutes of prayer. Every. Day. Because even the busiest of us can find seven minutes of something we can give up. 

It's going to be a busy year! Let's get started . . . .