Racing Toward Something

In nine days I leave for Greensboro, North Carolina, to compete in US Masters National Championships. Aden will race alongside me while Rob and William compose our cheering section and driving team. From Denver to Greensboro we fly over 1,400 miles and, more problematic, two time zones. Prepping for 6:30 a.m. warmup and an 8:00 a.m. meet start on the East Coast has required rolling my alarm back from 7:00 to 5:30 here in Denver, a shift my body resents with every fiber.

Each morning I drag myself from bed to silence the alarm before it pulls Rob beyond his going-back-to-sleep threshold, trying to convince myself this adjustment matters—that acclimating somewhat to Eastern time before competing will make a difference. After six months of demanding training in the gym and pool, I refuse to let sleep deprivation or jet lag compromise my events on day one.

This morning I sprawled on the TV room floor wrapped in the purple afghan Aden made for me, struggling through PT exercises for hips and back, wondering if more sleep would serve me better than this forced adjustment. Rob thinks rest trumps everything, but I have nightmares of flopping in my 50 fly—first event on the first day—because my creaky joints, foggy brain, and fast-twitch muscles are still sleeping while I'm supposed to be racing.

Here's what I know: with all the weighty troubles splashed across headlines these sunny spring mornings, a swim meet represents nothing more consequential than a family reunion and a chance to test whether short, fast reps and heavier weights have actually made me faster. I'm chasing my fastest Masters times, or at least my fastest in a decade, despite the betrayal of aging. The pursuit feels simultaneously urgent and absurd—serious enough to warrant 5:30 a.m. alarms yet trivial against the backdrop of global crisis.

But perhaps that's the point. We need these pockets of meaning we can control, these small arenas where effort translates to measurable outcome. We need family road trips and the particular nervousness that comes before stepping onto the blocks. We need to care about small things while the world burns, not as escape but as tether—proof that ordinary life persists, that we can still chase personal goals while holding awareness of larger suffering.

At least the early wake-ups gift me extra morning hours for writing, cleaning, PT, and planning—small victories that accumulate like training yards in the pool. And possibly a nap after lunch, which at my age might be the real competitive advantage. In nine days I'll stand behind the blocks in Greensboro, William and Rob somewhere in the stands, Aden in her own race nearby. The alarm will have done its work. The training will speak for itself. And for a few days, we'll inhabit that strange space where something as inconsequential as a swim race feels like the most important thing in the world—because we've decided it matters, and that decision alone is enough.

Miracles in Manhattan

After last week's post about hiding in tales of 19th century England, I committed further by downloading Season 1 of Victoria on Netflix. The caprices and romances of the young queen captivated me on the flight to New York City, where the whole family converged at William's Brooklyn apartment. From hiding in the past, I dove into living minute-by-minute on a non-stop family weekend—savoring both William's curated tours and the spontaneous, serendipitous moments no one could plan.

The magic started on the subway to the Financial District Friday evening when I received an out-of-the-blue text from my college roommate Laura, who lives on Long Island and works in the city. We text only a few times each year, so her message arriving as we rattled toward Manhattan felt like the universe orchestrating a reunion. We made plans to meet the next day.

Saturday unfolded like a series of small miracles:

• Gluten-free bagels that actually tasted like bagels (a benefit only NYC can deliver)
• Laura appearing in Central Park, strolling with us through the park environs and down to midtown, catching up on our families —a sunny, windy, joyful reunion that shimmered with unexpected grace
• An indoor table at the all-gluten-free Italian restaurant where we had dinner reservations (we were supposed to be outside in the cold)
• The restaurant being cash-only, all of us subtly ransacking purses and wallets, then my discovery of a gift from Mom I'd forgotten to deposit—dinner procured through Nana's generosity
• Exiting the restaurant at the appointed time, catching the subway to Broadway, watching a superb production of Hamilton (aside from the young woman in front of William receiving a breakup text in Act Two, then departing with her crew immediately after—we were riveted)

A thirteen-hour day that ranked among our most magical travel days ever.

Sunday brought William down with a cold, though he heroically accompanied us first to brunch at Kellogg's Diner where we reunited with my cousin Justin (for the first time in six years) over crisp bacon and New York recommendations, then to Domino Park and lastly over to MoMA. We started on the museum's fifth floor and found ourselves floored by what hung there: Monet, Dalí, Picasso, Picabia, O'Keeffe, Pollock, Van Gogh. The Starry Night waited for us—we hadn't known it would be there—and we stood before it in grateful awe, nudging one another and celebrating our luck in whispers.

At day's end we learned via text that our flight was canceled. Brief panic ensued as everyone scrambled to reconfigure Monday schedules. Daniel flew into terror over missing a midterm exam and had to embark on a solo thrifting mission to reclaim his equilibrium. We rallied to an airport hotel and said goodbye to William, hoping he'd heal quickly and visit soon.

The weekend reminded me that the best moments can't be scripted—they arrive as gifts. A text from an old friend. Cash discovered at exactly the right moment. Art that stops your breath. Even a canceled flight becomes part of the story, part of what makes a weekend not just good, but magical. Sometimes hiding in Victorian England is exactly what you need, and sometimes you need to be thrust into the chaotic present, surrounded by the people you love, open to whatever grace the universe decides to deliver.

Return to Guatemala

Our electronic photo frame has been rolling through images of our first Guatemala trip, in 2008, where we met Daniel for the first time. Aden was in first grade, William in preschool, Daniel nearly two.  The children stare at the cameras with big eyes, unable to comprehend the enormity of the changes about to befall each of us. Daniel's facial expressions vary from shocked sorrow to frenetic activity to tentative openness toward his siblings, adoration for his dad, suspicion towards me. 

This morning I opened my eyes in disbelief that today we return to Guatemala with a now almost-18-year-old Daniel. The past sixteen years have been full of challenges that we could never have foreseen. Adoption trauma is real. Families can fracture and mend, children and parents may harbor vast ranges of emotions, some apparent and many brewing under the surface. On frequent occasions I struggled to make it through the day, pushing toward some invisible end zone, a ticker-tape barrier that I could burst through and announce a triumphant finish.

As any parent knows, the idea of "finishing" seems laughable now. Parenting knows no end, no definitive marker that allows one to turn off the anxiety, worry and emotion. And yet, this return trip may offer some closure. Daniel's excitement towards the itinerary - hiking the same volcano when he can actually notice and remember the lava, visiting the pyramid in Tikal where Star Wars was filmed, seeing Lake Atitlan where Mayan aristocracy lived - his positivity gratifies me, though I know it covers an understandable nervous hesitancy about going back to the country of his birth, one he only knows through stories.

We leave shortly, feeling positive and ready, unsure of what's to come but strong in the knowledge that we have all come a long, long way.