for dylan, turning five

"Jesus, he's beautiful."

Your grandfather breathed these words when he first beheld you, lying in your plexiglass hospital crib sporting a onesie and diaper. Grampy's voice exuded love, surprise, disbelief (and not only because he had begun to believe his daughter would never have a baby), and joy. He watched you closely, took in your wide wide eyes, your delicate olive skin, your slender fingers and toes. "He looks like he's looking around at stuff," he said, as if you possessed gifts other babies did not.

And of course, for us, you did. Many, many times have I silently echoed Grampy's words: "Jesus, he's beautiful." There's beauty in your appearance, yes, but also in your interactions with your friends, your family, and with the world. A beautiful soul: gentle, loving, quietly (and sometimes not so quietly) forthright. You are a perfect balance of natural empathy, stubborn determination, restless curiosity, and boundless energy.

Your fifth birthday has arrived, and as I reflect on the years that have brought us here, I see a slideshow in fast-forward, and I am struck by the need to slow it down, to pause, to record everything so that no part of your wonder years are forgotten or overlooked. I recall your dark eyes probing my face as we rocked in the glider. You're in a yellow sleep sack, sucking on a pacifier, and I'm reading "Goodnight Moon." Your gaze is so deep it's startling. "He's a very intense little baby," your dad said around this time, and this intensity is something you carry with you in everything you do: I see it in the complicated narrative of your play; in your face when you are troubled; in your dogged focus at the skating rink; in your concern for others' feelings.

I remember the first time you went to daycare. We did a one-hour trial run: I stayed for the first thirty minutes and watched you play; then I left, slowly, hesitantly, amazed at the depth of my emotion as I drove away. I cried. I had stayed home with you, not working, for fifteen months, and the guilt I felt in this moment was overbearing. And I don't think it helped that you waved good-bye, or that you were smiling. When I returned, you were playing happily. The sight of you, all baby fat and fine curls, wearing your red overall shorts and Carter's sandals, made me cry all over again. "Mama!" you shouted. As I embraced you, I thought, "I've never known love until this moment."

Your intensity is most remarkable in your relationship with your sister. What great friends you are! This, of course, after an initial transition that was rocky at times. Our first night home with Alexa, you stood crying in your crib, clutching the blue Patriots football my parents had brought for you. In the morning, you climbed into bed with us, your expression at finding the baby still here a mixture of confusion and excitement. "Hi, bee-bee," you said, crouching down to see her as she slept. "Good moanin!"

Last year, on Valentine's Day, your teachers asked you to answer the question, "What is love?" You responded, "Loving my sister." This year, your response was the same. And it's no empty phrase. Dianne, our neighbor, once commented that you carry your sister "by the scruff of her neck." You jump when she drops a book, you're sad when she's away from you. You derive great joy from teaching her new things, and she prefers your company to anyone else's. At night, when I kiss you both while you sleep, I see that Lexi is covered with stuffed animals and extra blankets, and I know that her brother-angel is looking out for her.

Today you said to me, "I think Lexi and me might wanna get married when we get older, because we don't want to live far away from each other." Already, you are thinking of your future, and planning ways to keep your sister close by. I hope you will always share this bond.

Dylan, you are beautiful. Jesus, you're beautiful. And yet, beautiful can't even begin to capture all of the things that you are. My greatest pleasure has been to watch you grow, to share your brightest moments, and to comfort you when you have needed it. I enjoy watching you line up your cars as much as I enjoy watching you skate ferocious laps around the rink. Always, I am proud of you. I could easily lament the swiftness with which these years have passed, or beat myself up about how I haven't lived in the moment, or played with you enough, or appreciated you as I should. Instead, I would rather smile on the moments we have now, on the rich and wonderful years that await us: days and weeks and months and years filled with camping trips, hikes, skinned knees, amusement parks, trips to the city, broken bones, t-ball games, shouting matches, conversations, movies, et cetera, et cetera.

You've been here only five years, but I can hardly remember the years that came before.

Happy birthday, beautiful.

not with a bang, but a whimper

Signs of the impending apocalypse (heard during my elliptical workout at the Y yesterday morning):

-- It rained dead birds in Esperance, Australia and then Austin, Texas, within the span of three weeks.

-- The latest teen fad is a game called "punch out," whose rules are self-evident.

-- Joe Torre, baseball's Gentleman Manager, just published a tell-all memoir. Guess that's what living in L.A. does to your sense of ethics.

ushers of the new dawn

for the love of cold

Time for the weather report. It's cold out folks. Bonecrushing cold. The kind of cold which will wrench the spirit out of a young man, or forge it into steel.

(Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider, Northern Exposure: Lost and Found, 1992

There’s something exhilarating about cold, real cold, the kind of cold that freezes your nostrils and forms tiny icicles on your eyelids, that nips at your flesh, penetrating the layers of fleece and polyester and Smartwool. It is at once energizing and humbling: it reminds us that nature is both a blessing and a force.

Last weekend, my friend Pete and I set out for the DeDominicis trail in Cheshire at 8:00 am, when the thermometer said the temperature was minus-five. Before we had even reached the trailhead, which is about a mile and a quarter from my house, the wisps of hair that had made their way outside the balaclava I was sporting had become white and hard, and my teeth were so cold that conversation was nearly impossible. My feet, still warm thanks to the miracles of Gore-tex and merino wool, seemed to stick to the ground with each step, and my breath came in short, sharp gasps.

I admit that none of this sounds especially enjoyable or pleasurable. Yet, as we trudged up and down (mostly up, or so it felt!) the snow-covered hills, less packed down than we had hoped, our quads burning from the effort, I felt alive, really and truly alive. Having lived, albeit briefly, in the cold climes of Anchorage, Alaska and Burlington, Vermont, I had come to think of Connecticut as mild, disappointingly so. My heavy thermals rarely have occasion to leave the bin of cold weather clothing under my bed. My down jacket comes out two or three times a year. As a result, I felt my own spirit had become domesticated. I would shiver when the temperature dipped below forty. I would lament my “tame” geographic location (much to the irritation of friends and family, who have had more than enough of my complaining, and of my nostalgia). Now here was Mother Nature in her essence, showing us that she could flex her biceps even here in southern New England. And while I embraced the challenge of working my muscles in the arctic air, I also bowed to the power of Nature.

Such a deranged view of cold is probably a result of my obsession with Alaska, a place to which I still feel drawn. Alaska, for me, was a personal challenge, a test of physical and emotional will. While my time there was too short, I emerged a more complete person, more confident, more awake, more aware. This is the gift of adversity, be it in the form of weather, exercise, tragedy, distress, illness, or emotional duress.

Blow, blow thou winter wind;
Thou art not so unkind. . . .
(William Shakespeare)

christmas and spirits; or, a child's christmas in waltham

Dad was always giddy about Christmas. He was, without fail, the first one up on Christmas morning, rising when it was still dark. I remember waking up often to the sound of his footsteps in the hall; he was trying to be inconspicuous as he made just enough noise to rouse us. It was still dark outside; sometimes it was as early as 5:00 am when we opened our eyes, confusion slowly giving way to excitement. The four of us followed Dad down the hall while Mom took up the rear. “Hold on,” he would say as we got to the stairs. "I need to make sure the Big Guy came."

(Aside: This practice of my Dad's was especially important, because you never knew whether Santa might goof and actually skip your house. Seemed implausible, but we didn't want to take any chances. As a matter of fact, one Easter Sunday, my brother Joey and I were stunned to find that the other Big Guy, the Easter Bunny, really hadn't come. We sat down and mulled over this for a few minutes as we stared at the empty coffee table where our Easter Baskets should have been. Maybe, we thought, we should have listened to our parents when they told us to "Knock that off! The Easter Bunny's watching." As it turned out, the Bunny had forgotten his "special key," and was crafty enough to have left the loot in the trunk of Mom's car. Crisis averted.)

Back to Christmas morning. Dad crept down the stairs as our hands shook and our hearts fluttered nervously. "Hmmm, " he would mutter. "He didn't leave the presents here." We'd look at each other, trying to figure out whether or not he was serious. Was it possible Santa could have . . . .?

And then the light would go on and we would scurry down the stairs and the frenzied gift-grabbing would ensue. A Barbie Towne House for me, some Star Wars guys for Joey and Mike, a doll for Kaytie.

Santa was always far more generous to us than we were to each other. In the early years, we bought our gifts at the elementary school's Christmas bazaar. Each year, someone got a mini screwdriver set (and I don't mean vodka and orange juice), some crocheted mittens, and some pens. One year, Michael gave me a pad of paper. Another year, Joey gave me his old Led Zeppelin boxed set; he didn't bother to rewind the tapes. The most memorable sibling gift, however, was a 2-inch plastic rendering of Barney Rubble of the Flintstones, known hereafter as the Glass Barney, given to Joey from Michael.

(A year after Michael died, I searched for Glass Barney on Ebay, found it, paid about 100 times what Michael must have paid for it at the Fitch School, and gave it to Joey for Christmas again. It's now a permanent fixture in my parents' living room.)

This ritual of waking up at the crack of dawn continued into adulthood. One Christmas I was home from Colorado. Kaytie and I stayed up late, drinking wine we had received as a gift and catching up on the latest family gossip. It was probably 2:00 when we finally retired. I nestled up in a sleeping bag on the floor of Kaytie's room, as my former chamber had been taken over by Michael after I'd moved out.

Sometime during the night I felt a foot nudge me, and then I heard a gruff, smart-alecky voice. "Hey, booze-bags," Michael greeted. "Rise and shine."

Was I dreaming, or did the clock actually say 4:45am?

"Get out of here," I said to Michael. "It's too early."

"Get up," he said, nudging again. "Dad's waiting."

I crawled out of my sleeping bag, anticipating the hangover that was sure to follow. There was Dad, in the living room, waiting like an anxious kid. The smile on his face was half-jolly, half-mocking as Kaytie and I rubbed our red, red eyes.

In more recent years, we have done our gift-swapping on Christmas Eve, since Bryan and I want our children to wake up in their own home on Christmas morning. But this never quelled the Christmas Spirit in the Dowcett home. On the contrary; the arrival of grandchildren seemed only to foster my parents' excitement about the holidays. We often joked that my parents were going to need to put an addition on their home to accommodate all of the wooden carolers, nutcrackers, and other knick-knacks. I declared a moratorium on buying Christmas decorations as gifts.

Today, I was preparing lunch for Dylan and Alexa while Dylan perused the Christmas cards that had come in the mail. One was from my aunt Ann, my mom's sister. "Who's this from?" Dylan asked.

"From Auntie Ann and Uncle Bob. They're the ones whose house we go to on Christmas Eve."

And as I said "Christmas Eve," I was struck once again by Dad's absence; I immediately felt my eyes get hot. It's not the first time this season that I've been hit in this way, but for some reason, in that moment, my loss felt more poignant then ever. Christmas without Dad? I've scarcely gotten used to Christmas without Michael, even though he was far less active in my daily life than Dad was. Christmas, for me, is synonymous with Dad, with Dad and Mom. As it is, I can barely accept the vacant easy chair in the living room of my parents' house; I can hardly look at the tools and gardening supplies hanging neatly in the shed, or enjoy the back porch Dad finished only a few weeks before he passed away.

For my kids, I want Christmas to be about sharing, about social responsibility, about joy, and so for them I'm trying to keep my sadness covered up. But while I'm quite good at distracting myself, when left alone, even for a few moments, it feels raw once again, raw and recent and too real.

I'm playing this Buddhist mantra on an endless loop: Nothing is permanent; enjoy each moment of each day. Nothing is permanent; enjoy each moment of each day. Thicht Nacht Hahn says grief is easier if we accept from the beginning that everything is temporary. Accept life as it is, not as we wish it to be. I agree, but I wouldn't say it has made it easier.

I do have the memories, though, and through these, Dylan and Alexa can come to know the grandfather who adored them. Lexi still fondly recalls watching Frosty with Grampy last year while I went to watch Kaytie onstage in Boston. How much of this memory of hers is real and how much the result of our reminders is unclear, but it doesn't matter. I may be unclear as to my religious beliefs, but I do believe in Spirits, and I know that Dad's with them, with all of us, in some metaphysical way.

As human beings, we all want to be happy and free from misery.

We have learned that the key to happiness is inner peace. (Buddha)

human beings we all want to be happy and free from misery.
W
We have learned that the key to happiness is inner peace.

Alignment

Over the past month, a nagging pain in my knee has forced me to take more time off from running than I have in the past ten years (not counting the time I took off during my two pregnancies, which really wasn't all that much). When the pain started, I would take a few days off, and then give it another go. Rather than improving the situation, the aching spread to other areas of my body, most noticeably, my lower back and my neck. “I think your body is trying to tell you something,” Bryan kept saying. The implication was unsettling.

I run, therefore I am (relatively) sane.

I shuddered to think about the psychological consequences of a week (weeks, even!) without the marvelous endorphin rush that comes from running, especially running in the fall, on the trails. I'll take another day off, I told Bryan. See what happens.

To get a better sense of just what might be causing this discomfort, I went to see an orthopedist. Diagnosis: misalignment. Meaning everything is out of whack, causing a grinding in the kneecap, sciatica, stiff neck, general malaise.

Recommendation: A focus on stability rather than speed. Strengthening the core instead of pounding the pavement.

The English teacher in me could not fail to see the metaphor in this. Many times have I chided myself for my inability to live in the moment, for my preoccupation with going and doing rather than being. As a result, my “core” had shriveled to something unstable and incomplete, in need of nurturing. While I have always thought of running as a sort of zen exercise, I have come to realize that when running, I'm thinking about essays, dinner, cleaning, child-rearing. I insist on being surrounded by physical beauty (trails) when I run, yet in the woods, I barely acknowledge the trees, the streams, the birds, except as a pleasant backdrop.

The initial reaction to this forced hiatus from running was panic. All my hard work! What would become of my body, my brain? Yes, there are other sports, but for a mother who works, it's hard to find anything with such quick and dirty results as running. It's free, I can do it early in the morning, and, if necessary, can do it pushing my kids in the jogging stroller. The perfect activity.

My subsequent crankiness did not go unnoticed. Any runner who has had to take time off understands this feeling: pent-up energy swirling around, looking for an outlet. A walk isn't enough, nor is twenty minutes on the elliptical. Now what?

Stabilize the core. If I'm going to run again, I need to focus now on stability. So on Wednesday night, instead of meeting up with my running group in Wallingford, I went to a yoga class, something I haven't done since I was pregnant with Alexa. At first, it was an immense amount of effort to slow my brain and body down. I had to rush to class because Bryan was a few minutes late and traffic was heavy. The other participants were already seated on their mats, eyes closed, breathing slowly.

And then everything came together. I am by no means graceful, nor am I limber, but if nothing else, during class I was mindful. Yoga is such an exquisite dance, one in which mind and muscles work together, stretching to expand consciousness and strengthen the core. The poses did not involve the same kind of endurance I have come to relish when I run trails, especially hills, but the soft voice of the instructor, the low lights, and the quiet allowed me to silence, if only for a short time, the endless “shoulds.” I didn't need to worry about what I should be doing, or what time it was. I needed only to be mindful: of body, of presence in the moment.

So, for the time being, I am forcing myself to slow down, and to nurture my core. This means that instead of joining my running buddies on Saturday morning for a 10-12 mile outing, I went for a hike with Dylan while Bryan took Alexa to her class at Rascal's gym. As we walked to the trail (how fortunate we are to have trails we can walk to), Dylan noticed a stream beside the road and said, “I've never seen that stream before.”

“Of course you have,” I replied. “We've been by here many times.” And then it occurred to me that, while we had passed down this road on many occasions, Dylan's vantage point was from the seat of the jogging stroller, which is usually whizzing by the stream. So, he was probably right about never having seen the stream before.

On the trail, a trail I know well, I had the same experience. There were side trails I had never seen, because I had always been looking ahead, down the trail, or at my watch. There were backyards in the distance. Dylan pointed out a robin. “They have red bellies,” he added.

I felt the same sort of mindfulness I had experienced in yoga class. Rather than thinking, “I should be running,” rather than worrying about the kind of workout I was getting, I let Dylan lead the way. He paused often to look at moss, or a footprint, or just to rest. I was cold—I had dressed for running, not walking—but I loved experiencing one of my favorite running routes through Dylan. We would race up a hill, only to slow down again to pick up an oak leaf, or to look at how the ground had frozen over the mud. We went home and had hot chocolate while Dylan told Bryan and Alexa all the things he had seen.


There's something to be said for slowing down once in a while, even though, for me at least, this takes an incredible effort. I'm hoping it's a transformation of some sort, this focus on mindfulness, on slowness, on my present surroundings rather than my desire to be in motion. Before I started running marathons, I never wore a watch; I insisted that running, for me, was not about time. I don't run on treadmills, because running, for me, is also about communion with nature. I would rather run in sheets of freezing rain than in a gym. But while I do enjoy the competitiveness of racing, in many ways it has made me too focused on time, and on the end result. I'm always training for something, trying to qualify for Boston, trying to beat my previous times. Maybe, after this sabbatical, running will once again be more about being, less about going.

I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks, who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering; which word is beautifully derived "from idle people who roved about the country, in the middle ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going à la sainte terre" — to the holy land, till the children exclaimed, "There goes a sainte-terrer", a saunterer — a holy-lander. (Henry David Thoreau, from “Walking)

budding photographer

Dylan, "Self Portrait with Grammy's Camera" (2008)