Extra Ordinary

Extra Ordinary
- summer Nicklasson, 11/2015

What is to become of the ordinary?
The conversation we had at dinner,
the cloud that looked like a woman praying,
the squeals of laughter as you tried to hide my grocery cart.

You will do great things.
You may fly to the moon. You may write a beautiful song.
You may make the best spaghetti sauce.
You may love your family with all that you are.
Or you may stare at the night sky, in fascination,
in being the audience that creates all performance.
You may take the beautiful song and bring it into your body
and the notes and your heart will become one
and you'll know
that true greatness is in the space where time does not exist.

****

Now, In the mornings I find you, I bury my face
into the nook between shoulder and neck.
You smell like childhood. Your body is warm.
In these moments the pain of the world is forgotten
and I'm lost in soft skin and soul love.
Never forget this.

When we age, we let go.
Adoring eyes will look elsewhere.
Tell me what is extraordinary about working, parenting, preparing food, connecting with nature?
It's not so rhetorical.
One day you will know the answer like you know how to breathe.
Real life is not a facebook post.

***
My song is not my own. It is composed of a billion interactions.
It is made of grit and sorrow and pain and love.
I breathe in the same air as those around me.
Everyone is humming a tune.

And one day,
this tune,
this life,
this love,
this that I call my own but is really nothing of the sort,
will ring into the ether
like the last, long cello note
deep, resonating
so beautiful you could cry
fading away
to the place all notes gather,
readying themselves to create again.

She'll be okay.

Being a mother made everything different.
Small child. Only child.
She falls and I feel it. Soft butterfly dancing in my hand.
My heart is on my sleeve. See, you can touch it.

I live with the horror that it could so easily be shattered.

The vulnerability has changed me,
the unfamiliar face in the mirror.
Grooves deepening.
Years lost to the joys of her, sweet joy
of her. Of her. Of her.

We moved. For her. For tribe.
Now, I work full time, and she is cared for by her family.
I dropped the reigns, hard as it was.
I hardly recognized my trembly, leathered hands.

I see her with my husband. He makes her lunches.
Brings her to school. Signs her papers.
Tells her he loves her.
He gets to hold the parts I've held tightly for so long.
It's heartbreakingly beautiful.
I watch them. Their inner circle.
This is their time.

If I wasn't here, she would be okay.
She'd be okay.
She'll be okay.

*****
My energies and most of my working day are with them,
strangers to whom I have committed so much valuable time and energy.
I miss her, and yet
look at me learning this new job.
Look at me remembering my own power.
Look. I'm not broken by love.

I'll be okay.

*****
Each evening I return to them,
they play games. They watch tv.
"Mommy!"

We're okay.

Goodbye, Colorado

I will miss the mountains.

Today I sit at my kitchen table, bathed in the yellow light of morning. This garden. This view. This will be behind me soon. Tomorrow I will get in my car with my daughter and head west.

This is my last quiet morning in the sun bathed kitchen. Soon a simple step out the door will not bring those majestic, 14,000ft peaks into my view. It's time to leave. And this is okay.

I didn't give Salida the chance I probably should have. This was, instead, a rather dark time. It was a long winter. It was a community that I just couldn't fit into. It was my own apathy, my own lack of trying, my own you-have-to-keep-it-together sense of survival. It was my own journey to a more dark place in life, and a pervasive fear that I wouldn't be able to crawl out of the darkness. It was a sense of isolation, real and imagined.

One could say I gave up, that I never really gave this place a chance. They wouldn't be wrong. But sometimes no matter how many times you reposition the clothes the bottom line is they just don't fit. Salida was the buffer that we needed to get out of Denver, a city that did us well, that we grew in as people and as a family. Friends we will cherish forever. Salida became the gray out of the black, the ease of the shock that living in California will be. I think I actually called this out before we ever even moved here.

Oh Colorado. I will miss you. You are a part of me now. My marriage, my daughter, my family, all borne out of this state. Those mountains. The long, arduous treks to the tops of 14000ft peaks. The utter exhaustion. The grand sense of accomplishment. The retreat into the woods, onto the rocks, into the sun. The wrinkles from the incredible dryness. The photographs, the thousands and thousands of photographs. It was all too beautiful to fully capture. The lesson of standing still and letting the beauty wash over you, knowing that you simply can not contain it.

My future will hold a deep melancholy for Colorado. But I was bourne and raised along an ocean. It's time to go home. I did what I came here to do.

Weed Trees

The weeds that pop up in our yard, persistent little seedlings.
We call them “weed trees” because that’s what they become.
Trees.
And I sat under one today, my back pressed against it’s flesh,
relishing in its protection from the heat.
It impressed me, this weed tree,
how tall it had become,
the strength of its sturdy trunk.
We spend hours digging weed roots out of our yards,
wrestling with strong root systems.
But some manage to avoid plucking fingers,
and make their way into air,
forming arches, towers, protection
and homes to small creatures.
So much energy is spent to clear the path for the lavender,
the pansies, the rosemary, the lilacs.
But looking up at the sky, there are the weed trees
that look down upon us,
like elders,
telling the story of trying to make their way
through the adversity of
being unwanted.

-Summer Nicklasson

Tribe.

Last night my daughter graduated from kindergarten. It was kind of a big deal. They had worked on several songs to sing and each student individually accepted their diploma. My daughter was beyond proud. She kept saying "I'm graduating today!" And she was great. They all were. My heart was a puddle, as it usually is with these types of things.

But this is the part that was the most sad: out in the audience the only person that was there for my daughter was me. (Remember my husband has to work in Denver during the week). I watched all the other students with their tribes, did my best to represent my daughter, but in the end, we didn't have a tribe. It was my lone "whoop" when she got her diploma.

The thing is, we DO have a tribe. I have a lot of family and they are all pretty darn great. And they live in pretty darn great places.

So this seems like a good time to make the announcement I've been mentally preparing for.

We are moving to California. We will have my mom, my brother, my sister in law and and my nephew.

Tribe.

Anyone who knows me or has even followed my blog knows that this recent excursion into the mountains has not sat well with me. True, I love the mountains like part of my dna. But this has been a long, cold winter. And I have experienced a deep, soul crushing sort of sadness. No matter what friends I made or comfort I felt here, it's always felt like pushing a square peg in a round hole.

I don't think families are designed to be mom, dad and kid(s) out there doing it all alone. There's supposed to be a village. Families are there to be families! We were so wrong when we moved here, SO FAR away from any family (we are a 2.5 drive from the airport now). The thing is this being wrong? I've known it on some level all along. It never felt right. There was always a very deep sadness, always a sense that we had made the wrong decision. This decision to move to California?

Nothing has ever felt more right.

So now you know. We need to tie up some loose ends, but we will be there soon.

In the words of Joni Mitchell: California, I'm coming home.

The thing I can't give you

You don’t get a brother or sister.

Sorry, but I have cursed and begged enough to tell you

It’s only going to be you.

But you can make lively conversation with the geese at the lake.

They could go on and on for days and you could come running to me

to tell me they will simply not leave you alone.

You can tell secrets to the deer who rattle around this town
like the kids who have cars that drive slow and cool.

But they might not keep them, your secrets.

I’ve seen them gossiping with the squirrels when they

think no one is watching.

You can cry to the trees, who, though they cannot hug you

make the most fantastic listeners.

And the cats, those crazy cats, don’t let them boss you around

or cut your hair or give you lollipops behind my back.

Oh my beautiful child I want to give you the world.

But the world is not mine to give.
It's yours to take.

                

Good morning

My daughter, this morning, asleep by my side.

It was cold outside. There was no work or school.

We snuggled and laughed.

Watched the cats play.

Ate the chocolate cake that we made last night.

I did the dishes while she colored at the table.

The cats lounged in the sun.

I stripped the sheets and did piles of laundry.

Truly, there was no better day.

..

Being seen

I went to this workshop when I was in my 20s. It was a workshop meant to open your heart, to feel life in a bigger way. In a room of a dozen or so strangers we were supposed to walk around the room, meet someone, stop and simply look at each other. Hold the gaze.

I hated it. 

I wasn't ready to be seen. Under the intentional gaze of a stranger I felt vulnerable, small. 

I'd like to repeat that now. Now that I'm older, more wrinkled and more experienced.

I want to see. 

But REALLY see. 

Not pictures on social media, small talk in the office, quick flashes of faces as we march on our lives.

A blog written by someone you think you know.

Where is the connection?

How often do we say "How are you?" and not listen to the answer?

I want to know.

How ARE you?

What brings you to your knees in joy?

When was the last time you wept?

What does freedom look like to you?

What cripples you with fear?

Do you want to be seen?

(are you as scared as me?)

****

Being seen is being vulnerable.

Being vulnerable is being brave. 

Being good.

When I was growing up in Maine my world consisted of a tiny town on the top of the United States. My worldview was pretty small. We didn't travel much. We didn't hike much. I never skied. (ok once, and it sucked). We had woods and those, for me, were magical.

I had a postcard of Colorado. I was fascinated by it. It looked un-real; it was like a mythical place of beauty. But not in a million years did I imagine I would live there. Places like that were exotic. So far away.

And then I got brave. I left home. I questioned religion. I discovered hiking. I discovered that I could run..far. I discovered that I had a strength inside of me that I had never tested. It was exciting. It was a new, rather intoxicating feeling.

When I was 25 I went on a week long trek through the woods, alone. I walked in one person, I walked out another. On that walk I realized that I wanted the challenge of exploring new places. I wanted to leave my comfort zone. So I did. I moved to California. That was the juncture where I left my family and said I was going to do this life thing on my own. And so I went. Nearly penniless but full of hope.

Sometimes it really sucked. Sometimes it was unimaginably great. All of the time it allowed me to challenge myself to exist in new situations.

And then somehow I ended up in Colorado. Festivals, nursing school, new relationships were the draw. Life somehow blew me in that direction.

Then things got real. Good friends. A boyfriend turned husband. A child. Home ownership. Suddenly I was no longer a bird, but a tree with roots sinking deeper and deeper. Sometimes I am still mystified that the awkward girl from northern Maine ended up in that enchanted place that seemed so far away.

And so I've been realizing this, slowly along the journey, that we really do create those realities. We hold the vision, we do the work, and suddenly, the world opens up to us, like a pearl for the taking. Who we are, how we choose to be, our reactions are all a part of us either being brave, or not. I've learned that both are okay. It doesn't take a person to be brave to make them be good. But it is a choice to be good. It is a choice to recognize that who you are in the world matters. It takes a heart full of love and likely sadness to realize that you, yourself, are extremely special and important. It takes hardships and trials to give you the opportunities to let you prove yourself, to yourself. And you do. Or you don't. Either way you still get a choice. You still get to be good.

Not only did I move to Colorado, mostly Denver for many years, but now suddenly I live in the place of that postcard. It is outside my door. The mountains that loom over this valley are why we decided to uproot. We knew they were special and we knew we could experience amazing things near them.

But life got hard here. There were adjustments. I had to uproot my tree that was so nicely settled. My experience was colored by a work environment that didn't allow me to feel valued, and this, coupled with so many other life events, was my struggle. It still is but yet again, I get that choice. I get to be good. I get to believe in myself and I get to be brave.

I went to a women's retreat last week, no women I knew except for the one friend that brought me. Imagine 20 or so amazing women, playing music around a campfire, eating good organic food, telling each other where we are in life, what our intentions are. This. This was what I was searching for. This was what I needed to find. And there I was. Under a full moon surrounded by women who were also brave and good. And I was filled with such gratitude. And I remembered that I get a part in this, in this creating. I remembered that life is full of choices. I remembered that I am good and that I matter.

I believe it is important to surround yourself with people that support you. You support them. Life is not a competition but a dance that we must do with each other. I remember, in this time of adversity, this time of transition, that I get a choice. Though I'm far from perfect, ultimately, I go with goodness. It fits best.

Home.

Moon.

I live in this world with a sensitive heart. This is not some bad thing or some good thing; it's just the way I do life. I can be stolen away with the wise musings of a poem, and I can be stolen away with the sorrows of the world.

My sensible brain and my sensitive heart like to battle it out. They don't always understand that they can co-exist, gently respecting each other's differences. Sometimes I ignore them both.

There are days when you go about life with your head down, and then suddenly you look up and the moon is full and bright and bursting with purpose.

The moon, in it's last fullness, said to me, "You get to do this your way. You only have to be who you are."

And I answered, "Thank you, moon."

I went home with the quiet clarity that I needed. I looked inside and said that it was time to have faith again.

Everything I need is here.

Isn't that amazing?

To the Mom with an Only Child

My daughter has a saying at school, a rather wise saying, that I have made my personal mantra: "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit". We have a beautiful, healthy daughter, one whom I never imagined I could love like this.

But our table has always felt, to me, to be missing one more person. We wanted the second child so badly. Unfortunately it's been four years and running and still we remain a family of three. They've used terms like "secondary infertility", "unexplained infertility", "uterine scarring". All of it equals an insanely difficult, if not impossible, attempt to get pregnant.

I know I'm not alone. While many (dare I say most?) moms are able to conceive more than once, our train appears to have stopped. I'm not here to compare the difficulties with being a mom of one to a mom of many. I think both are hard jobs and though mothering in and of itself is the same, mothering to one (or many) is just different.

To the moms of more than one, I don't think you understand how important that play date is. My child lives in the world of her own. She wants to share her 5 year old brain with us and she does. We play legoes, go on bike rides, play imaginary games (of which there are MANY: ie "you go over there and you're the queen and then you come in and tell me that I'm the princess but I was only just born and when you pick me up I'll say mama and that will be my first word". Stuff like that." The point is her 5 year old brain needs to be matched with a child. They have their own banter. It's something that a 37 year old woman and 39 year old man simply can not understand.

Please never say to a mom of one "when are you going to give her a brother or sister?" Please, never say this. You don't know the story. Maybe we only wanted one. Or maybe the fact that we are unable to give her a brother or sister is the biggest pain of our lives, which, for me, it is. I grew up with a secret language with my siblings, interactions that only we could understand. No one "got us" like we did with each other. And for each new scary place, we had each other. Siblings have each other's backs. And so yes my heart breaks each and every day that we can't give her that. She's going to have to learn to navigate the parent-less world alone or with, we pray, a best friend.

To my friends that keep getting pregnant: this used to be a hard one for me. As childish as it is to admit this, I used to shy away from you once that second baby was on the way. It was ridiculous I know and please don't take it personally. But it felt terribly hard to rejoice in something that I wanted so desperately. I'm not proud of this at ALL. Now, four years later of "trying", we've given up "trying", so it doesn't hurt so much. And for the record I love you AND your kids. I really do. It was just me dealing with my own shit. And well, I'm sorry if I drifted away. That was not a good character trait.

I had a friend reach out to me recently asking me how I felt about being the mom to an only child. She was having her own difficulties conceiving number 2. I was honest: it's hard. Somedays it's REALLY hard. But on the other side, some days it's really EASY. There are things you get to do as a mom to one. Spontaneous trips, cheaper air fare, less chauffeuring, and really, well, a certain closeness that comes as a family of three.

We still pray for a miracle. Having a second is not something I've stopped wanting. But after the invasive tests, the financial burdens of infertility blah blah blah, and ultimately, the very deep and personal heartbreak that is felt at each period, well it was time to throw in the towel. No more tracking periods. No more fertility medications. No more forced sex because "it's that time of the month" (which by the way takes all the fun out of it). Now I just have the singular prayer out into the universe that we will get that miracle, though we have resigned ourselves to the fact that one is okay. We know we are blessed.

I still feel heartache at each period. But then I wash my hands, open the door and thank my lucky stars that I have this beautiful child there to love. I understand that family is not always the thing you imagine from your youth. It's the thing that you get. And in those wise, wise words "you get what you get and you don't throw a fit".

That fact is, you never know what life has in store for you.

Blessed.