"Who are those guys?" (a Yakima Skyline Rim 25K race report)

Deja view.

"Boy, you know every time I see Hole-in-the-Wall again, it's like seeing it fresh for the first time. And every time that happens, I keep asking myself the same question: how could I be so damn stupid to keep coming back here?"

~ Paul Newman in 'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid'
***********
I had never been there before, but there was something familiar about the setting for the Yakima Skyline Rim 25K.

The high cliffs overlooking the river, the trains across the water from our campground, a relentless pursuit over rocky crags, leading inexorably to a desperate leap...

"No, we'll jump."
"Like hell we will."

What could it be?

Today, after a little rest and a lot of food, I figured it out.
***********
The YSR 25k is a simple, but great course. 

It doesn't seduce you with the buttery, forested single track typical of the Pacific Northwest. 

Rather, it hits you in the ribs with two hulking climbs and descents, linked together by a rocky, technical ridge line. It lays it all out in front of you without acrimony and says, "This is what I have...what do you have?"

Well, I'll tell you what I have, YSR course—I have two very ruined big toenails, thank you very little—both wrecked on your freakish descents. I'll think of you when I'm limping around the Marin headlands in a couple of weeks.

That said, I also have a bit more confidence heading into Miwok 100k, since the biggest ups and downs on that course don't compare to a Sunday on the trails in the Yakima River Canyon.

***********

The first climb at YSR is about two and a half miles long, with grades of up to 45%. Along the way are four or five false summits that might make the climb seem less than it is.

But they don't. It still seems like one of the toughest uphills I've encountered on any race course, including Squamish and Backcountry Rise. 

And that was before I got to the second climb.

About four and a half miles long, at the back half of the course, this ascent indifferently stares you in the face nearly the entire time. Looking up at it was visually intimidating, if I'm honest, so I just kept my head down and focused on the next several steps in front of me.

This worked out better than curling up in a ball and rolling back down the hill.

Framed by the climbs on both sides, the in-between trail along the ridge line is no stroll in the park. The terrain is fraught with semi-treacherous rocks most of the way—but it is a welcome, mostly runnable break from the ascents.

As is often the case, the last descent is as hard as (if not harder than) any of the climbing. If you're an elite mountain runner you might be able to cut loose and fly down a slope like this, but [Spoiler Alert] I'm not an elite mountain runner. I'm a guy with a family and a mortgage and a couple of zombie toenails. 

A guy with a healthy appreciation for not being broken into unfixable pieces.

So the last descent took a while. And it hurt my toes.

"Don't they get tired? Don't they get hungry?
Why don't they slow up? Hell, they could even
go faster, at least that'd be a change!"
(Photo courtesy of Brandon Williams.)

The last three-quarters of a mile at YSR takes you back over the seasickness-inducing pedestrian bridge you crossed earlier in the day, across some pavement, up a little rise, and before you know it, viola! You're high-fiving RD James Varner and dunking your feet in the icy-cold Yakima River.

Denouement: nope, that's it. Like the course, there was no dramatic plot twist, no ambush in a Bolivian village. 

Just...the end.

I think I'll keep coming back here.

***********

Many thanks to the cast and crew at Rainshadow Running for a reliably rollicking good time. Even more thank-yous to the volunteers, who really don't have to be out there on a random-if-beautiful Sunday (let alone Easter Sunday), but are out there dispensing joy, nonetheless.

***********

"Kid, next time I say, 'Let's go somewhere like Bolivia,' let's GO somewhere like Bolivia."

~ Butch Cassidy

***********
Yakima Skyline 25k

3:36:49

76/234 (overall)

1/16 (M 50-59)

Shoes:
Hoka Speedgoat 3

Song stuck in my head the entire time: 
"Panama" ~ Van Halen

When the going gets strange

"Take care, my friends. Travel gently and with purpose. It’s about to get weird."

~Michelle Evans
***********

"Feed me, Seymour!"

I've reached the point in my Miwok training when I can't get enough sleep or enough to eat.

I'm eating all the foods...and losing weight. I'm napping every chance I get...and still feel sleep-deprived.

I rarely weigh myself, but when a scale recently and mysteriously appeared in our bathroom, I couldn't resist. 

Full disclosure: I'm under 160 pounds. I'm pretty sure I haven't weighed this little since I was a sophomore in high school. 

Additional evidence: I had to pull up my running tights about every 100 yards during Saturday's long run—which tells me I need to eat more or get new running tights.

DID YOU KNOW: Kodiak Cakes are loaded with protein and taste great right now, even though I hadn't eaten pancakes in years.

Also—eggs over hard, topped with guacamole, are the best things ever. Let's face it, though, there are few things that aren't better topped with guacamole.

I'm eating nutritional yeast in pasta, on sea scallops, and on roasted veggies. It's loaded with B vitamins and is currently delicious. We'll see how I feel about it after Miwok.

Chunky peanut butter with apple slices. Everything old is new again.

Trader Joe's Miso Ginger Broth with high-protein organic tofu (who am I anymore, really?).

TJ's Aioli Garlic Mustard Sauce? I could eat that sh*t with a spoon.*

A ginger-molasses cookie after dinner? Yes, please. They're delicious, so I better have two, every night. And maybe some of that dark chocolate with raspberries.
***
My month-over-month mileage nearly doubled in March, and I'm on a similar pace in April. I'm going to keep redlining it over here for about 10 more days, whilst trying not to get hurt or chew off a couple of fingers.
***
Old after-dinner routine: leftovers for tomorrow. New after-dinner hustle: no leftovers, no tomorrow. "Are you gonna eat that??"
***

*Hasn't happened yet, but don't think it hasn't occurred to me.

The imperfect practice of patience

"Wisdom’s a gift but you’d trade it for youth. Age is an honor, it’s still not the truth."

~ Ezra Koenig

***********
Miwok 100k is fast approaching.

"Hi, I'm May 4! How's it going??"

And I'm hurriedly trying to make up for six weeks of training that was not so much lost, but more buried under emotional rubble.

Some running occurred over that time, but it was more about beating back the darkness than productive training.

Now, though, the weekend long runs have gotten longer and more challenging—in parallel the recovery is longer and more challenging. 

Running through the snow still hanging on at places like Cougar Mountain and Tiger Mountain, my mantra is "don't get hurt don't get hurt don't get hurt..."

It's not the most positive trail thought ever, but it reminds me to keep my head in the game. It's too close to race day to get injured, heal, and still be training-ready by May 4.

I'm grateful to have friends to run long with on Saturdays—even when I see on Strava they got out to run long again on Sunday. That's when the petty and pointless envy occurs. 

Because while all respectable ultramarathon training plans call for these long, back-to-back runs, my body calls for a Sunday rest day. There's more than one way to get hurt, I've learned, and one of them is to do too much, too soon.

If there were a way to trade a bit of this wisdom for the quicker recovery time of even five years ago, I'd make that deal in a heartbeat.

Admin. note: there's no such way.

So, I rest, and May 4 sneaks one day closer.

It hurts less to run

During long races there always comes a time when I find myself walking terrain that's completely runnable.

It generally happens when I've been out there for hours—when I've exceeded my training and everything hurts and the only reason I'm walking is to avoid stopping altogether.

Eventually I catch myself in this mode and force myself to run again. It's then I realize, for the hundredth or thousandth time, it literally hurts less to run.

I'm not sure why this is true, exercise physiology-wise, only that it is.

So, tempting as it is to slow and stop and sit and finally call it a day...I walk faster for a few steps then jog a few steps then run at best possible speed.

With very few exceptions, this tactic has always gotten me across the finish line.

***********

Recent life (and death) events have me feeling a frequent undercurrent of dread. It's not inside the wire, but it's always near, testing my defenses. It prods here, there, then retreats for a while.

The next day, or the next, it's back. Testing. Pressing.

As is always the case during such times, it hurts less to run.

Run-therapy dependably shores up my defenses, chases away the dread, and buys some breathing room. It's temporary...but it works.

So I run.

Best possible speed.

Wheee, chef...

"If you don't fall down, you're not trying hard enough."

~ skiing wisdom (probably coined by knee surgeons and makers of air casts)
***********
I've been the chef à domicile at our house for more than 20 years.

In all that time (and as far as we know), no one got food poisoning from the meals I served up.

But to the best of my knowledge, no one ever went away saying, "Damn, I wish the Millers would invite us over for dinner more often."

Then, a couple years ago, I stumbled across cooking shows on Netflix, and an epiphany* was had.

It started with "The Great British Baking Show" I think, then Anthony Bourdain's "Parts Unknown", then (in no particular order) "Chef's Table" and the sublime "Chef's Table—France"; "The Mind of a Chef", "A Cook Abroad", "Avec Eric", "Rebel Without A Kitchen", "Ainsley Eats the Streets", and most recently "Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat."

Also on our screens during this time were superb movies like "Chef" and "Julie & Julia" and "The Hundred-Foot Journey." Books came into the house—many, many books—among them Addie Gundry's "Homemade Soup Recipes", Jennifer Trainer Thompson's "Fresh Fish",
"Eat Like You Give A F*ck" from the Thug Kitchen, and Bourdain's "Kitchen Confidential", "The Nasty Bits", and "Medium Raw".

The point, if it's not apparent, is that I was inspired to start taking my evening job more seriously. And...

*The Epiphany—was that I should try making food people would actually find memorable. In a good way.

So far, I haven't fallen down. Much.

Despite adding variety and complexity, I can count on about three fingers the number of times I've cooked something that was truly awful.

1. Seafood chowder—the Pacific Northwest produces some of the best seafood in the world. Sadly, the halibut, salmon, and shrimp I selected this time were no match for the onion, fennel bulb, and leeks I used in the base. Rookie mistake. Thing I learned: it's a bad idea to overwhelm mild, already-delicious fish with strong flavors.

2. Yakisoba with scallops and veggies—I've made this dish several times at home, and it's always worked out fine. But when I made the same thing the same way at my parents' house, it was terrible. The noodles were a mushy mess that tasted as bad as they looked. Thing I learned: nothing—I still have no idea what went wrong.

3. Asparagus-cheese soup—inedible. Too late I discovered the asparagus was stringy and chewy and bitter. I don't know if it was overripe or underripe or what. But it was bad. Thing I learned: be more careful about picking produce.

This is not to say everything else has been amazing, or that I'm any sort of accomplished cook. I'm not. My failure to fail, I think, is actually a sign that I'm not trying hard enough. That I may need to expand my ambitions beyond my comfort zone to discover all the hilarious ways one can screw up a meal.

I mean, I guess.

The other possibility is that consistently good cooking is a function of simplicity rather than complexity. That if you start with a few quality, local, fresh ingredients, you're less likely to make a mess of them. 

In which case my failure to fail is a function of where we live and our abundance of options. 

A bit like avoiding recurrent yard sales because the mountain is always covered with six inches of powder—and concluding you must be a really good skier.

I'm not a really good skier, metaphorically or otherwise.

And the fact is, there are entire categories of world cuisine I haven't attempted yet. I want to try a lot of them, which means there'll be plenty of chances to stumble and fall all over the kitchen. 

I'm willing to give it a try, anyway.

Once more with feeling ~ Orcas 25k Race Report

You go back, Jack, do it again

Red skies at night, runners' delight.

Wheels turnin' 'round and 'round
You go back, Jack, do it again

"Do It Again" ~ Steely Dan
***********
There was a time when I thought running the Orcas Island 25k was way beyond my scope.

Fifteen or 16 miles? On steep and technical trails? In the middle of winter? Who are these people doing these marvelous things that I could never do??

Now I know.

A few years later, I've run Orcas five times—so you might think it wouldn't continue to intimidate me. 

Nope. The thought of climbing Powerline and the Mount Constitution switchbacks still makes me anxious.

And yet I keep coming back. Probably because:

a) I'm not very bright
b) the quiche at Brown Bear Baking is awesome
c) the Orcas 25k is a blast
d) all of it
***********
Somehow I always forget about the start of this race—which is weird, because my brain stem usually remembers vexing two-mile climbs on pavement. There have been years that I've walked some of this stretch, surprised yet again by its very existence...but this was not one of those years.

It's not like I was in super-great shape with my mental game on point. For unfortunate reasons, neither of those was true. But it's possible an utter lack of expectations helped me get out of my own way and just run.

Once off the road and onto the Mountain Lake Trail, the next four miles are downhill-ish, scenic, type-one fun. Lots of single track takes you on a rolling, runnable tour of Mountain Lake, Cascade Falls, and Cascade Lake, and eventually up to the North Arch aid station. I arrived there smiling, chatted with my friend John Maytum for a couple minutes, then grazed on some delightful aid station Oreos.

What, they're vegan...which means they're health food! Also, good Powerline fuel.

Tactical note: the best time to run Orcas is when Powerline is un-muddy. 
Administrative note: Powerline is almost never un-muddy.
2019 note: Powerline was un-muddy.

An un-muddy Powerline is a gift. Instead of slipping and sliding in boggy shoes, you can focus more intently on power-hiking past people who can't believe how steep it is and how it goes on forever.

Two miles up, gaining about 1,400 feet of elevation, the climbing eventually gives way to my favorite section of the course—two descending single-track miles through moss-covered forest. It's strangely quiet through here, as the trees seem to dampen the wind and any sound but your breathing and your shoes on the trail. 

It's so hypnotic that you don't even notice the hundreds of feet you're giving up, which you have to earn back on your way to the Mt. Constitution aid station. That climbing happens on my least favorite part of the course, which we'll ominously call "The Switchbacks," a never-ending climb of nearly 1,000 feet in the span of a mile.

Glenn! Beware the chipmunks!
(photo by Glenn Tachiyama.)

This is another stretch that changes dramatically if the course is wet. On those days, there are sections where the trail is literally a stream flowing over outcroppings of rock, on its way to the ocean or wherever such streams go on this island. An underground elfin brewpub would be my guess.

For a change, The Switchbacks were almost completely dry this year, and not nearly as debilitating as my brain stem wanted me to believe. The journey through their steep twists and turns took far less of a toll than usual, which boosted my attitude almost as much as the peanut m&ms (health food!) at the Mt. Constitution aid station.

The trip down from the high point on the island (2,400 feet) to the finish at Camp Moran (500 feet) is an exercise in risk tolerance. If you don't mind the prospect of a faceplant on some technical trail, you can fly. I know this not because I flew, but because I got passed by a dozen people who did.

Was I a little envious? Yes, I was. Was I willing to risk face and limb trying to keep up with them? Ha, no.

My "best possible speed" the last five miles felt quick enough compared to previous years—even the last mile, which can seem like it goes on forever.

Spoiler: it doesn't. 

And this year, I kind of wished it had.
***********

"Thanks, James, it's good to be back.
And, yes, I do like your party hat."

Thanks, as always, to the amazing people at Rainshadow Running and Seven Hills Running Shop, not to mention the volunteers who make such things possible. 

Let's do it again.
***********
Orcas Island 25k

3:16:51

68/256 (overall)

7/23 (M 50-59)

Shoes:
Hoka Torrent

Songs stuck in my head the entire time: 
"Requiem" ~ Mozart
"Do It Again" ~ Steely Dan
***********
Postscript:
A toast to absent friends.

The flame of the inn is dim tonight
Too many vacant chairs
The sun has lost too much of its light
Too many songs have taken flight
Too many ghosts on the stairs
~Grantland Rice

Head down, moving forward

"We seem to have reached the age where life stops giving us things and starts taking them away."

~ Dean Charles Stanforth
***********
Sitting in a brightly lit room in the middle of the day, it's easy to sagely say, "We only have the illusion of control in our lives."

But at 3:30 a.m., when the guard rails are down and the filters are gone, I still don't believe it. It's then that my brain refuses all logic and demands explanation and reversal of the inexplicable and irrevocable. My thoughts pinball from one non sequitur to the next. Sleep, if it returns, is filled with what seems like someone else's dreams.

I know, as a matter of cold, hard fact, that anything can happen to anybody at any time. I've learned from recent experience that friends can be diagnosed with breast cancer or bladder cancer or ALS. That a man who once seemed indestructible can age and wither and die. That a strong young man running 80 miles a week can die quickly and incomprehensibly in the middle of the night.

I know we are powerless to bend the arc these much-loved people are on, or to bring them back from their next journey...but at my core I can't accept the reality of it.

In order to keep moving forward and get things done, I stick to a routine that doesn't require a lot of decision-making. Occasionally I stumble over a task that I can't bring myself to do, so I avoid it.

Author M. Molly Backes describes the Impossible Task thusly:
"A cool thing about the Impossible Task is that it changes on you. One time it might involve calling someone, but maybe you can work around it by emailing. Another time it’s an email issue. Then when you think you have it pinned down, you suddenly can’t do the dishes."

Another cool thing about the Impossible Task is that it's a symptom of depression.
***********
Recovering from a running injury, I told a friend I was going to "stick to more predictable terrain for a while."

Turns out there's no such thing as predictable terrain.

Not in running, not in life.

Let's go back

In.

Part II.

Last time I ran at Miwok, it turned out to be one of the best running days I've had.

The aftermath—protracted fatigue and a prolonged disinterest in running—were not so great.

So why am I going back?

If I'm honest—and knowing what these distances do to me—it's because Miwok is a Western States qualifier. If I'm going to deplete myself to the point of debility, it better be for a damn good reason.

Western States is it.

To be clear, Miwok is a legit 'A' event. The Marin Headland trails are spectacular, and in 2017 I accomplished something there that for me was a serious stretch. Getting it done a second time is no certainty.

But I've learned a lot since then, and I'll be better prepared to deal with the physical and emotional fallout—before, during, and after.

With a couple of amazing exceptions (especially Backcountry Rise 50k), 2018 was a down year of racing. It was, however, a very up year for adventure running. If someone told me I had to give up racing completely but could continue with the adventure runs until I drop, I would make the trade in a heartbeat.

Fortunately no one's telling me that. Yet. 

Standing here today, my mind and my body feel back to where they were pre-Miwok 2017. I'm ready to put in the time and do the miles—at least one more time.

My window for doing this kind of thing—not to mention a theoretical 100-miler—isn't getting wider. 

If it's going to happen, it should probably be soon.

No kidding around

"This is not going to go the way that you think."

~ Luke Skywalker
***********
Early in my tenure as a parent, I thought I had an idea about how things would go...

Our kids would sleep through the night at a very young age. They wouldn't get ear infections or suffer baby reflux. They wouldn't cry uncontrollably when left at daycare nor would they bite or hit or get a fever and have to be picked up right away.

They would be calm and rational and react in measured ways to unmeasured events. They would be confident and impervious to the occasional cruelty of other children.

They would be self-motivated and outperform 90 percent of their peers on tests of mental and physical acuity.

They wouldn't wear heelies in stores and roll down the aisles between shopping carts, despite being told not to. They wouldn't binge on Halloween candy every single year.

When we asked them, "Why do you have to act like such children all the time?" they wouldn't say (in unison), "Because we ARE children!" and then laugh at us.

They would keep their rooms clean, eat the food we fixed, and learn how to properly load a dishwasher. And they definitely would not have to be nagged to do the few chores they specifically asked for so they could earn some allowance (aka "free money").

And because I would be there to help them avoid the mistakes I made at their age, their lives would be carefree and pain-free and everything would be fine.

Hahahahaha.
***********
Oh, the futility. Accidently being right about a couple things is what kept me from being wrong about all of them. And then some. 

Despite this (and thanks mostly to my wife) we recently were promoted to a lofty rank: parents of two adult children. 

The girl child turned 18 yesterday.
***********
Without going on and on, I'll say this for her: she makes some killer salsa. And a great guacamole. I'm convinced she could package and sell them across state lines and do very well for herself.

She bounces back and forth between the music of Sam Hunt and YG, Luke Bryan and T-Pain (among many others). She knows the words and sings along with élan. Where I lack the mental agility to see how these genres intertwine, she provides proof that they do.

Strangely, she dislikes fruits of all kinds. And she likes onions.

Her room is a mess.
***********
If I had a parental do-over and could change one thing, it would be to let go.

It's possible, it turns out, to care too much. To over-obsess about things that seem like a big deal in the moment but end up being nothing. To grasp too frantically for control over a profoundly chaotic world.

This is true no matter how often or loudly we howl at the moon.

At some point, you just have to let go.

And trust.

And breathe.

F--- this s---

A shit day in the midst of a shit week.

In no particular order:

• Domestic terrorism--a dozen bombs were sent to political "enemies" of the current "president"
• While on a trail run, our rescue puppy pulled the retractable leash out of my hand and took off--loving wife and I searched for hours, unsuccessfully
• Tony Joe White died

The good news:

• The assassination attempts failed, and none of the bombs injured anyone
• The puppy spent a rainy night lost outdoors, but was found safe this morning--he's sleeping peacefully in his crate next to our other two dogs and one of the cats
• Tony Joe's next journey (whatever it may be) began 

***********
Update:

• Eight people shot and killed in a Pittsburgh, PA synagogue

Fuck.
***********
Update:

• Death toll now 11
• "president" blames synagogue for lack of armed security

The Caring Trap

Today began with one of our chickens—the little one prone to epileptic seizures—being attacked by a hawk.

I was in the kitchen drinking coffee when the squawking began out back. I didn't react at first, because sometimes chickens squawk.

But the tone and volume escalated quickly, so I raced down thinking the little chick was seizing and being fussed over by one of the other chickens—or that there might be a raccoon in their midst.

It took me a few seconds to make sense of what was really happening.

What the actual flock?

One of the hens, Zinnia, is bonded with the little one (Frannie), and gets upset when Frannie has a seizure. 

I spotted Frannie under a hedge near the side fence, and what I assumed was Zinny nearby. I waded in to help, and "Zinny" flew up to the neighbors' second floor deck railing.

Yeah, it wasn't Zinny.

It was a hawk, at least as big as Zinny, not impressed at all by my invitation to get the fuck out of here.

I turned my attention back to Frannie, trying to figure out if she was seizing or stunned or otherwise injured by the hawk.

She let me pick her up (which she never does), and I put her in the coop so I could check on the other girls, who were nowhere in sight.

The hawk, likewise, disappeared.

"Chickchickchick?" I said, like it was a magic incantation. "Chickchickchick...?" 

Agnes, the leader of the pack/herd/flock responded with her usual clucking and trilling, and poked her head out of another bush. She seemed unhurt.

"Where are the other girls, Agnes? Are they in there with you?"

They were not. I moved on.

"Chickchickchick...?" I repeated, trying to coax out the other hens from wherever they were hiding. "Chickchickchick...?" 

Zinny, Meryl, and Petunia poked their heads out of a large shrub down by the back fence, and seemed to be okay...

...so I went back to the coop for another look at Frannie. She was right where I left her, and for a moment I thought she might be dead. "How we doing, Frannie?" I said, and she stirred a bit. Still no sign of bleeding or other external injury, so I closed her in.

Did I mention our head chicken whisperer left yesterday for Boston? Yeah, very inconvenient. She's the one who really knows what to do in case of a chicken emergency. I'm just a pale facsimile, a substitute whisperer.

I hurried upstairs for my phone to text her for advice.

I was gone from the back for maybe 60 seconds when the squawking began again. "Goddammit!" I actually said out loud as I ran back down, picking up a stick on the way.

Agnes again was out of sight, so I continued down toward the back fence. More squawking, and the hawk jumped up to the back gate. I threw the stick at it and, I'm happy to say, almost hit it. It flew up to a high branch of a nearby tree and sat watching.

I wished for a slingshot. 

Which is how I discovered I'm emotionally attached to our chickens.

Because I love hawks. I adore raptors of any stripe.

But I wanted to kill this one.
***********
"Chickchickchick...?"

Zinny reappeared almost immediately, and I escorted her up toward the coop. Back down to the fenceline, "Chickchickchick...?"

Petunia clucked, and I found her stuck among the branches of the shrub. I was able to free her by pulling back some of the tangle, and up to the coop we went.

Which left Meryl.

"Chickchickchick...?"

No sign, no sound.

I walked all the way around the shrub, then expanded my search to hedges around the perimeter and beyond. Nothing.

I updated my wife: 

I returned to the bush by the back fence and crawled around its base, under leaves and through a tangle of dead branches with a quiet, sing-song-y, "Chickchickchickchick? Merrrryl? Merrrryl?"

Meryl clucked softly and I spotted her, deep in the middle of the bush, pinned by undergrowth. There was no way to get to her, let alone free her, so I extracted myself and went back to the house for the long-handled branch loppers.

Ten minutes of cutting in from both sides of the hedge eventually created a gap big enough to get her out. Meryl hurried to the coop, seemingly unhurt and unfazed.
***********
Update: Frannie is on her feet and moving around a bit. I'm choosing to see this as a good sign.
***********
Things I didn't know, not too long ago:
1. I would one day become emotionally attached to chickens
2. I would be sad and concerned about little Frannie and her seizures
3. I would be very protective of the girls' safety—so much so, I would want to kill another bird to defend them

Things I did know:
1. The world is a very confusing place
2. It's impossible to predict anything, ever
3. There's a lot I don't know

summoning the future

I watch you sleeping
My weary heart rises up on wings
I hear your laughter
Something deep down inside me sings

Way down here in the land of cotton
You were born on a rainy day
Since then, sweet things long forgotten
They just keep flooding back my way

ready for kindergarten.

"Annabel" ~ Don Henley
***********
in the category, "we knew this would happen, but..." 

it's college application time at our house.

because our daughter is smart and motivated and a high achiever, the mechanics of this process should be pretty straightforward: she'll apply to a handful of universities and have choices of where to enroll.

and, if this last year of high school resembles the first three, there's a good chance she'll land an academic scholarship of some sort. (full disclosure: she inherited the academic achievement gene from her mother.)

within a few months she'll be off on her own to study...something. somewhere. she's not sure what, mind you, or where, but that's fine. the important thing is, she's given herself all the options in the world.

in the meantime, our mailbox fills daily with salutations from some of the best institutions of higher learning in the US.
***********
it was long (long) ago, but i still remember the feeling of leaving home for college: elation. whatever the obverse of that feeling is (anxious apprehensive disconcerted disquieted distressed perturbed uneasy unsettled), i have it now, and it's hurting my stomach.

primarily, i suppose, because i don't want her to go. but underlying that, i don't want her to go out into the world in its current incarnation~~unsupportive of women at best and unsafe for them at worst.

ready for anything.

like all children, all women, she deserves better.
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ambivalence aside, she's as prepared as she's going to be. we've done what we could toward that goal, and she's been mentored by strong women her entire life. 

she's emotionally intelligent, resolute, and relentless as a honey badger.

she can take care of herself, certainly...but she also has a gift for taking care of others.

i won't presume to say she's going to go out and change the world. but i do know that somewhere, someday she'll at least make a difference...in a world that desperately needs to be different.
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our morning rituals are comforting in their routine. i make espresso shots, which she turns into an iced latte concoction (even on cold, rainy days). she makes toast while i feed the dogs and get them ready for their walk.

one of the cats jumps up to the kitchen sink and waits for someone to turn on the faucet, so she can drink like a civilized person.

the girl sips her coffee and eats her toast, until an alarm on her phone inevitably chimes. she quietly asks the cat if she's done, pats her on the head, and shuts off the water. she puts her dishes in the sink, picks up her backpacks (plural), and heads for the door.

"have a good day," one of us will say.
"you, too."
"love you."
"love you, too."

the door closes behind her, and the dogs look at me.

i look down and give them a nod. "time to go, dogs."

every day, like that. 

it's a good routine.
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still, alarms gonna chime. doors gonna open, and close.

and while i'd prefer keep her near...

it's (nearly) time to let her go.
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Oh child, I cannot tell you how the time just flies
But I have had my days of glory under sunny skies
These days, your bright dreams are all I want to see
Sleep tight, Annabel
You can always count on me

"Annabel"