Home Update for Almost-Empty Nesters

The cats and I hide out in my son's bedroom as dust rises from the first floor, sending us all into sneezing fits. Construction crew members stomp in and out of ground floor doors, ripping out damaged flooring and cleaning the subfloor before installing the new wood. This project - the first major work we've done on the interior of our home after twenty years of residence - is long-awaited but disconcerting. The cats grooming themselves next to me provided impetus after destroying the downstairs carpet, and we decided to update the house so we can enjoy it now rather than wait until we're close to a retirement-age sale.

Though we can be in the house while it's being updated, the noise and dust and general dismay of seeing our home dismantled makes for an uneasy week. Compounding my unsettled state are feelings of guilt over spending money, over the waste that we create by throwing out old materials. I've watched friends and neighbors do major projects over the years and always shied away, but twenty years of wear and tear shows in our baseboards, paint, and floors. When we moved here our two oldest children were three and eighteen months, now they are independent (almost) adults and we are (almost) empty-nesters. 

Bannisters treated like monkey bars, carpeting used for picnic blankets, proliferating litter boxes, and grooves worn by hundreds of thousands of exits and entrances all show in our home. We don't entertain much, but we certainly use our space. During the pandemic it became our world, home office, gym, and respite. I'm more attached than I've ever been to a residence - it's the longest I have ever lived in one place. Though we don't technically need the space any longer, and our kids' bedroom furniture is obsolete, we won't be leaving any time soon. 

We're even updating room arrangements and rugs, a change that dismays our youngest son. He wants everything to stay as it was, an impossible task in a world where sands shift hourly and attention flits from new to newer. My attention is focused on how few additional dollars might be required to create a sense of newness (maybe we can raid the kids' bedrooms), but excitement grips me as I think about change. Almost empty - nesters we might be, but our nest will be well-feathered.

Watch out for Buffaloberries!

While in Banff we purchased bear spray, as hungry bears ramp up their feeding prior to hibernation and one of their favorite foods - high-calorie buffaloberries - were in season when we visited. Both Aden and I listened carefully to the lecture on how to use the bear spray, and then I promptly gave the spray to Aden and told her to lead at all times. Good parenting? I think not (but Aden is truly the better outdoorswoman).  

Come to find out that we could not hike one of the routes we had planned due to the trail being in bear territory and boasting a fine crop of buffaloberries. On the Lake Minnewanka trail, hikers were required to have at least four people per group, with the front row carrying bear spray. (Sounds like a Formula 1 starting grid!) Group members could not stray further than 3 meters at any given time. Penalties of $25,000 Canadian would be levied if hikers were found breaking the bear rules. As I did not relish the thought of finding two or more strangers to hike and make conversation with for a 9-mile duration, we flexed to another trail.

The new route also had a plethora of buffaloberries trailside, their bright orangey-red skins glowing in the intermittent sunlight between bursts of rain. I clicked my hiking poles together periodically and we attempted to sing "American Pie" to alert any bears to our presence, but I ran out of breath on the climb and had to pray (in my head) for good luck and no bears.

Mama bears can eat up to 100,000 berries per day and their large male counterparts can eat twice that number, which raises the question of how any berries at all are left in Banff National Park?! But for better or worse, we saw no wildlife except for tiny squirrels carrying mushrooms to safe heights, where they either stashed the burnt orange fungi in the crook of a pine or sat nibbling, watching us with condescending bright eyes. We saw nests but no large birds, bubbling mineral pools but no fish. Disappointment vied with relief for primary emotion on our wildlife sighting.

We're still in the thrall of our trip, listening to our playlist and recalling the hikes of only a week ago. Fortunately the fall leaves are entering prime season here in Colorado and the calendar looks open for a nearby hike in the coming weekend. We couldn't pack our bear spray, so are left to hope that the berries are all "et up."

Canadian Rockies - A Northern Attitude

 "If I get too close / And I'm not how you hoped / Forgive my northern attitude / Oh, I was raised out in the cold. / If the sun don't rise / 'Til the summertime / Forgive my northern attitude / Oh, I was raised on little light."

- Lyrics to "Northern Attitude," song by Noah Kahan

We belted the chorus along with Noah Kahan as our rented black Honda Civic swept to the right and around the curve of Canada's Highway 93, the Icefields Parkway. Rain squalls swept through the valleys carved between peaks by enormous glaciers and tall mountains gathered clouds before their faces as if shy. As we climbed and descended, mountain lakes of pale aqua and deep turquoise dotted the left side of the road and healthy pine forests rolled to either side - a green quilt thrown over rock shoulders.

This was our third day in Alberta, Canada, visiting the Banff National Park, Lake Louise and the mountain town of Banff.  Accustomed to the dryer Rockies of Colorado, with forests dented by the pine beetle and undergrowth turned pale brown by intense sun and lack of rain, the Canadian Rockies were like Rocky Mountain National Park on steroids. Not the height of the mountains - Colorado has taller peaks - but the intensity of the colors, the size of the glaciers remaining, the health of the forests and the relative lack of people all combined to give us a particularly Canadian Rocky Mountain high. 

In our hike to the top of Parker Ridge that third afternoon, we walked through a forest of young pines throwing off a wet, evergreen scent redolent of Christmas, of the best pine air freshener ever created. Our boots beat a regular rhythm on the wet ground, stepping around tree roots and over rocks, ascending via switchback and staircase to the top of the ridge where we could look right and see the massive Saskatchewan glacier feeding into the glacial plain below. We captured photos before a snow flurry descended, tiny pellets slapping us in the face despite our raincoats and hoods.

Later that day we had hot drinks at the Columbia Ice Fields information area, sitting on a porch absorbing sunshine while the glacier-generated katabatic winds flowed over and around us, bringing the chill of the glacier to our seats. We didn't spend much time motionless, but jumped up again to explore the "Toe" of the glacier and retrace our steps back along the canyons and lakes of the park.

The natural splendor of the mountains, the shocking cold of sudden fall (from highs of 52 we returned to 85 - degree temps in Denver) and the joy of hiking with my daughter relieved the stress of recent weeks and provided perspective to the routine cares and worries of our "real life." Just to know that such beauty exists, that adventures await, and that our bodies can carry us on amazing hikes over and among mountains - provided a shift in attitude that can't be replicated. There's a popular saying here - and in Banff- "the mountains are calling and I must go." True for me and my family, and how lucky we are to seek them.

Sacramental Care-Giving

 “We could afford to do this because a person can get paid more to sit in front of a computer and send a bunch of emails than she can to do a job that’s so crucial and difficult that it seems objectively holy: to clean excrement off a body, to hold a person while they are crying, to cherish them because of and not despite their vulnerability.”

-Jia Tolentino, New Yorker Staff Writer

Tolentino's words moved me to tears. Referring to parenthood and care of her children, she also describes caregiving for a sibling, spouse, parent or friend. The idea that selfless, often mind-numbingly repetitive actions of caregiving are sacred flies in the face of our culture's emphasis on earning potential and GDP. Her words note the relatively high value of sitting and typing ephemeral emails.

When we perform acts of care for a loved one we are in sacred relationship, and the vulnerable individual allows the (momentarily) stronger person to see them in a weakened state. That is hard, also.  Tolentino says in an interview with Ezra Klein "The thing that connects them both is submission." Both sides of the coin are sacramental; caregiving and allowing care to be given. 

The submissive actions take us out of our modern plane, out of the speed of daily emails and texts, away from the urgency of stockmarket gains or losses and Fed interest rate decisions. They focus us instead on the miracle of being alive, the fragility of human bodies, the strength of character required to care-give and receive care. 

Tolentino's timely message pierced my heart. Having been on both sides of this holy connection, I need to provide care again soon, and indeed it will be a sacramental privilege.

Funny the Way It Is

 "Funny the way it is, not right or wrong. . ."

- Dave Matthews Band "Funny the Way It Is," Lyrics by Dave Matthews

After a 14-hour Saturday that encompassed my final race in US Masters Nationals, a plane flight from Orange County to Denver and a few hours of unpacking and cleaning, my husband looked at me with dismay when I showed him our tickets to Dave Matthews. But we rallied - we had good seats at a venue only ten minutes from our house - and though we were the stereotypical older people that had to sit during a slow song, we let the fabulous music carry us into some dancing by the end.

Though the set list only included one song from my favorite album (Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King, 2009), I rediscovered the band through the soaring trumpet, saxophone and keyboard medleys, as well as the surprisingly elegant vocals of the lead singer. After sleeping for ten hours, I went through my playlists and unearthed treasures of memory - the favorite melodies I played on repeat when Daniel was little and struggling, and workouts with music my only therapy.

"Funny the Way It Is" hits my reflex reaction hardest, bringing back visceral memories of a cold morning in the mountains near Glenwood Springs, prepping for a spring triathlon while my husband and children slept. I must have played it twenty times as I psyched myself up for the effort, shivering and trying to keep down instant oatmeal. What a gift to find the song again.

Funny also to compete at age 53, still striving for competitive times in a long course (50 meter) pool after 16 years away. I trained hard this summer, mainly with William and Aden, incorporating weights, resistance training in the water, and lots of sprints, but that long course pool is looooong, and by the third day I had trouble reaching the wall. My times are slower than they were 16 years ago, but I had some wins and I learned a few things that will help my swimmers when I start coaching next week. 

Aden swam well, youngster that she is, despite having Covid the week before and being out of the water for most of the previous ten days. That's not a usual method of resting for a big meet, but she made it work, and made me think I actually needed to rest a little more. My watch was yelling at me for "changing my workout schedule" and not hitting my move goal, which didn't help my already-paranoid mind, a mind that functions better when the body moves frequently. Resting is harder than training.

The more things change, the more they remain the same. Now I need revenge (on myself) for that botched final race but have an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the grand build of the weekend and family to share it with.