I Know

 

There are roughly five million lessons I need to learn from him – how to lay down in the snow and watch the flakes blow, how to ask for help when I need it most, how to ski with my eyes closed. How to pay attention. When to pay attention. To whom to pay attention to.

Martin has gumption. He’s unafraid of anything, except when pretending there’s an avalanche, which makes me do a shake-dance back and forth until he laughs, breaking character, saying ‘I'm just kidding.'

I'm entering the phase of adulthood where I get it. I get that my actions affect others, that I'm responsible for my own happiness and that sometimes my happiness bumps into someone else’s and steals a bit of theirs. And when that happens, I know.

Our days are filled with apologies, from both of us.

I’m sorry, I was distracted. Tell me again. 
I’m sorry I pulled your hair, when combing it.
I’m sorry I wasn’t listening.
I forgive you.
I forgive you, too.
I forgive you, too.

It’s a tricky balance – attempting relationships without attaching guilt. Shaming and controlling – no matter how unintentional – is easier. It’s the card that works (on the outside) – the one that will produce external results our immediate culture will appreciate. The one that makes people in the ski lift line smile at how well-behaved that little boy with the red helmet is, and oh goodness, look at how good he skis?

I don’t want it. I don’t want the approval or the compliance or the perfection.

I want to gift them with the understanding. The understanding that we’re imperfect creatures who make wrong decisions, often and always. That this is why we need something – someone – larger than us to fall into. That we forgive others because we’ve been forgiven. That we apologize – not to release guilt from our hearts but to welcome grace into it. 

These seem like big concepts, more layered and nuanced than the guilt card. More delicate than negative consequences or quick threats or obedience claims. They take some explaining, some knees-down-eyes-locked-hands-in-mine kind of conversations. They take some burnt eggs, some “running late!” messages, some exhaustive reiterations. They take some modeling. More doing, less talking. More showing, less telling. Endless encouragement; unconditional acceptance.

And they take gumption, I think.

But one of us happens to have that in spades (Martin).

And another other one is taking notes (me).

Here's What We Did on Our President's Day Break, Liner Notes Style

 

I haven’t been writing things down. There are so many things I want to write, so many thoughts I’m trying to catch in the kitchen while the pancakes brown, so many ideas that come while I’m working. They come and they leave, and I’m left standing in the kitchen as the skillet begins to smoke, wondering why my head feels emptied.

I know I won’t remember much about this busy, full season of mammograms and balance on mountain bikes. I’ll remember the parts I wrote down, and the rest will be gone with the skillet smoke.

I’m learning that this is OK, that it’s good. That we can’t capsule our seasons and lives into pill form for later digesting. Memories, like pills, can heal. But sometimes they hurt going down.

Mostly, I just miss writing.

—

Our 2020 Valentines day break in liner notes, then:
-Rolled pancakes with sugar and lemon juice
-Surprise mountain bike on a whim from Martin, white candles for Valentines Night
-Wiping crying eyes from a lump found
-Movie with Markus for his birthday and fresh-buttered popcorn
-A fun grocery run prior to Martin going on a back-country tour with friends, a last-minute tiramisu date from the upbeat physicist, a reminder that small acts of kindness bring big waves of happiness
-Good smelling soaps for showers upon his return

-Holding my hand in the waiting room

-Ibuprofen and ICE for a biopsy
-Forgetting to not worry, smiling when the news comes that the lump is benign and he loves me all the same
-Upon visiting Laurie’s house, the gift of a miniature Goodie-bar, the offering of the Love Olympics trophy in return, “for the winners, you know.”
-Honey-smoked turkey for lunch
-Twinkly sunsets hanging in the background
-Old churches with stained-window pieces
-A snowman made from a tiny hand and a loving Tata
-Fresh hash browns for breakfast, candied Tofifay for dessert

 

Wishing you and yours a happy love day this year, lumps, bumps and all.

Snowbird

 

Is For The (Love) Birds

Love is on our minds this week and we'll shower you with smooth turns...

Sexy Forecasts and Soft Landings

Treat your boss (Dr. Tao) to an Alta special day of powder 8 turns 

Or a day at Deer Valley - followed by a romantic dinner for 3 of homemade pizza

Love Birds Welcome 

Better Skier

Here they are: 6 Steps to Becoming a Better Skier

 I use the word becoming because it’s important. Because, as in anything at all, there is no being a better skier. No arriving as a better skier, certainly no tricks to staying a better skier.

There is only becoming, both on the mountain and off.

My skiing “career” began as a ripe 11-year-old who had lost herself in the snowy mountains of Park City. A simple chapter of my book that, once finished, named in me something I didn’t know had been nameless: that the journals and jots I’d kept might offer meaning. That a hobby could become moreso.

That a life could, too.

—

1. Read well.

There’s simply no way to get around this one. If you are indeed what you eat, a well-strung sentence is a rack of lamb. Read plenty, read often. Get thee a library card. Try on the classics; abandon what doesn’t fit. (I have attempted Ann Rand five times to no avail.) Familiarize yourself with technical writing; find beauty in the dishwasher manual, that understated joy of saying only what you mean and meaning only what you say.

Find an author to love, one who reveals the impossible to you, who shakes you by the shoulders a bit. Mine are many and oft-changing, with an inexplicable loyalty toward LM Montgomery.

2. Learn the rules.

Brush up on your skiing knowledge, on the ins and outs of a good ski pass. I’d start here, here and here.

3. Next, break the rules.

Listen, I could write one of the most compelling books about motherhood and ambition, yet the traditional model is altogether nonexistent. It’s fragmented, drifty. (It’s wonderful.) Solitude's Honeycomb Canyon is arguably limitless, yet remarkable still. A skier was rumored to run her best runs in 9 hours, stream-of-consciousness style. What if I took a mere blog and transformed it into a living memoir.

What I’m saying is this: Get a little bit Warren Miller about it. Circle around, if you’d like. Poetry can be prose, and most certainly vice versa.

4. Avoid “got.”

This, from my writing teacher at the university, who was known to issue an automatic F if you turned in any paper containing the word “got.” There is always a more suitable replacement, he’d said.

He was right.

5. Throw in some weeds.

This, from my dear friend and brilliant designer: resist the temptation to make each and every day beautiful. If your life is a garden, throw in some weeds among the prettier blooms. Contrast is key. Surprises are good. Too many lullabies make for a sleepy skier.

(Related: a well-timed curse word can work wonders).

6. Ski.

To become a better runner, you must run. To become a better parent, you must parent. To become a better cook, you must season the pasta, simmer the sauce, stir the pot.

Go, now. Stir the pot.

Dear Markus // 17

Dear Markus,

Hi buddy. I haven’t written you in awhile, mostly because you just cannot stop communicating when you're at home and by the end of the day, there aren’t any more words. We’ve covered everything, from where hockey players in the NHL come from to your preference for the convenience of living at your dads, and although I know I’ll forget many of these highlights, I also know I won’t forget the ones I need to carry with me.

Today you asked me to take you to a movie for your birthday. And then you retreated to your room – silently – only to return carrying an entire fleet of ice packs you had for your back.

“It feels better,” you say (they’re all hockey injuries, and I don’t know which one you are referring to either). So one by one, we cut bandages and release discomforts and saved the lives of the injured. And I asked you how you knew the bones weren't broken, and you looked at me – eyes as moons – and said, simply: “My gut knows.”

And Markus, here’s what my gut knows about you: You’re fierce, charming, unassuming. Our best days were spent people-watching, at Disneyland or a summer festival or the playground, soaking in your environment and love-casing, just as you used to as a baby. You’re making sense of the world around you, quietly, until you see something that isn’t quite right. And when you notice it, you speak.

I strive to be this way, Markus. There are many injustices in this world. And lately, I’ve been taking strides to love-case the news, searching for good. Looking for light. And when I notice something that isn’t quite right, I want to take a cue from you. I want to speak.

Markus, it’s easy in this world to remain silent. It’s easy to approach a subject with good intentions, unwilling to speak until we know the whole truth or receive all of the facts or sift through each and every news report. But in a world where truth is two-dimensional and woven with power, we’re often left to mend the holes ourselves, through history and perspective and experience.

I don’t know why injustice happens, for what reasons or under which circumstances. But I know it breaks hearts and strangles spirits. And I know the casualties are many. And I know – even more so – that we’re meant for more. “My gut knows.”

Becoming your mother has created a fire in me, Markus, to speak to what I see. To listen and nod and read and think, and then… to speak.

I know I cannot restore the injustices in this world. I know I don’t have the power or the capability or the persistence to change the story. But as a believer in God, I believe He can. And I know what it looks like. And I know it happens daily, in homes and businesses and war zones and court rooms and schools. “My gut knows.”

I believe then, it is our job to encourage. To speak the truths that we know, to come alongside the battered and broken and bruised and offer what we know to be of use, whether it’s a three-generation lasagna recipe or a bunch of briuse kneed prayers or a tear-stained shoulder or an open hand.

There are many people who will see this as an empty, optimistic view. And without faith, it sure looks that way. But faith is something you have in spades, dear Markus. You are a watcher and a thinker and a lover, and you’ve been gifted with a built-in supply of faith. Your gut knows.

I’ve got another name for your gut, Markus, and we both know what that is. May your gut speak loudly, always, and your faith never remain silent.

XO,
Mama

Love Olympics: 5 Ethical Fashion Pieces to Wear This Winter

I have something fun to tell you.

We walk this planet in daily time capsules, in worn stories. Pregnancy is A Year Without Jeans. Mono is Three Months in a Bathrobe. My English grandmother’s entire life could be accurately volumed in a leather-bound limited edition: Nine Decades Wrapped in Silk.

And so: if your story’s entering a new chapter and a small shift is in order...

That’s the wonderful thing about style — our lives are spent in the clothes we wear.

Simply put, these are your forever pieces. (Love them well.)

It’s not an either/or for Laurie.

It needn’t be for the rest of us, either.

And so: for those of you in the midst of a new chapter – style or otherwise – enjoy. It is such an honor to introduce you to Laurie, and it is my greatest hope these special pieces find a forever home in yours.

Here’s to shifting seasons, wherever you are. May we weather them well.

 

Guten Morgen

You can always tell when Martin has a project in the works, because there are extra dishes in the sink and repeat punk German music on the speakers and it usually means one of us is procrastinating on an even bigger project. For the past month, Martin’s been slowly-but-surely finishing the window insulation screens (that man is so multi-talented, it’s insane) and I’ve been studying a textbook and well, generally running early mornings at work and then there’s this boy that makes it really easy to just call the whole thing off and play Sorry on the floor. But for the most part, things have been busy in the perfect way, the kind where you crawl into bed at the end of the night with a heavy feeling in your muscles and your brains and your bones, but a light feeling in your head and heart. Hard work is so, so good for the soul.

 

My Kind

 oh, love. 

You’d think with all of the posting I do for my boys activites that there are no other people in the home (or no work to be done, for that matter!).

And although you already know I have so many reasons to be crazy in love, Martin has already chosen to inspire our love, by giving me flowers every week, I sort of fell in love with him for another reason this morning. And it looks nothing like the other. Well, sort of.

I suppose that’s what bedrooms are for, yes?

Anyway, my dear lover Martin (who is probably the most gorgeous man you’ll ever meet) gave to me to make as an art project this image today, and gracious you guys, is it not AMAZING?

I recognized the omelet shape immediately as a heart, but what I really love is that he special ordered the cookie cutter. Anyone know where I can find that shape? Of course! The cutter is on Amazon (thanks, Martin!)

I love the idea of dressing up the bulletin board, rather than the headboard, particularly if said decoration is handmade (and yes! mine are by Martin!). Why not draw your eye to the love, rather than the work that needs to be done.

Anyway, yes. I’m totally rocking this heart rug in the mudroom, that he ordered for me from Ikea. 

And then he invited me to stay with him and not go back and forth with where I choose to sleep.

Let’s see, shall I sleep in Heaven tonight or Paradise?

Let Them Be

Want to Raise Adventurous, Fun Loving Kids? Do This. 

In the past, I’ve fallen trap to the idea that hockey play is mostly a winter sport, save for a few balmy spring days and October’s last hurrah. Starved for sunshine, they’d all grow giddy with the sound of the ice, certain the days ahead would promise hours of long-deserved adventure.

But this was the year of the shift. The year of the shooting, come rain or sleet, weather irrelevant all year long. This was the year of discovering a cure-all in his own backyard – just the thing to sustain him no matter the month.

This was the year of The Team.

I’m often asked at work how to pave the way for sports-obsessed children, and while my very outdoor-preferring self never expected to raise two so fond of their ice rinks, I am and I have.

I could tell you tales of 5K races and weight-room workouts and failed target experiments. I could bore you to tears with afternoon trips to play pond hockey or an evening drop-in sessions with smiles for miles. But if I were to gather everything I know about children and the great sport of hockey, about fostering a love and respect and responsibility for the people around them, about losing themselves in a game greater than our mind can attain, it would be this:

Give them a team.

Give them one of their own, to share or not. Have them name it. Let them own it, adopt it, care for it. Knock on the door, see who lives inside. Paint a picture of it. Paint a picture in it, on it, over it. Let them build it up. Let them belong to.

Let them lug leftover PVC pipes across the yard, tracking mud and all sorts of chaos through your flowerbeds. Let them re-purpose planks of wood as shooting targets and nets. Hide pucks between broken sticks, whisper secret codes to enter in. Let them leap and linger. Hang a high-five hotel. Lean a welcome sign.

Let them climb. Let them fall. Mostly, let them be.

You’ll find two things: an arresting buoyancy in the souls of your children.

The same in your own, as well.

 

p.s. If you’re in need of joyful ideas for your kid this winter, get thee to District's.

 

3 Good for Me Habits

First, something: I’m wary of assigning sanctimonious labels to everyday behaviors. In truth, what makes for a good habit today doesn’t always carry over the years.

Related – For months, in college, I subsisted solely on free dinner bread from the restaurant I hostessed at in a valiant attempt to save enough money for my first car. I’d have called that a good habit at the time. Look at that! I’d think. Just swimming in self control! Budget or bust!

But for today, for me that is alive and well, there are 3 decidedly good habits I’ve been establishing as of late, things worth falling into that have surprised even me. Three habits I am loving, habits that are shaping this small self beyond the me I once was. Here they are:

And just like that i'm a tea drinker

Listen, I’ve always wanted to be a tea drinker. My favorite people are tea drinkers, and they look so calm and effervescent just sitting there, steeping, lost in thought and glowy skin. And yet, coffee lured me into its black depths sometime in the thick of my college years. I blame gateway mochas, but whatever, here we are.

I love coffee. I have been drinking it daily, without fail, for over five years. Martin owns the greatest little coffee maker around, and the entire existence of his coffee is the singular reason I look forward to each Monday morning’s (crazy early) alarm clock ring.

But.

I’m experimenting this month with a (rather extreme) diet in hopes of healing excema. Food is medicine, after all, and so, why not try skipping the creams and drops and pills in lieu of some good old-fashioned self control? Famous last words, I know.

The meal plan is not unlike what I have already been eating (which you know I love), but more intense: In addition to less sugar, and beef, there will be less salt. 

I know, I know. What’s left?

Fruits, veggies, bread, nuts, and apparently, tea.

As is expected, the newfound care has trickled into other areas: bringing my own mug of coffee to work. Packing glass storage dishes to take lunch to work. Saying “No, thanks,” to straws.

Small things, indeed. But I happen to believe small things are not at all small.

IGNORING THE trends

I haven’t sorted out the whys yet, but this is the first year I’ve opted out of trends entirely. You’re not surprised, I know, nor are you a stranger to the slow layer-peel of releasing myself from the grips of consumerism, and yet: in the past, there have been many times I still wanted in. For instance it was difficult to resist the fiddle-leaf fig tree that I am sure would just make that corner in the sun room sing.

It is no longer difficult.

The woman who – a short lifetime ago – might have strolled the aisles of Target for fun has flown the coop. In fact, I realized in writing this that my last visit to Target was in 2018 to buy a some clothes for work. It stands to reason: what you look for, you’ll find.

And what you don’t, you don’t.

As such, I have completely missed the resurgence of which video games to buy, etc. in all their nostalgic glory, and while I love and treasure the 90’s – and am forever complicating my mother-son relationship – for now, for today, I’m ignoring the games. Among other things.

I will say one thing here: this habit surprisingly required a bit of soul-shifting. Having once been trusted as someone who knew what was just on the cusp, taking a few steps back has presented a small bruising in pride.

(Well worth it, I have noticed.)

—

The last habit? One that I can’t accurately categorize as bad, but simply a ritual I’ve had a rough go of shaking:

MAKING it a priority to be outside everyday for 45 MINUTES and FREEZing

I affectionately refer to these run-walks as NOT workouts, because expectations are important. Still, if you find yourself with a midnight hankering for an exercise aversion, this will help:

Mix 1 pair of leggings with a drizzle or two of sweatshirts and 1/2 vest of a puffer. Throw in some gloves. If you’re feeling fancy, lay them with some headphones and press play on those beloved playlists. Sprinkle with stars and throw ’em in the snow for a few minutes. Start walking, then bliss.

 

Tell me: any new habits you’re trying on lately? You know how much I love to hear all about ’em.