The disaster.

One to two days ago my sister's parents-in-law were confronted with a disaster: A fire, roaring across their Colorado Springs-town. They were given 45 minutes to evacuate. Both thought it was merely a safety precaution. Both thought they would be back within two days. These shared thoughts showed in their packing—two changes of clothes and two dirt bikes from the father, and two changes of clothes, a few pictures, and food items from the fridge to take to my sister's from the mother. That was (nearly) all.

Where their home of 24 years stood now stands ash and a scattering of bricks. There is one tree, half green, half scarred, and another tree, standing resilient. The mother-in-law is in mourning. (Very, very understandably in mourning.) What does she mourn for the very most? That she didn't pack anything of her mother's—that every physical remembrance is gone.

I would mourn that too. One hundred times over. One million times. I do mourn now, for this family member of my family member. I cannot even comprehend what their loss would be like, or how their loss must feel. I realized that they too could not comprehend it. It must be why she grabbed small things—temporary things. A French philosopher I read and loved, named Blanchot, wrote a book about how "the disaster" could not be written. This disaster could not even be thought of.

And the thing that happens after natural or other disasters is happening to me now. I am thinking about my sister's family, and my sister, and myself. I am thinking about the things that I value. I am thinking about the losses that may come, and the losses that have come. I am thinking about how to best be prepared. I am thinking about what I would have grabbed.

Spencer was asked this on a little questionare for my bridal shower. "What would you take in a fire?" He had to answer, and then I had to guess his answer. I got it wrong, because he said his piano. Jokingly. Not comprehending the reality that sometimes there are fires, and you have to take things from them if you want to keep them safe. If you want to keep them. I asked him again, this week, these days. We talked about our answers together: Each other. Our computers. Our passports. Our important papers. Pictures we might have (though we try to keep them backed up).

If I could, I would take my white bike, but it is resting in my grandma's garage. If I could, I would take my off-white wedding dress (that belonged to my other granny), but it is resting in my parent's home. (I wonder if I am safer, with my things divided, or if there is more of me to lose.)

I think again of the fragility of life, and how it can change in a moment. How it can be defined (or redefined) in a moment.

I think of my own disaster, that I tried to write about, because I needed to get it out of me. I needed the words down on paper, so I could be grateful, and so I could remember in a way that heals. Almost every day I notice the scars on my legs and wrist that weren't there before. One day when I couldn't keep from looking at them, Spencer reminded me, "Everyone has scars." I pointed to the biggest one. I touched it gently, while whispering something to Spencer about its size relative to the others. He told me that I had a bigger one, one that I hadn't noticed. He was hesitant to tell me, but told me anyway: it was on my back, where I had laid in a pool of glass and blood for hours. Of course it was. How could I have forgotten?

The last few days have found me glancing at my scars in gratitude. They are reminders that I am still alive.


Their house before the ravaging:

Their house after:

The first day of Spring

brought a new little niece to me, and a new little daughter to my brother Joe, and his wife Sarah. We knew for a short while that today would be the day, because my sister-in-law was going to be induced, but it was still a delight and surprise when I got the message that she came. It was also a delight and surprise when I woke up today and realized that it was officially Spring. Really, what better day to be born? What better way to begin this perfect season than with a birth? The season itself exemplifies all things life, all things hope.

I still remember a day in Utah that was an in between Winter/Spring day. It was cold outside. And I was walking to school. And there was snow on the ground. When I got to the campus and was walking up the dreaded hill (the one on the South side, near the duck pond), I saw daffodils springing forth out of that cold, hard ground. I was still. I was still because things that look dead aren't really dead, and Spring is the best time to remember that. On other blustery days I would consciously remind myself, "There is Spring. There is hope." The reminder soon became a mantra to me. Or perhaps a prayer. I would think it so often and so sincerely. It may have been the only way I made it through those short days and long nights.

I also remember other Vernal Equinoxes, when there wasn't a baby to celebrate. Just the season itself, and its accompanying promise of warmth and light. That was enough. And so we gathered together, to eat, and drink and share. There were multiple go around the circle activities, where persons present could read a poem or scripture, or perhaps pass around a picture. We would also say our favorite thing about Spring, just as we previously sat (or danced) in a circle sharing our hopes and joys of Winter. And Summer. And Fall. Sometimes during Spring Equinox we planted seeds carrying wishes written in very small hand. Other times just scraps of paper. Twice we dyed eggs naturally with onion skins (and other things). Once they came out the deepest red. Another time they looked red in the water, but came out a warm yellow.

The next year I read a little book, called "The Tree that Survived the Winter," because my year had been a very hard year. One that felt like winter.  (It is really a marvel that I survived.) Someone inevitably talked about symbolism. I probably also talked about Persian New Year. There were always candles. There was nearly always flute playing and jumping over those candles. There was always chanting. Quiet to loud, with strands of words that meant Spring to us. I don't remember them now, except "Verdant" and "Green," but there were so many. One for each person.

This year my word would be "Scarlet." And if I were given three words, they would be, "Scarlet Rose Hunt," the babe's whole name. If I were given four, I would add, "Hope," because that is what Spring signifies for me the very most. One more fact about the baby: she is just a few ounces short of 7 pounds (which I suppose is not a very complete fact, but it is the best I can do). Also, I love this picture my brother posted.

I think it is something about Scarlet's big sisters peeking in at her, with curiosity mingled with awe, mingled with hesitation. And I love these old Boston/Equinox pictures. And each person/memory associated with them.

Circa 2011 (don't let the time stamps deceive you):

Circa 2010:

Circa 2009:

 

Car wreck(ed).

This might be a sad post, but it is necessary for me to write. I want to remember what happened, so I can be thankful for the miracle that I am still alive and Spencer is still alive. It happened the day after we were married. The very day. We saw my family that morning. We ate crepes. We opened gifts. We prayed because we were about to drive to our home in Los Angeles, from my parent’s home in Provo, Utah, and while it was a drive we were familiar with, my parents taught me to pray before going on long journeys. We got in our car. We drove past St. George. We were in Nevada, near Mesquite. Spencer was driving. It was my car. Our only car. Things were fine until they weren't: we had good snacks, good tunes, and a good book to read. The unraveling of the fine began with a large semi-truck appearing in the mirror. I saw it first, from the passenger side. It seemed dangerously close, and was dangerously getting closer. In sudden urgency I asked Spencer if he saw it too. He did, but there was little he could do. There was another semi in the right hand lane, so his initial effort to steer that way also had to be accounted for. He turned again toward the left, and that is when we were hit from behind, on the left rear side. The car spun, went off of the freeway, did an aerial in the sky, rolled down a hill, and landed upside down in a deep ravine. We were still intact, but barely.

Spencer was momentarily knocked out, making me momentarily believe that he was dead. One day after I married, I thought my husband was dead. I called Spencer's name. Some seconds passed before he came to. Anyone who has been in a similar situation knows that seconds in such instances feel like eternities, and eternities like seconds. And perhaps to thoroughly demonstrate that he was not dead, but alive, Spencer did what any alive person would do in his situation and climbed out a shattered window, before climbing back in. I think it was also to show me that he could breathe and that we could breathe, because for reasons I cannot explain, I was terrified that we would suffocate (and expressed such fears), despite the fact that every window was broken open, and therefore letting air in. For my part (and though very much alive) I was laying still in a pool of glass and blood. And would continue laying there for a long time, because when the EMT’s came, I told them that my neck hurt, because it did. And then they wouldn’t let me move after that. I regretted not telling them until after I got out of the car. One reason it took so long is that they were having trouble killing the battery, and understood the danger of the car starting on fire, so were themselves afraid to come in. I assure you that them telling me this did not make me any calmer. Eventually they did get me out, and onto a board.

Every act of movement tortured me. I have seen those boards before, but I didn't know how hard they were--I didn't know that they were hard. I thought that they would be soft and comfortable, comforting the injured. Instead, they are almost piercing in their firmness and inability to give. Being lifted up into the ambulance was a new kind of pain, and then having my head and neck secured against the board was another. Whatever they used was digging into the back of my head, and that became the pain I focused on. If I could have lifted my arms up (I couldn't, though they weren't strapped), I would have tried to rip that thing off of me. Spencer was in the ambulance, but not in the back with me. I couldn't see him for their rules. I kept calling his name, and pleading for him to hold my hand, hold anything. Do anything. He would call back to me, every time. He had dug my computer out of the wreckage, and opened it. I had been playing Ashley Mae's homemade video of our wedding, over and over, and now, in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, Spencer started playing it over and over too. Again, because he was apart from me, I couldn't see the screen, but listened to the words, and knew what was playing. That song, that video, was the single thing that could calm me and help me breathe simply again. In real ways it rescued me.

Once we got to the Emergency Room at the Mesa View Regional Hospital they examined me and x-rayed me. Everything felt long and painful. It was difficult for me to sit still for the x-rays, though it was equally difficult for me to move. They gave me medicine for the pain. Two pills of something. They made me throw up twice, when I stood up. (Maybe once for each pill?) And then soon after, they made it so I couldn't remember anything. One of the few things I do remember is a nurse saying that they needed to get me a top to wear, because my shirt was destroyed. I was confused, and didn't know what she was talking about. When I saw my shirt later, it was half covered in blood. There were so many holes where the glass was gouging my skin. That is what my back looked like. During this time Spencer had called his relatives. A cousin of his would be picking us up and taking us to his home in St. George. I don't remember the ride. I don't remember talking to my own parents on that ride, though Spencer assures me that I did. I don't remember the blessing I received. I don't remember the apparently constant question asked me at the hospital, concerning how much pain I was experiencing, on a scale from 1-10. Spencer told me about it sometime later, and that I always said 2. I thought it was strange and mildly funny that I would say that, on the night of the most physical pain I have ever experienced.

The next thing I would remember was not even waking up, but the part right after waking up. I was sitting on a stranger's stool at a counter. He was making me a smoothie. Spencer's dad and grandpa picked us up and drove us to LA. I slept most of the way. They flew back to Salt Lake, and we borrowed the truck for a week so we could do errands and finish moving-to-Europe preparations. It was very nice of them. All of those things, really. I would spend the next week recovering at my grandma's house, and Spencer would spend it driving into the city to try to expedite a new passport, and visa, and etcetera, since those things were lost in the wreckage. Spencer's parents and my parents would come to our much smaller reception in Claremont, to make sure that we were still alive. We were, despite sore necks, backs, and in my case knee. I was limping badly, which limp would remain through Milan and part of our bike trip, and sometimes now, when I walk up or down stairs (I am an old lady). It was so nice to see my parents. And my oldest brother. And my sister-in-law. And their very precious children. And my very precious grandma. And mine and Spencer's very precious friends.

We would make it to Europe a week or so later, despite the wreck, and despite the 6,000 canceled flights due to East Coast earthquakes/hurricanes. All it would take were some pretty terrible circumstances in Baltimore, Maryland (of which city I might be terrified, due to mine and my brother's love of The Wire), and some less terrible circumstances staying with Spencer's sister Kiersten in New Jersey before we could catch a flight to France. I would spend the next several weeks watching bruises appear and slowly disappear. They covered my legs, my hips, my torso. While bicycling Spencer would have to tell me if it was free to cross streets, because I could not turn my neck to check myself. I still have scars on both knees, and one on my right wrist, but am doing okay otherwise.

This is where we fell.

This is my broken car, frontside.

This is my broken car, backside.

This is my shirt.

This is some of my family, whom I love.