Category: The Journey …

Platelets!

I donated blood a couple of days ago. Once the bloodletting was complete, I did my obligatory time at the cookie and juice table. Per standard protocol, I was temporarily incarcerated by the snack lady.

This particular volunteer was so enthusiastic about human blood, I was fairly certain she was part vampire. And platelets! Oh, what there was to learn about platelets. She held me hostage for about twenty minutes educating me about platelets. Apparently, they’re important because of their short shelf life, and how frequently they’re needed by cancer patients, particularly children with leukemia.

She asked why I donated. It’s funny how a well-timed, simple question can bring intense memories to the fore. Certain events can be resurrected and remembered like they happened yesterday. Why do I donate? Because my son nearly bled out following a near-fatal car accident. Because I watched him visibly come back to life as the doctors filled his depleted veins with bags of blood. Bags of blood that were filled by people like me. Like you.

I kind of hate doing it. It’s hard to spend thirty minutes or so, wide awake, lying down. I’m not crazy about the needle stick, either. Plus, bags of blood are a little gross. The colorful wrap you get to sport all day is kind of cool, though … a badge of honor. I usually pick pink. I think a lot about Justin as I recline, squeezing the stress ball every ten seconds. The dull ache in my arm is nothing compared to what he went through that day.

So, I’ll keep donating every couple of months. It’s not every day you get to do something that may save someone’s life. And hey … go platelets! The snack lady says so.

A wild retirement ride …

I turn 55 next year. All of a sudden, my future plans seem not so distant. I’m ready to construct the foundation for what I hope is going to be a wild retirement ride. So I made a list. The list had two columns: “what makes you feel good?” and “what makes you feel bad?”. Walking outside with a good camera feels good. Playing games on my phone feels bad. Yoga feels good. Drinking too much wine feels bad. Hiking feels good. To become immersed in the comment section of a political Facebook post feels bad. And so on. To do more of the former and less of the latter will, inch by inch, get me closer to my goals. It will bring me closer to being the person I want to be.

Travel, write, photograph, repeat.

That’s what I want retirement to look like. To do this, I need to be financially sound. I need to be healthy; to be able to move my body with ease. I need to be strong; to be able to hoist my kayak and make good use of my hiking boots. Balance, strength, and stamina came without effort in my twenties, thirties, and forties. The fifties? Not so much. It’s gonna take some work.

So, I tackled the feel bad line item “too much TV” this week. Often, I don’t fully engage in a program when it is on. It’s just background noise. A distraction. So I approached “too much TV” in the same way I approached my list. What feels good? What feels bad? “This is Us” feels good. “Real Housewives of Orange County” feels bad. So I pulled up the Scheduled tab On Demand, and started deleting. Instead of “The Voice”, I will prepare a good meal. Instead of “Chicago Fire”, I will go to a yoga class. Instead of “Below Deck”, I will go photograph some fall color. I’ll call a friend. I’ll explore an idea by writing about it. I’ll investigate some local hikes and lace up my hiking boots. The possibilities are endless.

Do more of what feels good. Do less of what feels bad. Now, this is something I can get behind.

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Extreme Adventure … 99 Days

Let the countdown begin. There is something special about being less than one hundred days from the start of an epic adventure; for me, it marks the beginning of active anticipation. Chile, Torres del Paine, Antarctica, and finally, a return to Argentina. This expedition is sure to inspire abundant awe and wonder, and I feel a tightening in my gut. Butterflies. A grin that will likely last for months.

When I first discovered this particular itinerary for Antarctica, I resolved to see the continent as described on Natural Habitat Adventure’s website: by sailboat. Our small group of seven will fly from Punta Arenas, Chile, to an airstrip on King George Island on the Antarctic Peninsula. From there, we board the S/V Australis. I’ll spend the next two weeks aboard, with six other audacious travelers and five experienced crew. We’ll see penguins and seals and whales and albatrosses. We’ll see immense sculptures of blue and white ice. We’ll kayak in survival suits, and spend up to three nights camping in tents on the ice. I’ll cross the Drake Passage, which has been described as the world’s most unforgettable sea crossing. Did I mention we’ll be in a sailboat?

The Physical Rating of this journey is “Extreme Adventure”. As is typical for me, I am a little bit afraid, and a whole lotta excited.

Before we leave for Antarctica, I’m going to spend a couple of days in Patagonia, hiking and horseback riding among the Paine Massif. The inn where I’m staying faces an unobstructed view of the Torres del Paine granite peaks. I’ve seen photos of this grand range, and felt immediately, spiritually connected. I cannot begin to imagine what it will feel like to stand before it.

Ninety-nine days. Continent number six … here I come!

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#nathab #naturalhabitatadventures #rioserrano #chile #patagonia #antarctica

Won’t you be lonely?

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I’ve imagined what my plan to travel North America will look like. I will take my home with me and traverse the paths less traveled. I will wind through the country on iconic roads, like the Blue Ridge Parkway and Route 66. I’ll hike in Banff and see the northern lights in Yellowknife. I’ll try to visit every national park and monument; Acadia, Pinnacles … Rocky Mountains. Maybe I’ll go horseback riding in the Dakota Badlands or photograph the White Sands National Monument in New Mexico.

I had a friend ask, “But won’t you be lonely?”

Maybe. Today, I see this as a solo adventure. It’s a little bit scary, traveling alone. The unfamiliar puts a heaviness in my step; a reluctance in my ability to move forward. But the rewards of pushing through that trepidation are great. I feel more open to starting a conversation with a stranger who sometimes becomes a friend. Those conversations have steered me to sublime places only the locals know. On a cool morning, I can fully absorb the stillness, with birdsong adding musicality to the peaceful silence. I can read, uninterrupted. I can go whichever direction I feel the pull.

So I’m afraid, and yes, I might occasionally be lonely. But like so many times before, I have a bold inner voice that insistently pushes … just go. Just. Go. And that inner voice has never let me down.

Free …

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I had dinner with some friends the other night, and we talked about the difference between our professional lives and how we truly see ourselves. The four of us; three in IT and one in Finance, spend our days with data. With numbers. We configure. We test. We document. But none of these friends seem to be defined by those systematic, methodical tasks. So I asked them, “How would you describe the ‘real’ you in one word?” One labeled herself a hippie, the second, an explorer. In my mind, I was a mountaineer. One simply said, “Free”.

It’s no wonder I’m drawn to these women.

So many of us spend our days doing things that are such a departure from who we really are. I spent some time thinking about my response. A mountaineer. But that single word didn’t fully describe how I want to develop over this next part of my life. I feel most alive when I am in the process of capturing moments … the beauty in the curve of a leaf, the rich scent of a grove of cedars, the melodic sound of a mountain stream. To photograph and write about my experiences makes them a part of me. I want to be outside. Always outside. Wildlife, new places, different cultures … I’m voracious. Intrepid. A wannabe gypsy.

I spent a recent lunch hour browsing Class B motor homes. Downsizing is a big part of my master plan to evolve into … me. It’s going to take some patience to get there. I need to balance responsible saving with spending that supports my travel addiction. I need to clear out my garage, my closets, my drawers. I need to work out a budget. I need to figure out that Social Security sweet spot. I need to stay healthy and strong. So today, I’m a business analyst. But tomorrow …………..

Half crazy?

It’s been three years since I ran my last half marathon. That year, I ran three. Next year, I am going to celebrate my double-nickel birthday by running again. My fourteenth half. My first since they reconfigured my foot.

I thought I had lost my mojo.

But a friend’s recent first race inspired me. She looked so bright and shiny … and happy when she told me about the event. It brought back so many memories of miles, blisters, camaraderie, and my favorite post-run beverage, chocolate milk. Recently, I heard about a race series that runs through the national parks … Zion, Yellowstone, Grand Tetons. And Yosemite! Memories of Yosemite run deep. My family camped there when I was a child, and I can still conjure up that musty smell of our army-green tent that I loved to poke when it rained. My first backpacking trip; standing atop Half Dome.

So I registered for Yosemite, got back on my treadmill, and started to run. I had forgotten the rhythmic Zen of running. I had forgotten how gratifying it was to sweat your hair wet. But this week, I remembered. The voices of former coaches and running partners echoed … lean forward … shorten your strides … quick feet. I’ve got some work to do, and I have 225 days to do it. This week, I started with 30 minutes. One third jogging, two thirds, a quick walk.

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Fifty-five. I hope to get a PR. And I’m gonna wear a tiara.

 

Sky shapes

July 23, 2017: Recent medical circumstances dictated that I, as a person close to me said, “CHILL THE F$*# OUT”, and rest. I’ve spent the last several years full-tilt and pedal to the metal, trying like hell to outrun the dark. So rest, I did. On my hammock, on my porch swing, on my anti-gravity chair. At the spa and at the nail parlor. I ate tomatoes fresh from my garden. I smelled cedar from the giants that stand sentinel over my deck, and sweet lavender as I watered. I played photographer to a reluctant, on-guard spider.

I’m finally getting out of my doctor-imposed purgatory tonight to go to a concert at my local winery. I have to say it will be delightful to get out, but I haven’t hated this hiatus.

This afternoon, I had my anti-gravity chair on full-on recline mode, staring at the blue, blue sky, spotting cloud shapes. I saw a bunny, a turkey, an arrow, and I even identified a sky penis. I listened to nearby summer sounds … playful juncos flitting by, the wind softly rustling through the trees, a fairly bad band (at least at this distance) playing at the brewery down the hill, the staccato tch-tch-tch of an old-fashioned sprinkler, and the distinctive buzz of my beloved fighter pilot hummingbirds. What I realized is that I haven’t actually noticed any of this in a good long while.

I think I may embrace this slower pace. So, if you’re looking for me, you can find me on my deck, lying on my back, looking for naughty shapes in the sky.

Girl, you’ve gotta learn to paddle

May 30, 2016: Today was a good, good day. Kermit the Kayak had a story before she ever dipped her bow in a lake. Before she ever forged a path through a sea of lily pad islands.

I have a goal to step foot on every continent before I’m sixty years old, and I’m not interested in a civilized cruise or all-inclusive resort. South America next year will make continent number five. I’ll be hiking and kayaking through the Galapagos Islands on a trip rated “moderate to difficult”. For whatever reason, I’m drawn to that. And fearful of that. Like I have been so many times before.

“Girl, you’ve gotta learn to paddle”, I think.

Every day, I have a critic on one shoulder, and a champion on the other. The critic is loud. Insistent. “You’re a big girl. You’re no athlete. You can’t. Really … you can’t.” The champion, on the other hand, is so, so quiet. “Just go”, she whispers. “Just go.”

So, I went. First, to REI to ask some questions. Think some. Look on Amazon for a kayak rack for my car. Think some more. Order. Install. Learn how my new boat ought to sit atop its cradle. Think. Learn how to tie the knots that will keep it in place. Take a deep breath. Just go.

I had something to prove today. Not to anyone but my own abrasive critic. Can you get Kermit off the car? Can you get her from the car to the water? Can you get your own damn self in to the kayak without swamping it? Can you get her back ON the car? Can you lift the weight of the kayak over your head? Do you remember all the straps, the hitches, the ratchets, the tension? Do you? Do you?

Yes. Yes, I can. I love my champion. She’s the one to listen to. Just. Go. Hush, harsh critic. Hush …

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When shit gets real

March 26, 2016: I’m waking up in a makeshift nest next to my sister’s hospital bed for the third morning in a row after she suffered a kidney infection that morphed in to sepsis. The sheets are “crackly”, which is the term the docs keep using to refer to my sister’s lungs. The pillows are plastic, the beeps and whir of machines make sleep elusive, and the tenor of the experience changes as each new shift comes on board.

I’ve spent too many nights in places like this. Watching over my son, my sisters … my family watching over me. Today is a better day. Her kidney function is improving, and her focus now is working those lungs. Yesterday, she experienced equally hilarious and terrifying narcotic-induced hallucinations. Whatever you do, the next time you’re out, don’t order the “crazy fish”. Even though it is very inexpensive.

The below quote is a favorite of mine, and it is so apt. I don’t ever want to sit still. I don’t ever want to take my health for granted. I want to live. Truly, truly live. “…to travel, then, is to do, not only to see… To take a chance, and win; to feel the glow of muscles too long unused; to sleep on the ground at night and find it soft; to eat, not because it is time to eat, but because one’s body is clamoring for food; to drink where every stream and river is pure and cold; to get close to the earth and see the stars–this is travel.” (From the Foreword to “Through Glacier Park,” by Mary Roberts Rinehart.)

Day 4: We just moved rooms (which signifies progress). The new nurse asked Susan what she’d like to be called. For me, that would be Deborah or Deb, for the most part. At this point, Susan is feeling very, very uncomfortable. But without missing a beat, she replies, “Mustang Sally”. I love my family. Funny as hell, even when shit gets real.

Friends

February 23, 2015: I’m an independent sort. I live alone, and I rarely, if ever, ask for help. I recently had bunion surgery, which greatly inhibited my mobility, and made everything hard. Really hard. It’s hard to dress. It’s hard to shower. It’s hard to dry your hair. Stairs? They really blow. I haven’t asked, but people have showed up anyway. They’ve brought me dinner. They installed my new router. They got my mail. They’ve come and watched stupid movies with me. They’ve gone to the doctor with me. My mom and dad treated me like royalty for an entire week. Friends have brought groceries. They’ve sent texts … called to see how I’m doing.

This lack of mobility is temporary. I know that, so it’s bearable. But there have been a couple of times that I haven’t held up as well, and today was one of them. I had to get gas, and I nearly fell down … trying to manage my debit card, the gas cap, the gas hose, the crutch. It was just so damn hard. I bit my lip all the way home, trying not to cry.

And then I got home. And I came home to this. My neighbor had come over, taken out my trash and recycle, and stacked a bunch of extra cardboard I had in the garage to the curb. I didn’t ask. But they showed up. Friends. They just show up. I’m a lucky, lucky girl.

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