To the Moon and Back: Snapshots of an Adoption

    Bubbly pink cheeks, a perfect round face and soft light brown skin.  The first time I saw her she was sitting upright on a pink baby blanket with satin trim, wobbly at the core and clearly amused at seeing the world from this new vantage point, she was about six months old. 

Then she vanished.  

A week or so later I saw her standing on a sandy coastline among the beach rye grass with the wind blowing through her soft brown hair, light reflecting like a prism in her rich chocolate brown eyes.  Her skin radiating an inner glow as she stared out at the sea. She was tall, lean and flexible, able to bend and shift with the change in weather, much like the beach grass that surrounded her.  

Then she was gone again.

   Two months later my husband and I drove through a snowstorm to meet a 26 month old little girl.  We walked into the daycare center and were escorted to a classroom.  Two short tables and a dozen or so tiny chairs and endless noise.   I scanned the room searching, seeking, until I found her.  She was sitting in a wooden box, hiding from her world, peering out cautiously.  Her knees were tucked up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around her tiny legs.  She looked so alone, isolated -- lost; nothing like the happy, strong, confident and carefree child I had seen before, but I knew her in my heart. 

There she was.  A child in waiting. Found.

Parke and I approached her gently, dropping to our hands and knees well before we reached her, coming down to her level to greet her from a safe distance.  We sat there on the floor as her peers swarmed around us, tackling us, playing games and singing songs.  She let out an occasional smile at the merriment, but as an observer, not as a participant. We kept our visit short because we didn’t want to overwhelm her.  

The truth was from the moment I saw her sitting there, shy and withdrawn, I knew her, loved her, and I believed in her.  

There she was, our daughter.  Waiting.  

A couple weeks ago Maya said “When I was just a baby in foster care I dreamed about you and daddy and George, then you found me and now I’m home and we’re a family.”.  Maya is tapped into the spiritual realm in a way only old souls can be.  Her knowledge is infinite, her direction clear. I knew all of this before we met in person, because the only way I can explain how she entered our lives is through sheer spiritual force. 

She found me in my dreams. 

Six months after her adoption was finalized we received a letter in the mail from her maternal grandmother.  I unfolded  the letter and a photograph fell out. The moment I saw the picture I got chills and tears spontaneously released from my eyes.  It was the first Maya of my dreams, the bubbly cheeked, happy, smiling baby that called out to me and told me it was time for her to come home.

Our daughter.  Home.  Forever. 

The second dream happened the night of January 7, 2010. It had been a difficult and emotional day.  The fourth anniversary of my Grandma June’s passing.  My Grandma and I shared a special relationship and we relied on one another for strength and support.  When she died my world felt empty. I felt lost.  Before she died I believed I would never have children. I even contemplated having my tubes tied at 22.  Then Grandma left me and I realized the power of family, the importance of loving another person, creating a family, sharing life.  Eight months later I met Parke.  I'd like to think Grandma June had a hand in finding a fellow cheese head from Wisconsin for me to marry and George and Maya for us to love.  

I woke up on January 8 with the strong and unwavering feeling that I needed to contact someone somewhere about adoption.  The proverbial lightbulb was illuminated and our world forever changed.  Friends of ours had recently “fost-adopted” their daughter and I had a contact through the local tribal council.  After discussing it with Parke before he left for work that morning, a conversation squeezed in between a morning breastfeeding for George, followed by a diaper change, coffee, and a rushed shower.  As soon as he left for work I called and left a message to inquire about the fost-adopt process.  A few hours later my call was returned and Maya’s dream was put into motion.  

After a couple false starts we decided to take a break from the process.  It was a crazy idea anyhow, us, fost-adopting a child.  George was just under one year old at the time.  He could crawl, but could not walk. He could make sounds, but could not talk.  He was an infant who required a lot of care, attention and energy.  At the time I was dealing with postpartum depression, managing it quite well, but it weighed on me and some days felt like a struggle to simply get dressed, shower, to eat.  Caring for George was my singular focus and pursuing this “idea” of adopting wasn’t rational and it didn’t make sense, but my in my heart I knew I had to dig deep and find the strength because the truth is she needed me as much as I needed her.  

The day we brought her home we were prepared for a difficult night filled with fears and tears.  As soon as we brought her clothes and toys in the house the party started and she lit up like a firecracker. It was “magical”, as I later told our social worker.  

Meant to be.  

Adopting out of “birth order” is generally not advised, but in our situation it worked to Maya’s advantage.  Developmentally she was just a little farther along than George.  By the time she came home we were her sixth transition.  So for the first week I treated her just like George, rocking her and feeding her milk (from a bottle), and easing into the concept of parenting two kids, age two and under.  Then we came down with a violent stomach bug, one of the worst I have ever had. I was weak with exhaustion and I was fairly confident that I may never be able to eat anything other than broth and mint tea.  I needed help.  Diaper wipes.  A burp cloth.  A trash can.  A distraction.  Maya was brought into the fold of our family and given responsibilities.  She had a role in our family, a place, meaning.  

Maya teaching George to walk.

That summer she taught George how to walk.  They developed their own language, like twins often do at that age.  George learned to talk and was easily frustrated when I didn’t understand what he was saying.  Maya always knew exactly what he needed.  A few months after she came home she began singing him to sleep, after she thought we were out of ear shot the singing would begin.  Maya teaching George to walk and talk translated into Maya’s ability to communicate with us openly because she was the only one who could understand George and what he needed and I think it provided much needed healing. It gave her a distraction from the isolated world she had been living in.  As much as I believe that she was meant to be in my life, just a few minutes observing her and George together makes me realize it has nothing to do with us, not really, instead it has everything to do with the bond she and George share.   Sometimes Maya will tell George "when I was a baby I was in foster care." and he gets really upset and usually replies with something along the lines of "No you just weren't MAYA, you've always been with me.".  In a sense I think she has always been with George, in his heart.  

Maya set up her rocking chair next to mine and would feed her baby
dolls "Mama Milk" (through her belly button) while I fed George.

      We worked with a therapist who approached care using play and incorporated me and George with Maya in her sessions.  The subject of adopting out of birth order came up and our therapist observed that in Maya’s situation being brought into our home with an infant actually helped her stabilize and develop trust in us, which easily translated into accepting and embracing us as her family.  When George cried we soothed him. When he was hungry we fed him.  When his diaper was dirty we changed him. When he was tired we rocked him to sleep.  His needs were fulfilled and Maya felt safe, secure - home.  

Today our smiling happy daughter turns six years old.  She has been home for almost four years, her 4th homecoming anniversary is on April 3rd.  Her adoption anniversary is in three days; it is our 3rd anniversary of becoming a forever family.  

Adoption Day, January 28, 2011

     Every day, in bits and pieces, she becomes that vision I had of her, the second meeting in our dreams.  The strong, confident, bold little girl, looking out at the sea.  Standing on the beach, wind blowing through her soft brown hair.  

     We chose adoption because we needed a daughter and Maya needed a family.  It's that simple.  The process, generally speaking, was easy, the route we chose involved getting to know Maya's birth parents and maternal Grandma.  This provided us with an opportunity to know and understand where Maya came from and to know her birth story.  There is power in story.  Every child deserves a story; a story with a happy ending.  Maya is our happy ending and we are hers.  Before she came into our lives we were incomplete, she completed our family and made us whole.  We needed her as much as she needed us.   

Strong. 

Confident. 

Brave. 

Bold. 

Home.  

Happy 6th Birthday Maya.  

We love you to the moon and back.  

XOXO

- Honey Mama 

Maya's First Night Home, popping out of the box her clothes and toys were packed in.  Happy. Home.

Not Even the Trees

Standing in waist deep fresh powder trudging through the great white depths with my buried snowshoes, which may seem like they’re not quite doing the job, but without their large foot print and metal teeth I would never be able to scale the sugar snow covered hill that leads up toward heaven, up to my spot.  I grip my poles tightly as I work my way up the steep hillside in hot pursuit of the perfect shot of my sitting spot.  Taking a moment to pause I look up at the blue sky, deepening in color as the sun dips down below the cloud covered Mt. Sandford and Mt. Drum.  The natural beauty is increasing by the second as the slow descent of the sun strokes the landscape reaching new depths of color and experience as night slowly begins to take over the day.  

Photo by: Parke Ruesch

Unseasonably warm temperatures have found us outside as much as possible, it was 34 F at 7 PM when we finally dragged ourselves inside from our day of work and play. Earlier in the day the four of us and our fur-legged children Honey and Petzl joined us as we trudged our way through the deep snow working our way along the river’s edge as we cut back wayward branches and attempted to resurrect the lost trail to reach new destinations in this microcosm of experience that is The Moose Lodge.  

Photo by: H.M. Wild

Our trail clearing adventure took 90 minutes and resulted in 3/4 of a mile of distance, but a “5” on a 1-5 scale of “rate of perceived exertion” or RPE, for short.  Then we came back to The Lodge for a short lunch break, which the kids extended into a Milo and Otis movie marathon.  We ventured outside while they cozied up on the couch together for afternoon quiet time.  While they snuggled and rested me and Parke worked over the woodpile that we’ve been building up from our firewood cutting of late December.  I run short loops between the log pile to the splitter, where I hand over the chunk of wood and Parke works it over until it is cut into perfect firewood chunks.  Depending on the size of the round we can get 2-8 pieces from one piece.  I stockpile some logs close to the splitter for Parke to work through, then I move over to the split wood pile and make quick short trips with my arms loaded with sentimentally scented split spruce.  

“Making firewood” is the most satisfying activity I can possibly do, other than tri-sport training, the rate of enjoyment and fulfillment I get from working through the woods, limbing trees with my Honey Mama sized ax, sledding chunks of wood out through the dense forest, loading the snowmachine trailer full of wood.  Back at the wood shed we stack the rounds and depending on the moisture content of the wood (we are cutting dead trees) we fire up the splitter and get to work.  I queue up my iPod and hustle wood, singing out loud the caterwauling drowned out by the sound of the splitter chugging along, snapping the wood into pieces through strategic force.  

Yesterday while stacking split pieces a song came on my iPod:  

“I see you in my dreams

And I wonder if you're looking down at me

And smiling right now

I wanna know if it's true

When he looks at me

Won't you tell me

Does he realize he came down here

And he took you too soon” 

- Hootie and the Blowfish; Not Even the Trees 

A familiar song, I started signing it to myself, then the tears began to fall.  Just a few. An armload full of wood and a few steps later I had to drop the wood on top of the pile and started to sob.  

I checked my watch, 2:50 PM, January 18, 2014.  Nine months ago (to the exact moment) I sat in the darkened room of the doctor's office looking at x-ray films.  Studying the films, searching for something that looked amiss, a clue, a sign, something to make sense of the situation.  While our whole family waited for the doctor we sat in silence, afraid to speak, afraid to move. Just breathe. 

The doctor came in and explained the films. He began by pointing to a tiny speck on one of the two films, then another. In a few moments the picture became clearer.  I had been studying the films for something unusual, out of place, but the reason I saw nothing was because it was everywhere. Everywhere.

Photo by: H.M. Wild

Sitting there, trying to hold my own, biting my lower lip, quivering in my very soul I looked at the doctor and knew what it all meant. My baby, my sister, my best friend -- her strong and beautiful body was ravaged with cancer.  She was in pain and at risk of terrifyingly painful complications that would make her last moments with me excruciating.  

Photo by: H.M. Wild

Parke said “it’s time” and I instantly held my hand up and cut him off. Whatever piece of advice, words of comfort, or reassurance he was trying to offer was not welcome, because hearing the words before I could wrap my mind around them made it real, made it here and now and if there was any place I did not want to be, it was in that moment, that place.

Photo by: H.M. Wild

Back at the firewood pile I attempted to regain composure as the song rang in my ears, feeling the words and the feeling of my heart splitting into pieces. Parke noticed something was wrong and he shut off the log splitter. We watched the long slow sunset and listened to music on my iPod, tears fell at random from my eyes and tried to calm my soul with the one thing that has always soothed me: fur-legged friends.  Honey in my lap and Petzl at my side, we watched the sun go down and I thought of all the sunsets I watched with my dog, "Sneeker".  

Photo by: H.M. Wild

The truth is I haven’t been the same since Unique died. I accepted that yesterday when the grief hit me like a freight train, out of the blue, sucker punching me and making me feel weak all over -- in pieces.  Unique was more than a dog, and her death was about more than losing my dog.  When she died I lost part of myself. A big part of myself. Basically my entire adult life was built up with Unique by my side.  A difficult break-up, the ups and downs of dating, keeping my heart from being broken again, working on my degree, building up my career, getting married, having children, moving, moving, moving. Unique was there. We grew up together and became these wild seeking souls, undeterred by the clear obstacles that lie in our path.  If there were ever a dog that could live to be 100, I really believed Unique had what it took to be that dog.  When she died just shy of eleven it seemed impossibly hard to comprehend.  

A few hours later I hauled firewood in for the night and decided to make an outside fire. I rummaged through the wood shed and found scraps and bits of wood to get me started. Once it got going I hauled down our Christmas tree and limbed it with my axe, shaking the snow off the boughs (it had been on our porch for a couple weeks), then piling them up next to the heat of the fire.  I sat quietly and watched the final reaches of daylight fall below the horizon as the night sky began to reveal its quiet unassuming magic to my salty eyes.  Alone.  Content. Okay.  Breathing. 

October 2013 Post: Unique 

Photo by: H.M. Wild

Hootie & The Blowfish – Not Even The Trees (selected lyrics)

Alone as I sit and watch the trees

Won't you tell me if I scream will they bend down and listen to me?

And it makes me wonder, if I'll know the words when you come

Or will you laugh at me

Or will I run

And it makes me wonder

If the stars shine when my eyes close

Or does my brothers heart cry

I don't know

And I know I'll never see you again

Lying down in Charleston under the Carolina sky

And it makes me wonder

When I see you in my dreams

Does it mean anything

Are you trying to talk to me?

I see you in my dreams

And I wonder if you're looking down at me

And smiling right now

I wanna know if it's true

When he looks at me

Won't you tell me

Does he realize he came down here

And he took you too soon

And now my days are short an my nights are long

I lay down with memories of you that keep me going on, going on

And it makes me wonder as I sit and stare

Will I see your face again?

Photo by: H.M. Wild

 Unique Roo

July 23, 2002 - April 18, 2013

Silent Snow Sounds

Late Wednesday afternoon George and I headed to town to have my braces removed after two years, six months, three weeks and two days of enduring discomfort in the name or orthodontic health and a sparkling smile.  

When George and I drive to town I typically leave The Moose Lodge at daybreak when I am refreshed and feeling prepared to take on the long and winding drive to town.  Frost heaves erupt from the road, springing up shifting the ground, often manifesting in unexpected ways that abruptly threaten to change the course of your trip, waiting to send you in the wrong direction, off the road, into the ditch, off course, lost.  Departing in the morning also happens to be George’s most energized time of the day which means he spends the entire drive talking non-stop, commenting, questioning, and backseat driving his way from The Moose Lodge to Eagle River some 5 hours (on a good day) away.  

The trip rapidly turns into an exercise in focus, determination, and pacing.  All strategies I have been working on for racing, learning how to set goals and move forward, accomplishing the unthinkable, becoming a marathoner in running and in life.  In it for the long haul, willing to log the miles, put in the time, and respect my body and its need to rest, recuperate, and rejuvenate in order to move forward in the most robust, effective manner possible.  

This time I decided to depart in the late afternoon after long periods of outdoor play, indoor adventuring and fort building and space ship captaining had occurred. I announced it was time to get ready to depart and George was ready.  Homemade granola bars and cookies packed, apple juice in the kleen kanteen, CD player ready and an array of favorites chosen for the journey as we disc-jockey our way from one part of the state to the next, driving this dark lonesome highway finding our way, drifting between the home I have created with my family, and the home that was created by my parents, my other family.  Drifting between homes.  

As I pulled The Roo to the edge of the driveway, habitually turning on my signal, left - click, click; click click, I press the “CD” button, illuminated in a green glowing light and nothing. I hit “eject”, nothing.  Silence.  My CD player died no more than 30 seconds from the front door, with several hours to go.  

Radio signal can be picked up at various spots along the way to town, though for long sections of the drive you travel in silence or static, waiting to reach the outskirts of town where radio signal can be picked up and people are everywhere, at all hours of the day and night. This drive to town felt particularly harrowing as we traveled through the darkest, snowiest section of the road in silence, with the glittery snow hitting the windshield in random icy ticks, punctuating the silence of the empty, lonesome road.  

I’ve decided I need to honor each trip in some significant way, some ceremony of celebration at making another uneventful, safe trip to town, guided by the desire to walk in the wild, and live in a wild, open, free place, but remain part of civilization, finding the balance between solitude and companionship. 

 As we approached the top of the hill on our final descent into Palmer, I was astounded by the flickering and fluttering of city lights.  Growing up in the Anchorage area I tend to think of Palmer as the outskirts, living on the edge of civilization as city dwellers define it.  Now that I live somewhere that sits truly on the edge of the vast, wild, open landscape the bright lights of Palmer, which felt both unbelievably big and all -consuming.

When you have found where you are meant to be, things begin to fall into place, one thing at a time, with patience the picture begins to settle and make sense, things become clearer and life begins to unfold in an unhurried way, as one is able to accept the challenges, seek the answers, and live life, simply.  

I am begining to realize that part of this journey is re-learning how to be, and an important part of that is spending time with my parents, who can sit, relax, and be in an unhurried, unrushed way, living in the moment and embracing the here and now.  I have spend the past decade of live busy doing, human doing, not human being.  Being able to slow down and take a moment to notice the awe and wonder in George’s eye as he discovers how to manipulate something, to engineer a solution and craft the object to meet the rules his imagination has enforced for his chosen activity.  Reading the joy and pure enthuisaism in Maya’s face as she hops off the school bus filled with eager, authentic excitement because she loves math.  Magic moments.  

When we set out on our drive to Town the sun began its final sunset.  The third dip below the Mount Sanford’s sweeping horizon that intersects with Mount Drum conformed to the curvature of the earth, giving it an illusionary glow that parallels the glow of the crescent moon hanging out amongst the clouds on a blanket of deep blue, like water, the ocean rolling, building, crashing - as the sky.  

Clouds hang overhead, threatening to release snow flakes that flutter and flit as they drift down to the frozen white ground. Winding, drifting, falling down.  Silent snow sounds.  

We drove by the light of a hazy crescent moon enshrouded in fog and dusted by shimmering snowflakes, falling like confetti on New Year’s Eve.  A celebration of the natural world and the beauty that exists when we stop. 

Stop. 

And take a moment to notice those small moments of wonder and simplicity that exist within our natural landscape.  George comments, from the back seat “I just think this snow is magic snow, because it is just so magical - I love it.”, as I white knuckle the steering wheel, keeping the faith, driving by feel, memory, on a snowy, dark, silent night.  

I remember being about his age driving on the highway between Eagle River and Anchorage on a snowy night with giant puffy flakes falling, slowly, with fierce determination, finding their way to the ground, stacking up all around; it would hypnotize me.  Looking out the car window up at the lights that dot the overpasses along the highway as the snowflakes dance as they fall to the ground.  

Poles line the road for driving in white out conditions, only through this section though. 

My awe and wonder of the snow diminished as I grew older and realized that the roads are icy, snow limits visibility, and that cars crash, people can die -- lives can change in an instant.  It feels too morbid and dark to talk about, so it is something I avoid writing about, but a quick glance at the statewide news was all I needed to confirm the reality. Two major wrecks on Alaskan highways yesterday; three people all severely injured and in the hospital.  I am not sure if there were other major accidents yesterday, I stopped reading at two news stories. 

Everyone you know will die. Someday you will die. Why live life as though that reality doesn’t exist, when it not only exists, but it is inevitable.  Why not make each day count and live out your wildest dreams, making each moment matter, and living life in a way that honors our talents and gifts and makes the lives of others better through knowing us.  

Each of us has the capacity to change the world, even the smallest acts of kindness can bring light into a dark scene.  Small things, random acts of kindness, sincere attention to detail, something real, shared in the here and now.  Those little moments make life extraordinary.  

Driving on the dark and silent roads, traveling between homes, drifting between here and there, feeling wrapped in the silent, dark wilderness that threatens to swallow manmade comforts whole, intent on reclaiming the road, reclaiming the wild within my self. 

I suppose we all are traveling in some way or another, seeking, striving, finding our way, following our dreams; going back to the heart of it all, the passion for living, loving, and being happy.  

Driving blind through the dark night with silvery specs of shimmering snow, falling like glitter-- magic touching down on the ground, as we wander out on the open road, seeking that place -- the experience, the feeling, the acceptance of reality because we know life is fleeting, mere moments.  

Time is a gift, the most precious of all things, we can’t buy more time.  In the end, time is all any of us wants, time to be with the ones we love, time to enjoy nature, and revel in the wonder it is to be alive.  Accepting reality as it is, the preciousness of time, the recognition that life is sacred, and each moment is a present, a gift to be shared.  
We move forward, guided by blind faith, determination and Happy. Love. 

This Moose Lodge chapter that is being revealed in segments was in a sense sketched out many years ago when I was busy exploring the possibilities that life held for me as I grew into adulthood; back to being seven years old and dreaming of living in a little log cabin surrounded by the big woods, wild, all consuming wilderness that envelops and allows for freedom and exploration, so long as you respect the landscape, the elements that preserve the mystery of this place.  

The whole of the experience rests outside our back door, but will not be revealed in a single expedition.  A landscape so vast tempts and flirts with the wild seeking soul, drawing the individual deeper, fully consuming them with the awe and wonder of the natural landscape, the deepest of secrets revealed to those that persist, those that are patient, those who stop, look, listen and feel with an open heart and mind.    

The gift is in the indescribable beauty hidden in plain sight, nestled into the landscape, woven into every leaf, stem, pinecone and it rests within the sweeping night sky.  Indescribable beauty that is so stunning that words cannot begin to fully describe the way the light plays through the tips of snow covered drunken spruce trees nestled in the thick, insulating tundra carpet of blueberry bushes, lichen, moss, and nutrient rich soils, with perfect paw prints pressed into the surface of the snow leaving traces of the wild creatures that call this quiet, protected place home.  Pictures cannot capture the heart of it all. 

I can share our experiences through my words and pictures, but our journey and our observations cannot be captured and defined; the magic of the place will not be confined by human quantification and archival.  The true beauty comes from the experience as it etches the indescribable elements of nature and the experience of seeking the wild into your soul.  It changes you.  

---changing the individual who seeks the wild secrets that are hidden, nestled deep within the landscape.  Waiting to be explored, then left behind, vanishing into the archive of memories, the hall of records, another experience, new exposure, the experiencing of something different, abstract, simple, and indescribable; fleeting. A moment in time.  A snapshot. 

 All living things who call the wild woods of Wrangell St. Elias seem to sense our  presence in the woods, long before they even hear the sounds of our children laughing and taking full delight in the beauty that surrounds us.  The beauty wraps itself up in its awesomeness.  Washing away the layers of the city, traffic, noise and light that have marked our experience and shaped the people we became though this process, this exercise in self-exploration. Each of us on our own respective journey, yet working together to accomplish something we all have a hand in, recreating the American dream and carving out a place for the dreamers, the thinkers, the doers, and wilderness seekers.  The last frontier is calling, and I must go. 

Tracing my way back home, to my childhood home, then back again to The Moose Lodge, Home. Drifting between these two places, this feeling of being home. Surrounded by nature, surrounded by home.

Happy. Love. 

Near the joyous halfway mark between home and home. Like white on rice...

Counting Crows: Round Here 

Step out the front door like a ghost

Into the fog where no one notices

The contrast of white on white.

And in between the moon and you

The angels get a better view

Of the crumbling difference between wrong and right.

I walk in the air between the rain

Through myself and back again

Where?

“The snow itself is lonely or, if you prefer, self-sufficient. There is no other time when the whole world seems composed of one thing and one thing only.” - Joseph Wood Krutch