Thoughts on Marriage: Same-sex and Otherwise

 

I have been married three times.  Actually four, if you count the illegal one.

My first was to a guy I met when I was twenty.  We married two years later.  I don't know why I needed to grow up so fast.  Maybe it was so I could reverse age.  (I do feel younger now than I did then!)

My second was the illegal one.  We couldn't marry legally because we were both women.  But in February 2004, the city of San Francisco announced it was giving marriage licenses to same-sex couples.  So we high-tailed it to city hall and married on the spot. Six months later we were among 4,000 couples to have our marriage ruled void by the Supreme Court of California.

That didn't feel too good.

But then, a few years later, same-sex marriage was ruled legal in California.  So we got hitched again.  Legalization was short-lived.  Six months later, Prop 8 passed and same-sex marriage again became illegal.  But our marriage--along with about 100,000 others--was kept in tact.  Talk about weird: some same-sex couples remained married while others were banned from getting married.

It was then obvious to me that there was an irreversible crack in the system.  "Everything has a crack in it, that's how the light gets in," Leonard Cohen once wrote.  In light of all these rulings, and in light of what was happening in other states (and countries), and in light of more and more same-sex couples and their families talking about how marriage related to their life experiences, everyone's awareness seemed to be expanding. 

In direct proportion to that growth, my relationship was dying.  We'd been together for fifteen years, but just six months after our legal marriage, we were falling apart.  Marriage Equality for us now meant Divorce Equality.  Kinky Friedman put it best when he said:  "I support gay marriage.  I believe they have a right to be as miserable as the rest of us."

We went through the usual ugly things peoplego through when they get divorced. And then I experienced what a lot of people do after a dark night of the soul:  A rebirth.  A transformation.  You know:  Ashes, Phoenix.  I have forgiven myself and all involved.  I've let it go.  I can now see how much the experience helped me grow.  It wasn't easy to get here, but it's a fabulous place to be.

My fourth marriage?  It happened last year.  I was very aware when Dave and I decided to get married that our genders made it possible. I also thought about how once he and I got married, no one else could take it away.

On the other hand, it was also clear to me what direction history was headed in.  After all, it wasn't until 1967 that the ban on interracial marriage--still existent in 16 states--was overturned by the Supreme Court.  And it wasn't long ago that husbands weren't allowed in the delivery room.  (Some men handcuffed themselves to their wives when they went into labor.)  Hell, in the scope of time, it wasn't very long ago that Americans could own other human beings because their skin was the color of our current President. 

So no matter what the Supreme Court rules, now that it's begun deliberations on the issue, I have no doubt same-sex marriage will, one day, be as much a no-brainer here as it in in Canada, the Netherlands, and Spain, among other countries. (UPDATE: June 26, 2015: Supreme Court gives a thumb's up to marriage equality!)

But back to me.  Some people thought I was crazy to re-marry.  Really?  Get married again, after what you went through?

And my answer:  Yes.  What good is growing if you don't get to embrace what you've learned?   The reality is that we change and grow.  And sometimes we can do that within the boundaries of our marriages, and sometimes we can't.

Obviously, there's something about being married that I like.  My life has been enriched by each relationship I've had.  I can see now that marriage is not a panacea.  I get so much joy out of creating a world with Dave.  I'm grateful we both bring to this marriage a lot of life experience and inner work.  But marriage does not bring happiness.  I bring my happiness to it. 

Affecting Eternity: Thoughts Upon Leaving Teaching

Teachers affect eternity.  They never know where their influence ends.  - Henry Adams

*

When I was student teaching high school in the mid 1980s, a student asked me to the prom.   That's how young I was.  (I told him he had to wrap his mind around the fact that I was his teacher.)

*

When I was student teaching in a middle school, I was so baffled about how to fill up a 50-minute class session that I read aloud all of Call of the Wild to the students.  That took at least a week.  (Who knew one day my sister would marry Jack London's great-grandson?)

*

When I was teaching in Japan and my six little charges couldn't sit still another minute, I'd do one of two things:  1) Turn on Madonna's "Holiday" and dance with the kiddies around the room, sing-shouting the lyrics together, or 2) Take out a long rope, tell each kid to hold onto one of the knots interspersed down the length of the rope, and then take them on the three-block walk to a convenience store where each could pick out one snack item, as long as they asked for it in English.

*

"I aspire to try to be a teacher to my young fans who feel just like I felt when I was younger.  I just felt like a freak.  ... I want to free them of their fears and make them feel that they can make their own space in the world." - Lady Gaga

In one of my frosh comp classes, students were writing about important events in their lives.  One guy wrote about going to a Lada Gaga "Monster's Ball" concert wearing exactly what he wanted to:  a sparkly blue dress.  He was scared at first, but then dancing to her music made him feel more and more brave until he felt, bursting with happiness, that he was one of her "little monsters."

*

In my Queer Arts course, one girl in the class talked about how she came out as a lesbian as a sophomore in high school, and then was elected homecoming queen her senior year.  We loved looking at her yearbook pictures of homecoming:  the homecoming queen, escorted by her girlfriend.

*

Last August, on the first day of the semester, I checked my phone during class break.  My sister had called to tell me my mom had passed away.  I knew it was coming.  Mom had Alzheimer's and hadn't spoken in over a year.  Two days prior, I'd spent the day with her.  Lying next to her on her bed, I massaged her, I played Hawaiian music (her favorite), and I talked to her about all my good memories of my childhood.  I also told her the new semester was starting.  A retired school nurse and writer, she liked that we had in common educating and writing.  Perhaps that's why, after the break, I finished teaching my class.  I was kind of numb but I couldn't think of what else to do.  I didn't have my car with me (I'd taken the bus to work), and Mom was in good hands with my sisters 45 minutes away.  I told my T.A.--a graduate student--what had happened, just in case I needed to step out.  I made it through the rest of class.  Afterward, my T.A. said, "I'm so sorry about your Mom, Kate."  I looked at his young face and thought about how sweet he was, and how being in your twenties is a different animal than being in your 40's.  Then he said, "I understand what you're going through.  I lost my mom when I was ten."  As we walked across campus, he told me the story of her illness, of his taking care of her.  What a gift he gave me that day--a reminder that we all have losses in our lives, and that some of us have our mothers longer than others. 

*

"It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge." - A. Einstein

My mentor Gabriele Rico--the woman who sparked a flame in me for teaching, for writing, for poetry--died last week.  Everything I do is "stitched with her color."  My office is in the building where hers used to be.  I often feel her presence in that building, and in the classrooms where I teach.  Especially when I'm having my students do clustering or re-creation to awaken their inner geniuses. Gabriele believed everyone had powerful potential.  Her life was devoted to inspiring people to let their unique creativity shine. 

*

I'm retiring from teaching this year.  It feels like such a fitting time.  Recently I came across this "Love Letters" website and thought about how I would use it in a writing class.  This is how my mind has worked for years:  everything I encounter gets sifted through the how might students respond to this filter.  I sent an email to a group of my teacher friends telling them my ideas and giving them the link, and several wrote back enthusiastic about this new teaching idea.  One wrote:  "Oh Kate, you'll never stop teaching, a very good thing."

*

During my first year of teaching high school, I saw a former English professor of mine who had been so enthusiastic and knowledgeable about Hemingway and Fitzgerald that I couldn't help but fall in love with them.  In fact, I had just taught "Hills Like White Elephants" and felt like I knew how to hook students into the story because of his teaching.  I had an impulse to run up and say something, but I wavered.  And then I thought, what the hell and did it.  I could tell it took him a minute to remember me.  And then I told him he'd had a big influence on me, which had enriched my teaching.  To my surprise, his eyes misted.  Then he said:  "Well, this is interesting timing.  I was just going to sign my retirement papers.  And before you stopped me what was going through my mind was this:  I wonder if what I've done all these years has really mattered."

*

Here's an email I received last week from a former student:  I hope you remember me. ... I haven't seen you in quite some time, so I would like to offer my congratulations, as I know you were recently married! ... I am thrilled for you! Kate, you may not realize, but you have taught me so much about what it looks like to be an individual, to be unique, and to be comfortable in my own skin. My growing process could not possibly have been complete without your encouragement along the way, so thank you from the bottom of my heart.

*

Going Homeless

Make a home for yourself inside your own head.  You'll find what you need to furnish it--memory, friends, love of learning, and other such things.  That way it will go with you wherever you journey. - Tad Williams


In two months, we will be homeless.  Voluntarily.

In two months, we are going to put all of our stuff in storage and live for at least a year without a home.

Walking Santa Cruz beaches is a divine experience.

Or, I should say, a house.  We’ll never be without a home.  Home isn’t a dwelling.  Home is where your heart is, as they say.  It’s, as Helen Rowland says, “any four walls that enclose the right person.”

Apparently Dave and I are the right person.  

What has prompted our decision is this:  the condo we rent is going up for sale.  

When we got the news, a zillion possibilities flew through my mind:  We could try to find a way to buy a place right now.  We could immediately rent another place.  But would that be in our beloved Santa Cruz?  After all, I’m retiring in May.  We could live anywhere.  Where to set down our roots?  Do we need to set down our roots?

Funny how the mind works.  We were in the car, driving up to Tahoe, when we got the call.   We weren’t especially surprised.  Our lease is up, and we knew the place had been on the market before we moved in.  We were okay with whatever was to come.

But still, suddenly it felt like my skin didn’t fit quite right.  My mind went on overdrive.  A mass of mixed feeling swept through me.  I felt dizzy.  A little sad.  A tinge of scared.  Nostalgic for our lovely little redwood pad, nicknamed The Love Nest, that’s so close to our favorite beach.  I suddenly got all clingy. 

I forgot for a moment that every single time big change has occurred in my life, it has led to something even more amazing.  Something I couldn’t have imagined before.  Some huge expansion of what life can be.

Road to Tahoe

It was the perfect time to get the news.  We were in the car, with nothing to do but watch the road unfold beneath the crystalline blue sky.  We began to talk.  We played with possible scenarios, from moving in with a friend who wants to start a communal living situation, to moving down south, to traveling.  As we explored the possibilities, I paid close attention to my feelings.  When we touched on something that made me feel good, that piqued my excitement just a little, I lingered there.  Milked it.  Folded and unfolded it like an elaborate origami.

It’s no secret that Dave and I love to travel.  That we love to spend extended time in places to experience versions of life.  That we love to dive deeply into our relationships with friends by spending time together.  That we love to meet new people. 

A recent adventure took us to Grand Turk

And in the three-plus years we’ve been together, each journey seems to take us to a deeper level.  Each trip extends our sense of what it means to move through the world.  It’s as though travel has become not a hobby, not separate from the “real world.”  We're now taking literally the notion that life is a journey.  Each trip, each travel adventure, is life.

As Dave says, this moment is what we’ve been training for.  In some ways, this feels like the next logical step.  Not homeless but house-free.  Taking home with us wherever we go on our journey.

We met Widi and Karen in Alaska, and plan to visit them in Chennai, India.

So in two months we will be off exploring the world.  On the possible agenda are:  

·     places we’ve never been where friends have invited us to come stay (Australia, India, Hong Kong)

·     places we’ve always wanted to go (Paris, Amsterdam, Santorini, Corfu)

·     a place where we can spend a full winter in the snow (Tahoe or Utah)

·     places we know well and would love to hang out in because we have friends and family who live there (Hawaii, L.A., San Diego, Cape Cod).

As we talked in the car, we enjoyed being enveloped in creative possibilities.  I felt a kind of nervous excitement—like you feel on a roller coaster—sweep through me.  So then it felt like time just sit back, let it all soak in, and watch the road unfold.  We put on some music, and the song “Something New” by Hot Buttered Rum filled the car:

"We could fall away from here
But I have faith that the footholds will appear…

There’s not a force in this world, any place any time,

like the human soul on fire.”

The Trip of a Lifetime

Our family, circa 1990

I'd been wanting to write about this for quite some time, and being invited to read at The Celebration of the Muse prompted me to do so.  It was a joy to share the stage with twenty local women writers.  The evening was a display of heart and talent.

The poem is about my parents.  It's about angels.  It's about dying as a transformation.  My mom and my dad each had their own path--and they continue on their own journeys. 

The Trip of a Lifetime

1)

My dad has become much more spiritual

since he’s become a spirit.  Maybe his blue eyes

and handlebar mustache signaled he always had angel

potential.  He’d been gone only three months

when, as I sat at the computer, he—

I don’t know how else to put this—

came over for a visit.  My body filled with

a warmth I recognized as him.  My fingertips

froze on the keyboard.  I resisted saying,

“Hi Dad!” because I worried he’d

evaporate if I spoke or moved.  A

softening cupped my heart.  He spoke

without language, filling me with this message:

Everything’s fine.  Fine as in whole, as in

flawless.  Fine as in don’t worry—as in lovely

and pure.  As fine as the sand on an endless beach

that spreads toward the eternal horizon. 

A few days before he died, he said if the afterworld

was real, he’d find a way to pinch me. 

This wasn’t a pinch, though.  Maybe spirits

don’t have fingers.  I remember Dad’s fingers,

thick fingertip pads that fumbled as he

turned newspaper pages.  Yet he grasped a hammer

so resolutely that he built redwood decks in record time,

laid down railroad ties and hauled thousands of

buckets of firewood.  He’d always slide

his ring back on after his shower, before dinner.

2)

A week after the funeral, Mom and I found

Dad’s wedding band in a drawer

next to the bed, gold and round as a tiny halo. 

“Toss it,” Mom said.  All afternoon she’d been saying

“toss this, toss that” about most of Dad’s things. 

The geriatric psychologist asked my mom:

“In what way are a rose and a tulip alike?”

 Mom said:  “They are not alike.”

He said:  “How are a watch and a ruler alike?”

She said:  “They both measure time.”

“A bike and a train?”

“They are both machinery.”

“A corkscrew and a hammer?”

“I don’t know.”

He asked:  “What would you do if there was a fire in your house?”

She answered:  “I’d close and lock the doors.”

“Patient described as showing a change in cognitive status. Her husband of 48 years passed away two months ago.  She worked as a school nurse for many years but doesn’t recall when she retired.  Patient is a poor historian.”

3)

The doctor wrote:  “Patient is a poor historian.”

Pablo Neruda wrote:   “Love is so short, forgetting is so long.” 

4)

Hospice literature says:

“One week before death,

the average patient

still has

a 40% chance

of living.”

It says:

“There is no medical definition

of terminal.”

It says:

“There is no medical definition

of  dying.”

5)

The next time Dad popped in for a visit

I was jogging through my neighborhood. 

“Wow,” he said without words, “Look, look,

look, look, look!”  As my feet metronomed

on the pavement, the colors brightened.  And I saw

through new eyes the crystalline winter day,

the razor-sharp infinite blue of the sky, and the

preposterous fuchsia blossoms as unabashed as the sex of

the world.  Mom gave me the same gift once:

a ViewMaster in my Christmas stocking. 

I’d spent hours peering in,

atingle at the Wonders of the World in 3D—

azure seas and golden windows, lush veils and drapes

and rushing waterfalls—places my mother dreamed of.

6)

Mom began to leave long before she died.

Her language left word by word

as though she was packing a suitcase.

She hadn’t spoken in almost a year.

But when I showed her my engagement ring—

sapphire blue like my father’s eyes—

she reached out and touched my face. 

She doesn’t visit.  I can still feel the release

of her last exhalation, like the lift of a plane.

She’s off on the trip of a lifetime.

*

For more about my mom:

Mom as a writer and school nurse

Mom's writing about her Alzheimer's Journey

Mom loved to laugh

And Mom lives on...

For more about my dad:

Dad's lust for life

Why I'm Quitting My Job

1.  I feel like it!  I'm doing this all on intuition and from a place of pure joy.

Joy!

2.  One day I will die.  I intend to live the life I want to live.  Fully.

3.  Funny how I never thought I'd leave when I was digging my job, which I am for the most part.  I love my students.  I like the vibrancy of the campus.  I enjoy the classes I teach.  It just feels like time.  And how fabulous to be leaving not out of rejecting the old but through embracing the new!

4.  Maybe it feels like time because I have been in academia for 46 years doing thus in this order: Preschool, elementary, middle school, high school, B.A., teaching credential, student teacher, high school teacher, learning center tutor and administrator, M.A., Teaching Assistant, Lecturer in English and Education, student teaching mentor, English teacher in Japan, instructor at two community colleges, Ph.D., educational researcher, Assistant Professor in Education, MFA in creative writing, lecturer of English and Creative Writing.  It's been a beautiful ride.

What retirement can look like...when you're on Jam Cruise.

5.  Technically, I'm retiring.  I became eligible when I hit 50 last November.  Although I've never made much money as a teacher, I've had excellent medical benefits that will continue on in retirement. I can make money doing other things without losing those benefits.

6.  Of course I'm not retiring in the classic sense.  I'm moving onto the next part of the journey.  By opening up the space and time, all other kinds of fabulous possibilities will flow my way.  I'm already exploring some ideas--such as creating yoga and writing retreats in Maui and Santa Cruz.

Going with the flow...and enjoying anticipating what'll come 'round the next bend.

7.   I want to read every winner and finalist of the National Book Award, the Pulitzer, the Orange Prize, and the Nobel Prize. I've always read a lot, and most of my life I've read with this in mind:  how will we discuss this book in class?  It will be quite the experiment to read extensively without that disposition constantly churning in the back of my mind.

8.  I want to write.  I want to finish a book I've been working on for a while, and begin several others.  I want to expand this blog, my website, and my "Ask Dr. Kate" column.

Getting crazy with friends on the streets of New Orleans during winter break this year.

9.  I want to travel any time of the year.  I haven't gone on a long trip in fall or spring my whole life!  I want to continue to explore new places with Dave.  He'll take pictures, and I'll write.  We started journeying together more than three years ago--and in our new life configuration, the world is the limit. 


10.  But first, as soon as I've turned in the last grades of the semester--and perhaps ever--I'm going to open myself up to deep listening.  I'll put my ear to the shell of the world, to drink in the new, sweet sounds.  Sounds of being.  Sounds of possibility.

Other Mother

I was a deer-in-the-headlights graduate student in my late twenties when I first met Gabriele Rico.  She walked into the classroom the epitome of grace.  And then, over the course of that semester and years to come, she became my mentor, my friend, and my other-mother.

Gabriele when I first met her--in her early 50s (about the age I am now)

Her work on creativity was intellectual and profoundly intuitive.  She seduced me!  Because of her, I fell in love with literature, language, writing, and teaching.  She prompted me to honor--and really see--the amazement of my own creative possibilities.

Gabriele developed "clustering."  This book changed lives.

Gabriele invited me into her home to work with her on writing projects.  I remember looking at her life and thinking, this is what I want.  A life filled with people who thrived on creativity.  A home inspired by art, and infused with books and plants and love.  And flexibility of time:  to teach, to mentor, to write, to travel, to exercise the body and mind. 

And truly:  this is who I've become.  Gabriele is woven into the fabric of my life.

Gabriele has always been open to change and growth.  In her 50s and 60s, she learned to wind surf, to rock climb, to snorkel--and she became a true yogini.  She stretched herself physically, mentally, emotionally.  She led creativity workshops all over the world.  She traveled to more and more exotic places.  And when she was diagnosed with life-threatening cancer eight months ago--at the age of 75--she dubbed the experience an adventure.

With Simone, Gabriele's youngest daughter; check out the bracelets!

When I visited with her today, in spite of the pain medications she's on, she was still her loving, funny, astute self.  Two of her three daughters were there.  In the midst of a hug, she called me her "sixth daughter."  I said, "Wait a minute, I thought I was the fourth!"  And she laughed.  Her daughter Suzanne (who has written a lot about about her family's journeys) said, "There are at least a hundred daughters."  Now there's a legacy. 

One thing I come to expect being around Gabriele is that nothing is a surprise.  There are always serendipities that arise--"coincidences" that are a given when Gabriele is around.  Today's was this:  I was wearing a bracelet my long-time friend gave me last year on my wedding day.  It has a bead on it that looks like a blue eye.  Simone was wearing a bracelet also given to her by an old friend; it incorporated the exact same bead.  Simone said the bead wards off the evil eye.

 

Today I realized that Gabriele is the one person in my life who has always seen most clearly the veil between this world and the next. In fact, it's not even a veil for her.  It's a continuum.  As she once wrote:

"When human beings grow creatively, they learn to  step out of categories such as 'either/or' and begin to see the world in terms of 'both/and.'"

Here's the both/and of the situation:  Gabriele is dying, and Gabriele is living. Gabriele will be gone but she'll always be here. I know I will continue to learn from her throughout the rest of my days.

First Love

When I was little, my mom used to read to me at night.  Teeth brushed, pjs on, I’d nestle in, sitting up under the covers, leaning against pillows.  She’d sit next to me on my bed holding the left side of the book, and I’d hold the right.  When she paused, I knew it was time to turn the page.

Mother and Child Reading (Frederick Warren Freer, ca. 1896)

One night, when I was four, she sat next to me as usual, but this time I began to read to her.  She said it was like that:  suddenly, I was reading.  She thought maybe my older sister taught me.  Or that I picked it up by osmosis as she read to me each night.

I don't remember being suddenly able to read—nor do I remember not knowing how to read.  I do recall trying to sound out words I didn’t recognize.  I have a vivid memory of staring at all the board games stacked at the top of my parents’ closet trying to sound out a very long word printed in bold red:  “Mo-no.  Po-ly.” 

My out-of-the-blue literacy delighted my mom.  She loved books, and she believed in the power of an education.  She took my sister and me to the library every week, where we could choose whatever books we wanted to check out.  It was miraculous being able to take all those books home.  The heavy stacks fatigued my arms on the way out to the car and impressed dents in my hands and forearms.  Those books had a musty smell that somehow made me feel like they held magic spells.  I remember wondering how all those words and pictures got put onto the paper, how the thick paper used for the covers was made, and how someone devised a story that made me want to turn the page. 

At age three, I started preschool.  This was the early 1960s when free preschools were proliferating all over the nation.  I remember nap time on the floor with a scratchy wool blanket (like the dark grey Navy blankets of my dad’s from the mysterious pre-me years he was a sailor).  I remember the teacher handing me a graham cracker, and wishing for two—so I broke it in half along the seam and forced myself to eat more slowly than I wanted to.  I didn’t like having no more graham cracker while other kids were still crunching away.  

popsicle art

I remember aromatic, chunky paste and how unwieldy certain art projects could be, especially ones involving popsicle sticks, construction paper, and glitter.  I always rushed through those and other tasks so I could go over to the bookshelves and grab some books or a fat crayon and sturdy paper.  I’d print out words, using the help of the alphabet displayed over the blackboard.

before computers

In third grade, my teacher—Mrs. Broadwell—wrote a six-page report card to my parents, rhapsodizing about how one day I was sure to be a writer.  I was so proud to bring home such a long report card, written in Mrs. Broadwell’s  loopy cursive, redolent of the acrid smell of ditto ink.  In the living room, my mom read it aloud to my dad.  They both expressed approval of me as such a good student.  But I could tell Mrs. Broadwell’s passion was a little embarrassing for my mom.  With a half-smile, she said, “Well, I could certainly imagine her being able to say the same thing in fewer pages.”  Dad laughed.  Deep down, I was shocked.  Why did my parents think they had the authority to question or make fun of a teacher?

I adored Mrs. Broadwell.  Although at first, I’d been scared of her.  She was a large woman—as “broad as a well.”  With her patterned dresses and big dark hairdo, she vaguely reminded me of an imposing couch, or maybe a rhinoceros.  The first day of class, she held up a red apple for us to see.  She then proceeded to twist it until it broke in half, like an apple cut by a knife.

Yes, bare-handed.

When we came in from recess, she’d inspect our ears and neck for dirt.  The offending children—almost always boys—she’d scrub with such vigour that their skin would turn red.  I had a crush on Joey, one boy who cowered under Mrs. Broadwell’s bruising washcloth at least once a week.  He had freckles and ears that stuck out (thus probably good dirt-catchers).  He would pull out his teeth before they were loose enough so that he’d have to hold a paper towel up to his mouth all day to stop the bleeding.  I got a little zip up my body every time I’d sit next to him, and the attraction made no sense at all.  Especially since he’d really bug me during reading time because he’d squirm or bang his legs against his desk until Mrs. Broadwell would bark out his name.  

I loved when Mrs. Broadwell would read to us.  She’d perch on a stool next to her desk in front of the class.  Her thighs spread out on the round seat, hitching her skirt up enough so that we could see a hint of girdle.  When she read, the story lived in my head like a movie.  She was always done too soon.

One day she wrote this word on the board:

level  

Just that single word.  Then she said to us, “What do you notice about this word?”

magic words

We looked at the word.  We looked at her.  She stood there, her dress like a brocade sofa cover.  No one said anything.

“Lisa,” she said to a girl in the front row, “spell ‘level’ for us.”

As Lisa said L-E-V-E-L, Mrs. Broadwell tapped each letter with her ruler.

“Now, Nancy, spell it backwards.”

As Nancy did, it dawned on all of us:  This word was spelled the same forward as backward!

“Can you think of any other words that are spelled the same forward and backward?” asked Mrs. Broadwell.

“Mom!”  shouted someone.  She wrote it on the board.  “Dad!”  She wrote that.  Students shouted out a few more easy ones:  “Eye.”  “Bob.”  “Gag.”  “Pep.”  “Tot.”

Then she wrote on the board with the flair of squeaky chalk:  

Racecar

awesome

I had to spell it backward in my mind to make sure it was right.  All the straight “l’s” in level made that one more obvious.  But yes!  “Racecar” was the same each direction.  I already knew words were amazing.  I loved the sound of certain words even if I didn’t know or care about the meaning.  Or sometimes the word sounded like its meaning:  “luscious,” “precious,” “invisible.”  “beautiful.”  But words spelled the same forward and backward?  This opened up a whole new world of possibilities.

Mrs. Broadwell wasn’t done.  Next she wrote:  

A man, a plan, a canal—Panama.  

It took our eyes a moment.  A chirp emanated throughout the desk rows:  Wow!  A whole SENTENCE could be a palindrome.

She still wasn’t finished:

Don’t nod.

Do geese see God?

Never odd or even.

A thrill trilled from my toes up my back, tickling my skin all over.  A rush that felt like the sensation of sitting next to Joey.  Desire.  Bodies and language.  Even at age eight, I felt the possibilities sing.

A True Freedom

Look what I have:  A set of great new CDs to listen to as our friend Craig chauffeurs us on a wine-tasting adventure. 

Live Tedeschi Trucks Band...a GREAT CD!

This was the start of my 50th birthday celebration in November--four days secretly planned out by Dave.

What a great tradition that's taken hold in our three years together:  We create a birthday adventure for the other person. An adventure that we enjoy together.

First stop.

This year's was not only a celebration of my entering a new decade but also of the Mother Lode region of our beloved California.  We started by going to seven (yes, seven!) wineries in Amador County, east of Sacramento.

It's like old Napa there--mainly small, independent wineries; lots of personal attention from the staff; and no charge for wine tasting.

 And, oh yeah, it's beautiful.

Lookin' cool in hard hats.  The equipment is half the fun of ziplining.

Who knew there was a zipline in the middle of the state?  In three years we've ziplined in Alaska, the Santa Cruz mountains, and in Hawaii.  So why not another?  This is just one line, but fast and long--quite impressive!

Mother-Daughter masseuse team

After ziplining, we had a couples massage in the Gold Rush town of Murphy's. 

We spent that night in another Gold Rush town:  Angel's Camp.  I hadn't been there since I was a 17-year-old boogeying to the Doobie Brothers, Toto, and Huey Lewis at Mountain Aire Music Festival.

Moutain Aire 1980, with my friend Nancy

Angel's Camp is a charming one-strip Gold Rush town with a fantastic B&B called Cooper House.

Super Duper Cooper House

Cooper House used to be the home and medical practice of a Gold Rush-era doctor.  It's now owned by Rob and Tey who, in Rob's words, "want it to feel like the home of a relative you've never met before."

Cozy at Cooper House

I'd say it feels like the home of a relative who has great taste.  Tey used to work for Gumps in San Francisco.  He spent years collecting the furnishings that B&B guests now enjoy.  The breakfast was yummy, and round-the-clock you can help yourself to coffee, tea, and wine in the shared living space--where we also enjoyed relaxation and conversation with a Danish family. 

The next day we went here:

Yosemite Valley, with Half Dome in the distance.

Yosemite.  Jewel of California.  It'd been years since I'd been there, but it holds a special place in my heart because it's where my parents met.

Mom and Dad in the late 1970s/early 1980s.

In the 1950s, my mom (who died this year) was a nurse there.  Dad worked there as a tour bus driver one summer during his break from Chico State.  They loved Yosemite.  We spent several vacations there, and once they took us for dinner at the Ahwahnee.

That's where Dave and I had dinner that night, in the stunning Ahwahnee dining room.  Our server told us she's worked at the park for 30 years...and she's only 15th in seniority.  Sounds like some people visit Yosemite and never leave.  I get it.  There's a mystic pull to the place, with its ancient granitic presence.

View of Upper Yosemite Falls from the window of our Ahwahnee suite.

I can't describe Yosemite any better than did Ansel Adams when he said: “Yosemite Valley, to me, is always a sunrise, a glitter of green and golden wonder in a vast edifice of stone and space.”

We discovered that Thanksgiving weekend is a great place to visit Yosemite.  The air is crystalline, and the people spare.  Few tourists:  that's rare in Yosemite.  So not only do you get to take popular hikes in virtual solitude, but the staff has time to give you special attention.  In our case, that mean a free upgrade to a suite!

The Library Suite:  Suh-weet!

The morning of my birthday, I luxuriated in opening presents before the fire and eating the most delicious room service breakfast we'd ever had.

View from living room window of the suite.

The Library Suite offers an old-fashioned sense of luxury, with leaded glass windows, golden wood paneling, and books galore.

On our hike that day we saw dozens of nearly-tame deer who all but posed for pictures.

I kept thinking about how grateful I am that our government has protected some of the most life-giving, eternal features of our country.

My 50th year is a hallmark in my life, but a drop in the stream of eternity.  On this trip, my past ghosted through my present.  I stared at Half Dome and thought of my parents, and of the man in my life who loves this world, and me.

I felt both the grandness and the infinitesimal qualities of being human.   As John Muir once wrote, in nature "life seems neither long nor short, and we take no more heed to save time or make haste than do the trees and stars. This is true freedom, a good practical sort of immortality."