Moments of clarity...

Life whirls along at a frightening pace sometimes, with so much to do and so little time that it's easy to get caught up in the "To-Do" lists and forget that life is a journey, and that each moment should be savored. With the end of the semester and 187 final projects to grade (not to mention the half dozen or so panicked students who "forgot" the class was ending and that assignments were due), a four-hour NCOA graduation ceremony on Thursday night, a trip down to Seward on Friday and Saturday, and then a whirlwind of household chores to wrap up on Sunday, you would think that I would have fallen into this trap over the weekend; I certainly have in the past, but this weekend, I resisted. Here were my moments of clarity:

(1) Lonnie dragged me to the NCOA graduation ceremony, and I was prepared for a long evening of stilted conversation and boredom. The only other woman at our table was about my age and pregnant with twins. I thought: We won't have much in common. And then I noticed her careful diction and proper grammar, and asked, "What do you do?" Victoria and I discovered that we shared a common history as radio air personalities and news directors, that she hailed from Texas (where I've unintentionally managed to spend 9 years of my life), that she holds a degree in Communications and a background in advertising, and has a 14-year-old stepson at home. We also discovered that both of us were new to Alaska, lived in Eagle River, and she had just made the transition from successful career woman to military spouse and full-time mom (and while excited about the changes, naturally feels some ambivalence).

The moment of clarity: Sometimes, we find a new friend when when and where we least expect it, and we should never make assumptions that close us off to new relationships...and if we look hard enough, we can almost always find a level of common experience that opens the door.

(2) Cindy called me at 4:30am on Friday, in labor, for moral support. A contraction seized her as we were talking, and she began to chant, "Owie, Owie, Owie, Owie..." and then told me after it ended: "I didn't expect it to hurt so much." I thought: She's only a child herself...how can she be ready to become a mother? During the next phone call, Matt assured me that she was being "a real trooper," and after the baby was born, I could hear the pride and awe in both of their voices. And I realized that they were three years older than Lonnie and I were when Matthew came along...

The moment of clarity: Having a child is part of the growing up process. We're all "too young" when the first child arrives in the sense that we're completely unprepared (regardless of how much we've tried to prepare); whether we're 18, 21, or 40--it's still just as frightening, just as overwhelming, and plays just as significant of a role in helping us to discover who we are and of what great things we are capable.

(3) We spent Friday loading the truck, packing up the dog, our bags, and sundry yard tools and equipment for the trip down to Seward. Our project for the weekend was to clean up the Veteran's Cemetary in Seward before Memorial Day. As we drove down Turnagain Arm and through the most magnificent mountain ranges I'd ever seen, I watched my cell phone for "No service" messages--Cindy was in delivery, and I didn't want to miss that phone call. I couldn't help but be awed, though, with the beauty that surrounded me, and when the phone call finally came, it caught me completely off guard. I thought: I'm a grandmother. I'm a grandmother. I'm a grandmother...and waited for it to sink in. I waited for something transformative to rush through me, for some sudden insight to come crashing into view.

The moment of clarity happened much later that day, as I knelt at a grave in the Veteran's Cemetary. "Jess" had died at 58, in 1985. Twenty-three years ago. On his grave, though, were flowers and monuments in various stages of decomposition, some of them shiny with newness: "I love you," they declared. Heart wreaths, small tokens, and a riot of colors told the world that--not only was "Jess" beloved when he passed away--someone still loved him, still missed him, 23 years later. It brought tears to my eyes. I suddenly realized that becoming a grandmother was about building a legacy of love to leave behind...nothing more, nothing less.

I was standing on the sea shore in Seward when all of these threads finally began to connect in my mind. Sea otters cavorted in the bay while a nearby sea lion leapt through the air with a still-fighting fish clamped in his jaws. Two Navy destroyers docked nearby, young men spilling out in boisterous groups, eager for a couple of days of shore leave. An elderly couple sat on a log holding hands, laughing together at the antics of the sea otters. Lonnie and Mickey bounded ahead of me over the rocky shoreline, both pausing ever so often to watch the ongoing battle between the sea lion and the fish. I stood, holding my camera, trying to decide which moment I should try to capture. Suddenly, the sun broke through the clouds and bathed the mountain peaks in a wash of yellow and orange and pink, and I felt overwhelmed. How can I capture it all? I thought to myself, frustrated.

And then it came to me. Taking a deep breath, I slid the camera into my pocket and looked around. I could only capture it all by being there, really there, in the moment.