The Grace & Hope of the New Year

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone.” (Isaiah 9:1-6)

I had the privilege of reading the passage above during Mass on Christmas Eve this year. And while it alludes to Christ’s arrival in the world and the grace He brought with him, I find it likewise speaks to the hope of the New Year and the clean slate we should always begin it with. Today, on the second to last day of 2015, Isaiah’s words keep playing over and over in my mind.

The beginning of a new year is perhaps one of the most glorious times of the year. It is a time of hope, forgiveness, new beginnings, gratitude and second chances. The fact that New Year’s falls so soon after Christmas is no coincidence whatsoever. The two days very much go hand in hand. But it wasn’t until the weekend before Christmas this year that I first came to recognize and understand that. 

The Saturday before Christmas I found myself lingering in a very long line at the Cathedral to go to Confession. Advent and Lent are the two big times of the year for people to go to Confession so I was in no way surprised to see so many people. Of all the blessings of being a Catholic, the sacrament of confession is the one I’m most grateful for and have taken the most seriously since coming into the church. The reason for that is simple. Coming into the church was my way of acknowledging that Christ is my salvation….but concurrently, that I am imperfect and need healing and guidance to transform into the best version of myself. 

I’ve heard a lot of people say that the best part of confession is hearing the priest say that they are absolved of their sins. While that is certainly a powerful moment, I feel the greatest power of the sacrament just outside the confessional. While I was at the very end of the line upon arriving at the Cathedral, people continued to pour in behind me as I waited. I was so focused on my prayers though and what I intended to confess that I didn’t realize just how many people. 

After making my confession, I opened the confessional door to walk out. When I first glanced up, I was astounded to see two long lines of people flanking both sides of the aisle and stretching clear back to the altar. As I walked down the aisle between the people, I couldn’t help but feel a remarkable warmth of hope inside me. Here were dozens of people—just like me—who not only felt shame over failures and inadequacies in their lives but who were also filled with hope. The hope for a second chance was the only thing that had led them to the church that day. What a blessing it was to be standing in a room filled with so much HOPE!

On my way out of the church that day, I turned to look back at the confessors in line again and was reminded of one of the last things the priest had said to me that day…..”You’re in a house full of sinners, so you’re in good company.” All of us make mistakes and lead lives that fall short of what we hope and aspire towards. The ones who overcome all of that though are the ones who take responsibility, take action, and always hope.

While each year of our lives marks a special part in our story, it is merely one chapter buried in the middle of the book. Each morning when we wake up and find we still have air in our lungs and a heart drumming in our chest, we need to take that as a sign that God has not given up on us yet. And that there is more to be written still in our story. The New Year, much like Christ’s arrival at Christmas, is that great light in the darkness that beckons to us and reassures that whatever mistakes we’ve previously made we can always repent and move on from, that whatever dreams we’ve failed to bring to fruition can still come true, the burdens and trials currently plaguing us will not last forever, and that it is “never too late to be what you might have been,” as George Eliot put it. 

Reason for the Season

Store parking lots burst at the seams with holiday shoppers. The rustle of tissue paper and furious late night wrapping echoes. Nativity scenes and advent wreaths are carefully arranged on mantles. The soft multi-colored glow of Christmas trees illuminates front windows. Subtle hints of cinnamon, peppermint, fresh dough, and frosting fill the air.

There’s no more denying it….Christmas is nearly upon us!

With over 2.2 billion Christians around the world, Christmas is one of the most anticipated and widely celebrated holidays on earth. It’s utterly amazing, really, when you try to wrap your head around that many people believing and professing in Jesus Christ as their savior. They may do it through different traditions, in different houses of worship, and in different languages….but at the heart of all 2 billion of us, we each believe the very same thing. 

And yet….I found myself astounded three months ago to find the Christian faith alive and well over 6,000 miles from home on a tiny Fijian island in the Pacific. 

As described at length in an earlier post, Andy and I traveled to Matamanoa Island in Fiji for our honeymoon. Having never been to Hawaii or any other tropical island before, it was quite an adventurous treat for me. We took in practically every activity there was to do on the island—nearly all of which involved the ocean in some form. One of the activities I most cherished, however, was one I never expected to partake in while in Fiji.

Each day in the reception area of the resort, there was a chalkboard set up with the day’s activities listed out. One day, Andy and I noticed that there would be a performance by the village church choir that afternoon. I was instantly intrigued and told Andy we had to be there for it. Nearly all of the resort staff are native Fijians and live in Tavua, a village on a neighboring island. Ignorantly, knowing nothing about Fiji’s culture, I assumed they did not belong to any type of Christian denomination. But that 2.2 billion worldwide Christian figure I mentioned earlier should’ve made me wonder otherwise.

The choir was to perform shortly after the daily tea time held at the resort. Andy and I were sitting out on deck chairs near the pool eating the complimentary tea cookies and cakes when the choir arrived. Some were wearing long, white choir robes while others in nicer attire. All of them carried their hymnal books…..some more tattered than others. Several looked a little nervous as they assembled themselves into a group right in front of us. But all of those nervous faces disappeared the moment they started signing.

For the next half hour or so, we listened to the choir sing in a purely acapella style. Several of the songs were sung in Fijian while others were in English. But it was entirely irrelevant whether I knew the words they were signing or not……I understood simply by the power and passion in which they sang them. I remember listening to them sing and thinking what an amazing gift it was to hear songs of praise and adoration for the same God I pray to in a place so different and far away from everything I know. The Fijians look different, speak different, and undoubtedly practice their Christian faith differently from the Catholic traditions I’m used to at home---but the core of their faith is exactly the same as mine. It was a truly beautiful and special moment of Christianity for me….one which I will never forget.

As Christmas draws near and we anxiously await the celebration of the birth of our Lord, I can’t help but find myself thinking about Fiji and all of the wonderful people and traditions we encountered there.  I’m working very hard to keep that image of the choir singing framed in my mind each day so that I never lose sight of the real reason behind Christmas. 

From the Rocky Mountains of Montana to the cerulean blue waters of Fiji, let us all sing Joy to the World for the birth of a Savior who transforms all of our souls to be as white as snow!!

The Magic of Skating

It’s funny the way one tiny moment can stir up a flurry of memories you didn’t even know you still had inside you. A few weeks ago, Andy and I had the privilege of taking our friends’ four and a half year old daughter, Camille, ice skating for the very first time. The outing was an extension of our Christmas gift of hockey skates to her last year.

I was absolutely twitter-pated last December picking out her skates because I remembered how much I loved ice skating when I was little. I grew up thinking that the snow white figure skates with the spiky toe picks you always tripped over were the only skate option for girls. But after wearing and playing in hockey skates for the past four years, I can honestly say they are much more comfortable and user-friendly option. So I knew that’s what I wanted for Camille. After picking out the miniature Bauer skates, I special ordered some hot pink laces to lace them with and give them a little more girly flair. Camille hadn’t even tried skating yet but I already felt like she was ahead of the game from me at her age.

I don’t remember the first time I went ice skating. I can’t recall how old I was, what color of snow pants I wore or how much snow was on the ground that day. I don’t know whether I even enjoyed it at first or not. I don’t remember that day at all. But I do remember dozens of days after that first one…..and all of them took place with my dad on the outdoor rink at Memorial Park. 

I remember sitting on the hard wooden bench inside the warming house at Memorial with one of my feet wedged between my dad’s thighs as he laced up my skates. I remember how tight the leather hugged my ankles but the pain never deterred me from wanting to go outside. I don’t remember how exactly my dad taught me to skate…although I do have fragmented memories of landing on my plushy snow panted butt quite frequently. But eventually, I did learn to skate. And that’s when the real fun started.

The ice rink was always bustling during the day on Saturdays and Sundays with groups of friends and families clutching nervous toddlers. Not exactly the kind of primo ice time my dad wanted for me. I suppose that’s why I often found myself at the rink at night with just my dad and a lonely street light or two to throw light on the ice.  The warming house wasn’t open at night so we had to walk through a tall pair of metal gates left open to get on the ice. Even now, I have a habit of looking to see if those gates are open whenever I drive by the rink in the winter. 

When we skated at night it almost felt like we owned the rink because there was seldom ever anyone else there. The air was always still save for the scraping of our blades across the ice. And it was on one such fateful night that my dad first put a hockey stick in my hands. It was a short little guy made of solid wood like most sticks used to be. I remember skating around in circles and trying to get a feel for passing the puck back and forth between my stick. I wasn’t coordinated enough yet to be very successful at it but I enjoyed the struggle of trying to find a rhythm between me, my stick and the puck.  

I can’t remember how many nights I skated at Memorial growing up, but I do know that my grandpa joined my dad and I for one of them. That was the one and only time I’ve seen him skate. I loved that three generations were on the ice that night knocking the puck between our sticks. It was a night that, even then, I knew I was going to look back on and appreciate. Playing under the street lamps on an outdoor rink is the way hockey was meant to be played after all. 

When a day finally freed up for Andy and I to take Camille to the ice rink, I felt rather nervous. I had no idea how exactly to “teach” her to skate and for all I knew she was going to hate it. She arrived suited up in an adorable pair of pink Carhart bibs and looked ready for action with her helmet strapped snug under her chin. While we were lacing her skates up she looked down at mine to see that my laces were blue. “I want blue laces like you,” she said. I just smiled and explained that I’d picked the pink ones out especially for her but we could look at getting her blue ones too. 

Upon first standing up on her skates, Camille giggled and staggered about like a new born giraffe. Grabbing her hands, Andy and I led her over to the door onto the ice. Her amusement at the whole skating concept only grew upon touching her blades onto the ice. She immediately started swinging her legs back and forth. Andy and I clutched her mittoned hands and held her up off the ice. Little by little we worked her up to letting us push her along across the ice. It was neat to watch her take in skating for the first time. The feeling of it all is so unique and magical, but once you learn to skate, you forget how great it felt the first time.  

 

With sore feet and a hungry tummy, our ice time that day was short and sweet. Not to mention that my back felt like it had aged 40 years from holding Camille up on the ice all afternoon. But I was thrilled to have shared in her first time on skates and was proud of her for simply having the courage to try it. I hope that someday I share in a similar moment with my own son or daughter. Hockey is a tradition and great love in my family, so learning to skate is a must!

With an indoor rink to play hockey on now, I don’t often think about going to skate at Memorial. But I never cease to smile when I drive by it at night and see a few lowly skaters, sticks in hand, circling about on the ice. 

A Poetic Love Story

“This is what poets wrote about for hundreds of years….a love story like yours, truly beautiful.” 

A couple of weeks after settling into post-wedding reality, I posted the picture above from our blessed day. I must admit that I’m in LOVE with black and white photos….particularly this one. Without all of the colorful distractions, they manage to convey the true depth of emotion and humanity in a moment. They make you feel like you really understand the people and the situation shown.  

A few days after posting this photo I received the comment just underneath it from my friend, Kat. I remember reading her comment late one night while I was lying in bed. And I smiled. As a writer, I can’t imagine a more exquisite remark than the one she gave for that photo.

Naturally being a writer and former English major, I’ve read and analyzed some of the great literary works of our time that center on love. I’ve read Shakespeare’s heart-rending Romeo and Juliet, classical novels like Mary Shelley’s Valperga, Jane Austin’s Persuasion, Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. And of course I’ve ready some of the most romantic lines ever written in poems like Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “How Do I Love Thee?”, Christina Rossetti’s “I Wish I Could Remember,” Lord Byron’s “She Walks In Beauty” and Shakespeare’s Sonnets 18 and 116.  

I could spend all day listing off all of the plays, short stories, novels, poems, songs and even love letters I’ve read and analyzed. But if I had to sum up what I’ve learned from all of them it would be this: Love isn’t pretty, easy, or simple…..but it is worth it every single time—even when it doesn’t last. Love can’t ever truly be defined, contained, or fully understood…..but of all the art forms that have strived to do just that, I do believe that writers have come the closest. 

True love stories, like the ones writers have written about for hundreds of years, are always wrought with failure, heartache, seemingly impossible challenges and unfavorable circumstances. But the thing is—those are the stories and poems we always come back to and want to read again. Why? Because you can relate to the people and circumstances in them. Because they aren’t perfect. Because they are equally beautiful and hideous tales all at the same time. Because when you get done reading one of those stories, even if it doesn’t end with a happily ever after, you still can’t help but think about how amazing love is and wish for the very same thing for yourself someday.   

When I look back on mine and Andy's love story thus far, I realize that it really is like one of the stories the great poets wrote about. Because it has been filled with mistakes and circumstances that worked tirelessly to tear us apart. But it was has also overflowed with persistence, friendship, and more unconditional love than I could ever have hoped to find. 

When I think about our love story, the picture above is the one I will always keep in my mind now. Because what that picture is, is a true image of love…..devoid of colorful distractions and insignificant details. It is just two people who’ve miraculously found each other and chose to spend their days stumbling along all of life’s bumpy paths hand in hand.

Our Fiji Honeymoon!!

“The cure for anything is saltwater….sweat, tears or the sea.” (Isak Dinesen)

Over 6,000 miles away from my Big Sky home, with ivory sand grains squished between my toes and relentless waves crashing around me, I found a cure. My honeymoon adventure to Fiji unplugged me from the chaos of daily life, allowed me to breathe for the first time in a long time and helped me relish in the blessings of marriage.  

After an 11-hour flight over the South Pacific, a jerky bus ride to the coast of Nadi and an hour long boat ride, my new husband and I finally squinted sight of our destination—gorgeous Matamanoa Island. A group of native Fijians greeted us on the beach with smiles, singing and strands of white seashells to loop around our necks. With our pant legs rolled up, we sank our first step into the clear aqua water and began the trip of a lifetime.

When we arrived at the “Bure” we would be staying in for the next week, we smiled noticing a little wooden sign dangling from a hook on the front door. It had our names carved into it. It was just the first of many details that made us feel truly welcomed and at home in Fiji. Upon first walking inside, my eyes darted ahead to our glass back door and a vibrant blue glow emanating from the other side of it. You know those postcards and travel magazines with photos of places with ridiculously clear blue water? I always halfway figured they were fake because the colors and beauty were too magnificent to comprehend. But there, just a few feet out the back door of our bure was an ocean portrait just like the post cards……only this was the real deal! 

 

I’m pretty sure my first hour on the island was spent running barefoot back and forth along the beach as the waves rolled in while Andy took pictures of me. I couldn’t get over the satiny feel of the sand under my feet and felt blessed beyond belief that I was able to be in such a gorgeous place. 

 

For some people, a honeymoon or major vacation is a time to relax and lay by the pool/ocean reading a book. But Andy and I are far too adventurous of souls to ever sit still when there are so many new things to see and to do. We didn’t waste any time diving (sometimes literally) into everything Fiji had to offer.

Prior to coming to Fiji, I had never swam in the ocean. And after a childhood filled with watching Jaws movies and Shark Week, I was leery to ever set more than a toe into it. But then on our second day there, before I even realized what I was agreeing to, I was suiting up for a scuba diving lesson in the pool. After a detailed instruction and several small panic attacks, I was swimming and steadily breathing underwater……just like a mermaid! After several days of careful consideration, I even conceded to trying an open water lesson. I figured if I could ride dirt bikes, hill climb on sleds and play hockey back home, how could I not bring that same fearlessness with me on my honeymoon? It was one of the most terrifying but exhilarating experiences of my life.  I even got to wave hello to a “Nemo” fish. And bless Emma, our instructor, for holding my hand the entire time to help calm my nerves! 

Our water adventures didn’t stop there!

We kayaked around the entire island and I had my first experience navigating about ocean waves. When Andy saw me drop below a large wave one time, he was certain I was going overboard. Thankfully, the wave didn’t break on top of me and I managed to hold my course and come up over the top of it with a smile still on my face.

Andy honed his seamanship skills when we took to sailing on a hobie cat. The winds didn’t want to cooperate with us much but we still loved the feeling of steering our own course with nothing but a sail, small rudder and a single rope.

 Like many of the guests on the island, we frequently snorkeled off of the beach. I remember snorkeling as a child in Spring Meadow Lake, but in Fiji, the water is so clear you have to keep reminding yourself you’re under water at all. On a guided snorkel tour we even caught glimpses of sea turtles and small sand sharks below us. 

One afternoon we got even more up close and personal with the local wildlife when we went hunting for hermit crabs on the beach. What looked like mere seashells at first underneath leaves and rocks turned out to be mini Sebastians!  And later that evening, after an intense and heated auction, we watched as all of the crabs we’d hunted competed in an international crab race. “Berlusconi,” the crab Andy and I purchased for a mere $18 in Fiji bills, ended up taking 2^nd place!

 

One of our first nights in Fiji we embarked on what was supposed to be a sunset cruise. While the sun never did make an appearance due to cloudy skies, Andy and I spent our time instead conversing with two Fijians steering the small aluminum boat we were on. They explained that while they knew the guests would be unhappy about the clouds, they always welcomed rain on the island where their village resided. They needed the rain to collect in buckets outside their homes because it provided their major source of fresh water. As they spoke, I looked up at the sky and prayed for rain so that they might have fresh water to drink. 

Another night early on in Fiji, Andy and I were introduced to Sio, Seko and the legendary drink—Kava. Sio and Seko were pretty much the activities directors per say on the island. They did a little bit of everything—from shuffling luggage, playing music, weaving baskets from palms, instructing how to make fish curry, hosting game and activities each night after dinner and most importantly….they made the Kava. 

Kava is a root found on South Pacific islands and has been used as medicine and in ceremonies for centuries. The root is dug up, dried for several months and ground up into a powdery substance. The powder is then placed in a mesh bag (similar to a tea bag) and allowed to steep in cold water in a wooden bowl. The resulting substance is a light tan color that looks like muddy water. The Kava is then drank out of a small coconut bowl. The taste is absolutely pungent and leaves your tongue numb and tingly. Since it is considered rude to turn down Kava, let’s just say we both drank of our share of it during our stay. For reasons unbeknownst to us, Seko and Sio started calling Andy “Chief” and me “Mrs. Chief” after that first night of Kava drinking. Every night after participating in the nightly games, Sio mixed up another bowl of Kava and waved us over. 

It wasn’t until our second to last night on the island that we found out what all of the “chief” business was about. Every week they select a guest to serve as chief during a special Kava ceremony. And this time, Andy was the chosen one! When the Kava ceremony finally arrived, Andy was dressed to the nines in a full chief costume and given a special chair. He was hand delivered the first bowl of Kava for the evening and then, one by one, the rest of us followed suit in drinking a cup after bowing to the Chief first. Naturally, everyone was highly amused by “Mrs. Chief” having to bow to him. 

One of the most anticipated activities for me in Fiji was visiting the island where the movie “Cast Away” was filmed. On one of our final days in Fiji, we finally boarded a boat and made our way over to the neighboring island of Monuriki where Tom Hanks made his epic film. We walked on the beach right where he washed up in the movie. We hiked to one of the island’s tallest points and looked out at the vast ocean surrounding us. We were shown how Tom “should have” opened a coconut and were each given a coconut to drink from. We took a photo with “Wilson” himself and we finished with a quick snorkel off the beach. It was an amazing afternoon.  

 

I was finally starting to feel at home in Fiji when our final night arrived. Our last dinner in the restaurant was bittersweet. Seko read off the names of the departing “friends” and all of the staff sang a goodbye song. Seko and Sio came around and serenaded us with a Fijan love song. After dinner, Sio led us all in a “Mr. Matamanoa” contest where all of the guys had to pose for a female judge in hope of catching her eye. Apparently Chief Andy was on quite the roll because he managed to take home the title of Mr. Matamanoa at the end of the night. 

When our final day in Fiji arrived, I found myself overcome with sadness at the thought of returning home. But it wasn’t leaving behind the tropical paradise or having to return to work that made me sad. It was having to say goodbye to all of the incredible people we’d met. There was Jen & Jamie from Scotland who were also on their honeymoon. They regaled us each night with hilarious stories that, even though told through with Scottish accents, made me realize that no matter where in the world you herald from, we are all very much the same. 

There was Aimee and Mike from Ontario, Canada that we had spent time with practically every day. Whether it was playing Farkle, drinking Kava, clapping along to Seko and Sio’s musical act each night, or making fun of all the Italians on the island, we became fast friends indeed. We even flew back to Los Angeles on the same flight but finally parted ways in the airport. 

 And then, of course, there were all of the wonderful natives of Fiji who took care of us each day. Since many of the staff work upwards of 24 consecutive days before having a break, we saw most of them every single day we were on the island. I think I will probably miss Sio and Seko the most. They are truly the heart of Matamanoa Island and make everyone feel like an old friend by the end of their stay. 

Our week in Fiji was one I will never forget. And while I have hundreds of photos to remind myself of all of its beauty and the fun times to be had there, I hope to return there again someday. But for now I will settle with saying Vinaka (thank you) Fiji for giving Andy and I such a fabulous honeymoon. It was the perfect place to begin our life together. 

Women Raising the Bar

The other week a friend of mine shared an incredibly inspiring and motivational article with me which, oddly enough, tied in perfectly with this next blog post I’ve been brainstorming about.

The article was about Behnaz Shafiei, a 26-year-old Iranian woman who is quite literally racing dirt bikes for gender equality in her homeland. According to the article, Shafiei realized her passion for motorcycles 11 years ago while on vacation with her family. Shafiei observed a woman running errands on a small motorbike and instantly wanted to learn how to ride. It was later during that same trip that she would get that very opportunity. 

As someone who was practically raised in a bike shop the notion of women riding bikes isn’t strange to me at all. It’s no big deal….right? 

Wrong. 

Iran is a notoriously conservative country where women are actually banned from riding motorcycles in public and are not even issued licenses. The country has only recently and partially begun opening sports stadiums to women (just to watch events!) So yeah……a woman wanting to ride dirt bikes is a BIG deal.

But for Shafiei, riding isn’t just a sport—it’s her passion. After dabbling in the sport for a few years, she began pursuing it professionally. She, along with a group of other female motorcyclists in Iran, recently obtained official permission to practice on off-road circuits. Despite this, women are still not allowed to enter competitions or ride on official race tracks. But all that might very well change soon with Shafiei.

Shafiei was quoted in the article saying, “I’ve never seen a bad reaction to what I do. People are fascinated when they see a woman doing such a physically demanding sport. Everyone has something affirmative to say. Women wave hands and say well done, you are brave. There are people who can’t believe a woman can ride a motorbike but they’re generally thrilled and feel very proud.” 

As of the present moment, this woman has become my new hero. While I certainly take for granted the fact that I can ride whatever I want wherever I want, I am no stranger to being a minority in male dominated sports. Between dirt biking, hockey and snowmobiling, I spend most of my time tailing after boys trying to prove my worth. I suppose that being the lone girl in so many situations should make me feel uncomfortable, anxious and like a bit of a freak. But in reality, it is one of the most empowering feelings I’ve ever experienced. 

A few weeks ago I rode in the Crazy Ben XC race out in Clancy, MT. It was my second time participating in that race. The first time I rode in it, I had only been riding bikes for a couple of months and it was my very first race. I only crashed about a dozen times…but I finished, and that was all I cared about. This time I had three seasons of riding under me and a bigger bike to carry me through. I was still nervous as hell……….but all those nerves were sprinkled with undeniable bits of confidence. 

One of the proudest moments of that race for me was waiting on the start line for the flag to drop. There had only been five girls, including me, the last time I took my place on that line. This time, there were 10. My dad has often explained to me that winners are made on the start line. That’s why in his racing heyday he spent his practices perfecting his starts while everyone else circled around and around again on the course. On that day though every single one of us on that line were winners in my mind. 

Looking to my right and to my left, I knew that I wouldn’t win that race. But I didn’t care. It was an honor just to be fender to fender with so many girls like myself. We were all there because we loved to ride. But we were also there setting a new standard for what women are capable of. We have the freedom to ride without restrictions unlike the women in Iran, but women riders are still not as mainstream as I’d like. When we show up to races or trailheads, it is still mostly men that surround us. So it takes an extra determination, guts, and fearlessness for us to show up and ride anyways.

As I waited for our race to start, I observed proud dads standing next to their daughters and offering them words of encouragement. One dad even held an umbrella over his daughter to shield her from the blazing summer sun. They probably grew up in an age where there were no women riders….let alone any intermixed with men in a race. Yet here they were raising daughters to see the world and its possibilities through different eyes. My dad was in the race heat just before mine so he couldn’t be beside me, but I have no doubt he was thinking of me. He did, however, ask his friend John to stand near me in case I had any problems starting my bike. As I leaned over on my handlebars trying to calm my heart palpitations, John yelled over the engines at me to “Stay calm and breathe.” So I tried to do just that.

One the flag dropped and the race began, everything else outside of me disappeared as I focused on picking my lines through the rough and muddy terrain. There was an especially tight, windy section through some aspen trees that tripped everyone up near the beginning. One other girl rider, who I kept switching places with throughout the race, crashed or stalled her bike in this same section every single time. And every time she did, I was stuck right behind her unable to go around. I didn’t mind though because I’d been in her place dozens of times and understood the struggle and frustration.  

The last time she got hung up there, a couple of guys were waiting behind me….but they were anything but patient. They ended up riding right over the top of her tipped over bike because they wanted to keep going so bad. She motioned for me to go ahead too but I just yelled at her to take her time. I knew where she was mentally. I told her to pick up her bike, shift it into neutral and roll down a little hill she was on so she’d be on level ground to get her bearings back about her. She did exactly what I told her and seemed calmer for it. When I finally rode by her all I said was, “That section’s a bitch…..but keep going.” She just laughed and agreed with me. 

Ninety minutes or so later, the race concluded. I managed to steal 7^th place out of 10 girls. Not amazing but at least I wasn’t dead last. I knew that if that girl hadn’t slowed me up I could’ve possibly snuck up a few other spots. But it was more important to me to stand by and support her. We girls are still the minority. We’re still the ones not taken entirely seriously. But we’re the ones who are going to change things for all of the girl after us. We have to stand together and support one another. 

Riding in my humble little race was certainly not the same level of accomplishment as all that Behnaz Shafiei is achieving for women in Iran, but it was still something. It is something every single time I strap my helmet on and rev my engine to life. It takes true grit and grace to persevere along a path where you’re the minority if not the sole participant. But if you’ve got it, it’s up to you to break that trail. 

  

Thank You Hugh!

There are rare moments in time where people come into our lives—even if only for a short while—that change us forever. They are often the people who believe in you when no one else does…even when you don’t believe in yourself. These are the people who end up influencing us the most.

Today, I said farewell to one of my influential people: Mr. Hugh Ambrose.

I came to meet Hugh in a most awkward and random way. But our chance meeting proved to be one of the most influential moments of my life.

In the Fall of 2009, I was fresh out of college and floating aimlessly about with what seemed like an utterly worthless English writing degree. I had dreams of becoming a writer but knew how dismal my chances were at ever succeeding in that endeavor. So I started applying for job after job—practically anywhere. None of the jobs excited me but I knew they would at least afford me a paycheck. But to my dismay, I still couldn’t land any of them.

One hot day towards the end of that first summer after graduation, I found myself sitting out on my parents’ deck under the shade of an umbrella. My forehead looked blistered with beads of sweat as it hung over the yellow pages of the phone book. I furiously paged through it to see if any businesses or names jumped out as prospective employers. The more pages I flipped through, the more hopeless I became. “What if I never find a job anywhere?” I wondered. “What if I’ve just wasted four years of my life in school only to wind up broke and living with my parents forever?”

Then I came to the “T” section of the yellow pages. I slowly drug my index finger down the left page and then the right. That’s when I saw it. A single listing under the heading “Technical Writer.” The name Ambrose Inc. with a phone number next to it was all that was listed. Something inside told me this just might be it.

I picked up the phone and hesitantly dialed the number. Of course, no one answered. A brief greeting followed the unanswered rings and then that prompting beep to leave a voicemail. I paused for a moment not knowing what to say or if I should say anything. I had dialed the number so quickly I hadn’t though at all about what I would say if someone answered. But I was desperate. So is started talking. What followed was thee most random message I have ever left anyone in my life. I don’t recall my exact words, but they were something to the effect of, “Hi. This is Lacey Middlestead. I just graduated from Carroll College with a degree in English Writing. I want to be a writer. And I need a job. Any job. I’m a hard worker and I’m willing to do anything.”

And that was pretty much it. 

I hung up the phone feeling like a complete idiot. I was certain that not only would he not call me back but that he would spend the rest of the week replaying my message as a source of entertainment. A few days later though, I received a most unexpected phone call as I was pulling onto my parents’ street.

The man on the other end of the phone said he was Hugh Ambrose and that he’d been very impressed with the tenacity of my voicemail. I was speechless. He told me he was working on finishing a book about World War II and had a bunch of taped interviewed with veterans that he needed transcribed in a hurry. He asked me if I was interested. 

“Oh absolutely!” I said. 

“Can you type well?” he asked.

“I can type like the wind,” I answered. “In college all I did was type essays so the faster I typed, the sooner I got to go to bed,” I joked.

 

In that moment, that amount of money sounded like a million dollars to me. But he could’ve paid me in pennies and I would’ve said yes. 

And that is how I landed my first job out of college.

A few days later I met with Hugh at his house and he handed me two boxes filled with cassette tapes to transcribe. It was a daunting task and my deadline was only about a month away. I scurried home that day to get started immediately. I had a meltdown within a few hours because it was such slow, tedious work. I didn’t see how I’d ever get done. But I’d made a promise to a man who took a chance on me. Who believed in me. I couldn’t let him down. 

For 8 hours a day, nearly 7 days a week over the next month I sat upstairs in one of my parents’ spare bedrooms with big headphone clamped on my ears and my fingers clicking away on my keyboard. Word by word I worked my way through the interviews….often laughing out loud at some of the veteran’s stories and lightheartedness. I learned a lot about World War II that month and was enlightened to how war effected each of the veterans differently.

Even though it had seemed impossible in the beginning, I finally reached the end of my final tape and hit the stop button on my cassette player. I had finished.

I emailed the transcriptions to Hugh, sent him my hours and boxed the tapes back up. A few days later I returned the tapes to Hugh. I don’t remember hardly anything that we talked about. But I remember meeting his wife and daughter. I repeatedly offered him my gratitude before leaving his house. And thinking back, I can’t help but remember feeling like my work with him wasn’t entirely finished.

 In 2010, Hugh’s book, “The Pacific” was released in print. It immediately crept up the New York Times bestsellers list to #7. I couldn’t get my hands on a copy soon enough. I remember picking up a copy of it at Hastings and thumbing through the first few pages. And there, in the acknowledgements, was my name listed. Even though I hadn’t written a single page of that book, I felt honored beyond words to be included. 

 

I learned he was doing a reading and book signing at Lewis and Clark Library and my mom said she’d go with me. I remember sitting in the back of a small room at the library a few days later next to a reporter scribbling notes onto a tiny notebook. My mom and I listened to him read for a while and then everyone lined up to get their book copies signed. When my mom and I finally made our way up to him he recognized me immediately. I congratulated him and then introduced him to my mom. I remember him looking at her and smiling saying, “Your daughter is going to go on and do great things. I knew that the moment I heard her voicemail. It takes a lot to put yourself out there like that,” he said. Then I handed him my book to sign and shook his hand.

 That was the last time I saw Hugh.

Two days ago I learned of Hugh’s passing and was completely stunned. I hadn’t known him hardly at all but I knew instantly I had to attend his funeral. He was one of the first people to believe in me. He made me believe there was untapped greatness in me just waiting to come out. I had never forgotten him or the confidence he instilled in me. 

Hugh’s service was held at my own church—the church I was baptized into just over a year ago. I found it all rather ironic. I sat alone at the service watching people around me dab at their eyes with tissues. It seemed silly to me to tear up seeing as I’d barely known the man. But I did shed a few tears. 

The world lost a great man this week. I didn’t feel the loss as much as many of the other people in the church did, but I felt a great deal of other things. Our priest often reminds us at church about how we pass by the baptismal font every time we come to Mass to remind us of our shared eternal life with Christ and the forgiveness of sins we receive through our own baptisms. We pass by the font again when we leave as a reminder of how our baptism sends us out into the world to continue God’s work. When I blessed myself with holy water in leaving Hugh’s service today, I prayed for peace for Hugh and his family. And I prayed for God’s peace for myself, as I go back out in the world to continue the work I have been called to---my writing. The written word is something Hugh and I will forever share. And without his belief in me all those years ago…without him taking a chance on me when no one else would…I may not have found the courage to continue pursuing my dream. 

Peace be with you always Hugh…Thank You…and God speed. 

Power of the Gym

When most people think about a writer hard at work, they imagine them sitting hunched over a desk, eyes unblinkingly squinting ahead, as they furiously clack away on a keyboard. But the truth is, the work of a writer begins long before that. I have come to realize, in fact, that writers actually work every minute of every day. We spend our lives as observers, intense feelers, and dreamers. We notice the dimples in the newly poured concrete sidewalks and think about how we can add that detail into the short story we’re working on. We soberly drown ourselves in the despair of a lost love because we know that fully feeling that loss is the only way we’ll ever be able to effectively write about loss. And we dream. We dream of the day when all of our words finally draw open everyone’s eyes fully to see us for who we really are without judgment or misconception.  Writers, perhaps, work longer and harder hours than anyone else on earth.

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.” 

For reasons unbeknownst to me, this quote popped into my head this morning at about 5:45 a.m. when I was lifting weights at the gym…..see what I mean about working 24/7! It comes from a sonnet written by Emma Lazarus and just so happens to be engraved on the pedestal that the Statue of Liberty stands on. It was completely random thought---and yet—it was fitting.

Right after my church and the Montana mountains, the gym is one of my holiest of sanctuaries. It’s where I get to disappear for an hour each morning and lose myself in the sweat and music pounding through my ear phones. It’s a place filled with all manner of sights, sounds and smells that are calming to me in ways only fellow gym rats can appreciate. There’s the fierce look in the runner’s eye as they pound out the miles on the treadmill even as the sweat trickles down. There’s the clanking noise of plates being transferred on and off weight machines. There’s the musty smell of sweat that lingers in the cycling room after a full class. The gym is full of determination, stubbornness, and hope.

In the outside world, things and relationships fall apart every day. At the gym, everything that is broken is slowly pieced back together again in a profoundly stronger way. While people frequently disappoint and abandon you in your personal life, the gym waits patiently for you to return to it each week. The only one you ever disappoint is yourself when you don’t show up for your workout. The gym doesn’t care if your hair is frizzy, you’re donning oversized sweats and all of the sun spots on your makeup-free face are exposed. The gym won’t judge you for being tired or thinking about other places…it’s just grateful you showed up and tried. When you’re all out of tears to shed, the gym draws sweat beads instead that rid the body of the weakness your sorrows wrought. The gym gives you back just as much, if not more, as you put into it. Tell me how many relationships you have where that happens?

I go to the gym five days a week whether I’m having a good week or a bad one because either way everything seems better and more possible by the time I leave. I go to the gym when I feel sick or weak. I may not run very fast and the weights I lift don’t add up to many pounds, but I’m always stronger on the inside even if it doesn’t reflect externally. 

Much like the Statue of Liberty, the gym calls to the tired, the poor, the wretched refuse and the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.  Like immigrants, gym goers each bring with them their own unique stories and goals for a brighter future. But all of them, all of us, are all ultimately seeking the same thing—FREEDOM from the elements of life determined to weigh us down. 

My Way

I’ve been struggling the last couple of weeks to pick out all of the ceremony music for mine and Andy’s upcoming wedding. Like most of the other wedding details, I’m driving Andy crazy by taking so long to reach a decision. I know I’m just being a perfectionist and most any music I pick will fit beautifully with our day. But……….it’s the music for our wedding!!!

All of my hemming and hawing about wedding music though has got me thinking a lot lately about music in general and the powerful influence it holds over our lives. Music can lift us up from low places, inspire us and make us cry. Like poetry or dance, music can tell stories in a unique way—stories about our lives and who we are. Music help us relive memories that time slowly pulls away from us as the years meander by. As a writer, I naturally tend to focus more on the lyrics of a song than the actual tune, but when the two elements are combined they generate a work of art so beautiful you can’t describe it……you can only feel it.

I was replaying a scene in my mind the other day from the movie, Walk the Line, with Joaquin Phoenix as Johnny Cash. There’s a part in the beginning where his band auditions at the legendary Sun Records Studio in Memphis, Tennessee for Sam Phillips. After beginning to play a popular gospel tune of the day, Mr. Phillips interrupts Johnny and the boys to ask if they had something more original to play. 

“If you was hit by a truck and was lying out there in that gutter dying and you had time to sing one song….one song that people would remember before you’re dirt….one song that would let God know how you felt about your time here on earth….one song that would sum you up, you tellin’ me that’s the song you’d sing………..or would you sing somethin’ different?” Phillips asks. 

I think at some point in all of our lives we come to know what that one song is. That song that would let God know how we feel about our time on earth….the song that sums us up. And I think knowing that is important. We can go our whole lives thinking that people understand us, respect us and will remember us. But I think the reality is far from that. Each of us has our secret loves and desires, demons we wrestle with, crosses we bear, and regrets we never make peace with. Those are the kinds of things that, even the boldest of writers, struggle to ever express. But they’re also the things that are the most important to know about someone—even if it is after their time here is done. Knowing those things can transform everything we ever believed about someone—and no doubt, for the better. That one song can accomplish the things we spend years, if not our entire lives, trying to achieve. 

What’s that one song for me? That’s easy. “My Way” by Elvis Presley. 

The song, “My Way,” originated as a French song called “Comme D’Habitude” (“As Usual”) written by composers Jacques Revaux and Gilles Thibault. They took it to French pop star Claude Francois, who tweaked it a bit and recorded the song in 1967.  The French version tells the story of a man living out the end of his marriage, love killed by the boredom of everyday life. Singer/Songwriter Paul Anka later discovered the song and rewrote the lyrics as “My Way.” His lyrics changed the meaning to be about a man looking back fondly on a life he lived on his own terms. Anka pitched the song to Frank Sinatra who first recorded it on December 30, 1968 and it quickly became one of his signature tunes. Elvis Presley began performing the song in concert during the 1970s. His live performance of the song featured on his October 1977 TV special was released as a single several weeks after his death and screamed right up the Billboard Charts to #5 and also became a certified Gold recording. 

While I’ve heard Sinatra’s version of the song, Elvis’ will always reign supreme in my mind. You can both see and hear it in his performance of it that Elvis didn’t just sing that song, he lived it. The words cut right into the very corners of his own life. And over the years, I’ve realized that they cut right into my life as well.

In my 28 short years I’ve come to realize and embrace who I am and how I want to live my life. And all of that has been done in MY WAY.

It takes guts to plot a course for your life that goes against convention. It takes guts to reach for more than what is “supposed” to fulfill you and make you happy. I’ve lived with judgement and feelings of resentment from many because I’ve put my writing career ahead of getting married and starting a family. But I know that being a wife and mother would never be enough for me. Anyone can become a spouse or parent but not everyone has what it takes to be a writer. I know now that being a writer is my calling from God and at the end of my life I believe I will be more fulfilled for having done His work.

Living a full life I think means constantly reinventing yourself, challenging yourself and growing yourself into far more than your or anyone ever dreamt possible. When I was little my parents told me I could grow up to be anything that I wanted. So I became a ballerina, a writer, a long-distance cyclist, a left wing in hockey, a motocross racer, a mountain sled rider, a wake surfer, and a cupcake baker. And just think…..I’m only 28 years old. My point is, as C.S. Lewis put it, “you are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.” Never limit yourself by what you’re told you should be. Ask yourself what you COULD be.

Regrets? I do have some. But as Elvis sang it, “not enough to mention.” I’ve always done what I felt I had to do. I’ve loved people unconditionally and because of that have been told my love is overbearing. I’ve stood side by side with friends determined to walk through hell with them only to watch those same people leave me in ditches to rot when I most needed them. I’ve believed in and supported people who were at every turn in my life telling me I wasn’t good enough, wouldn’t make it, and should just turn back. It is for all of those naysayers that I get up each day with a beating heart and full lungs determined to keep going. I’ve forgiven people---not once or twice—but as many times as they needed until they finally turned it all around. I entered into a faith feeling largely alone and unsupported. But I was called and wasn’t afraid to answer. And most importantly, I’ve made horrendous mistakes that make me fear the next life. But I believe that God intended each of those missteps in His grand plan of leading me to righteousness. 

I’ve always lived my life according to my own rules knowing that in the end it isn’t about what the rest of the world thinks about me. It’s what myself and the good Lord above thinks. 

When I’ve used up all the talent and energy I’ve been blessed with and pass from this life, “My Way” is the song I want played at my funeral. That is the song to sum me up. Catholic funeral rules be damned, I will still make sure my last appearance in this life is done my way. And I do believe that many unexpected visitors will make an appearance that day….if for no other reason than out of respect for my guts, my tenacity, my persistence, and my ability to love and forgive. 

I’ve always been willing to take the blows it seems….but I’ve always done it My Way.

One Year As A Catholic

“Rejoice in hope, endure in affliction, persevere in prayer.” ~ Romans 12:10

I stumbled upon this line last week after returning home from Mass on Holy Thursday. For me, it perfectly proclaims what Christians are called to do, what they strive to do, what they must do…even in the most difficult of moments. 

This Easter, I celebrated my one year anniversary of joining the Catholic Church. I attended every Mass during Holy Week—just like I did last year. I served as one of the lectors during the Stations of the Cross on Good Friday. I watched another young girl be baptized at the Easter Vigil Saturday evening. It was all so bittersweet.

It truly seems like only yesterday that I was gasping in my first breath after my head rose up from the water at my own baptism. I remember walking down the aisle in my white gown and being handed the light of Christ through my baptismal candle. I remember closing my eyes in prayer as Father rubbed the Holy Chrism oil on my head and confirmed me. I remember tilting the chalice up to my lips and tasting the blood of Christ for the first time. 

I remember feeling whole…..pure…..saved.

This year on Easter, I felt all of the same things I felt on my initiation night, but I felt a lot of other things too. Now I feel the full weight of my commitment. That first step of choosing Christ and to follow in his footsteps---that’s the easy part. When Jesus called to Peter and Andrew on the Sea of Galilee, they followed without hesitation. The moment I decided to get baptized, Easter couldn’t come fast enough. Faith seems so wondrous and exciting when you first come to it but the real test of your devotion is following through with that commitment every single day afterwards. And following through with it in the moments that are devastating, ugly and challenging. That’s the hard part that the Easter celebration reminds us of.

It was an amazing feeling to have 27 years worth of sins washed away in one night. But I am still human and my Father is still working on perfecting me so it didn’t take long for the stains of human sin to return to my life. I have been tested numerous times in the last year and have stumbled along most of the way. But now I have my faith to fall back on and remind me that with God, there is always forgiveness and unconditional love.

The Sacrament of Reconciliation has been one of the more difficult ones for me. It’s not the confessing my mistakes to a priest that is hard but accepting that I can be forgiven for all of them. I’ve arrived at confession before in desperation, I’ve struggled to get the right words out, I’ve cried so hard I couldn’t get any words out, and I’ve knelt with my head hung and told the priest what a complete and utter failure I feel like. But I have always been given reassurance.  A priest told me once that repenting for our sins is like casting a stone into the ocean—it sinks quickly and is gone forever. I’m trying to learn that the best any of us can do is to admit when we’re wrong, try to do better tomorrow, and be compassionate enough to forgive ourselves along the way. 

Christianity calls us to change. It calls us to be better, be stronger. We are called to love our enemies and give forgiveness religiously. We are called to stand our ground when the rest of the world turns and runs. We are asked to willingly endure being ostracized, hated, and abused at times. We are asked to cast aside the plans we had for our lives and the earthly attachments we think we can’t live without and to take up the blood soaked cross of Christ.  In the past year, I have tried desperately to do all of these things. I’ve failed at most of them. Some days I don’t even believe I have what it takes and I worry that I’ve dishonored the gift of grace I received last year.  

I spend most weekends at Mass with my eyes preoccupied on the crucifix behind the alter. I wonder why He loved us so much and why there couldn’t have been an easier way. But I constantly remind myself that if one man could endure that for all of mankind, I have no right to give up on Him or myself. For He will never give up on me.  I was called to baptism last year. God made that choice…I simply chose to answer His call. So for better or worse, I have to trust His plan for me. And no matter how many times I fall, I have to get back up and sling my cross back upon my back…..and hopefully, God will always be right beside me to help shoulder the load.  

Easter, I have come to learn, is a time to recognize your sins and refuse to be mastered by them and to remember that in order to reach the glory Christ promised us we must first learn to bear our crosses. It will never be easy, but then again, flowers rarely bloom on the smooth, paved road of convenience and convention. 

No matter your current relationship or standing with God, no matter whether you live a whole and pure life or relentlessly get drawn back into sin………remember to forever rejoice in hope, endure in affliction and persevere in prayer. 

The Great Cargo of a Writer

“It is always a matter, my darling, of life or death…”

The words above comprise one of the last lines of the poem “The Writer,” by Richard Wilbur. I first stumbled upon Mr. Wilbur’s poem in my 20^th Century Contemporary American poetry course during my senior year of college. The poem is narrated by a mother whose daughter is a writer. The mother describes listening to the intermittent clicking of a typewriter upstairs as her daughter struggles to write a story. Feeling the hardship her daughter faces in being a writer, she compares her to a starling that was trapped in a room in their house once. The bird kept slamming into walls as it struggled to find the open window. He would fall to the ground but get back up every time. Eventually, the bird found his way to freedom.

While it struck me at the time, I have only grown in appreciation of the poem’s words. They perfectly depict the immense struggle, commitment, and sacrifice it takes to be a writer. I’ve thought a lot about this poem in recent weeks and felt the true weight of each word of it.

February has become a challenging month for me as a writer—made even more so last week. February is the month that this world parted ways with two beautiful souls whose lives I helped commemorate with the written word. February is the month I was enlightened to my true purpose as a writer and was bestowed with the honor of carrying out that purpose. February reminds me to stay the course….no matter how difficult….because the words any of us write are infinitely more important than we can possibly realize in the moment. 

On February 11, my friend Larry Kucsulain lost his battle with brain cancer. He was 32 years old and left behind a wife and 2 small boys….one of whom was just born in September. I only came to know Larry last May when I wrote an article on him for the Helena Vigilante, but he inspired me beyond words. An avid skateboard enthusiast himself, Larry was a passionate advocate for the skateboard community in Helena. He was a mentor to the young skaters in town and worked to transform the stereotypes people have about skaters. He made sure the kids knew that not only is skateboarding a serious sport but it can teach you how to be successful in all facets of life.  Larry was beyond grateful for my article. I was beyond grateful for meeting him.

Not long after my article came out I nominated Larry for a contest the Independent Record was holding. The IR was looking to recognize 20 outstanding leaders in the Helena community under the age of 40. I knew Larry had to be on that list.  I wrote a lengthy explanation of why he should be chosen and before I knew it I was opening the paper to see his smiling face in the article among the winning nominations. By writing my article and nominating him for the contest, I helped spread the word about all of the good work he was doing. I was persistent, like the starling, to use my gift as a writer to make sure all of Helena knew who Larry was. In doing so, I played a role in helping immortalize Larry and his life forever.

Hearing about Larry’s passing was incredibly hard for me given the time frame and circumstances. February 21^st this year marks the three year anniversary since my friend Joey lost his sister, Theresa, to Leukemia. She was 31 years old and left behind two-year-old twin daughters. When she passed, Joey asked me to help him write a eulogy for her. That piece of writing quickly became the most significant of my career. Preserving a small piece of the greatness that was her life opened my eyes to the true power and glory of the written word.

The situations between Larry and Theresa were disturbingly similar and unfair in ways I still can’t make peace with God on. I had the honor of meeting Larry and sharing his story while he was still alive. I never had the privilege to meet Theresa and when I shared her story it was in remembrance of a life already over. When I first heard the news that Larry had passed I broke down crying—not just because he was gone but because I finally made the connection in my mind between him and Theresa and the fact that writing was what connected me to both. I am eternally tied to them in a way I can’t possibly explain to anyone. God may have given me the gift of writing but they gave me the purpose for that gift.

I have this belief that writing can heal---heal the writer, heal the reader, heal the person the writing is about. Nothing I wrote could have saved Larry or Theresa, but I like to believe the words I wrote about each of them will, in time, offer healing to the loved ones they left behind. The individuals I have had the blessing of writing about are doing far greater things in this world than I am. But in helping share their stories and greatness, I get to be a companion forever on their journey. To Teresa and Larry, I carry each of you with me with every word I write.    

Writing is always a matter of life and death. The words we write can be the difference between keeping an idea, a belief, a memory, a relationship, a dream, an accomplishment or even a life vibrant and a part of us forever. It is critical that the ones who have the gift to write never turn away from it because the rest of the world needs us. This reality is what makes the life of the writer laden with such “great cargo.” When you come across a writer please wish them a lucky passage for me. The true ones will smile back at you in gratitude. 

The Writer by Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house

Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,

My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing

From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys

Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff

Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:

I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,

As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.

A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,

And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor

Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling

Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;

How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;

And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,

We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature

Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove

To the hard floor, or at the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,

For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits

Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,

Beating a smooth course for the right window

And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,

Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish

What I wished you before, but harder.