Swimming

June 20, 2020 / Lisa / 4 Comments

She goes into the river, swimming, where no one sees the flow of tears in the rush of mountain water. She swims with the salmon, returning, and returning yet again.

She seeks pools and eddies and wild current to sweep her away.

And through it all, her tears soak into the river, flowing, slowing, returning.

I go into the trees, tears soaking into forest floor, seeping between roots and returning, rising up through moss and roots and heartwood.

Rising through leaves to air, to clouds, to rain.

Rain to fall like tears into the river.

She goes into the river, swimming, when sun seeps into the depths, when snow falls, when turning leaves twist in currents. And in the water, in all our tears, she sheds her skin, sheds her grief, and for a moment, is borne away.

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Masked Judgement

May 14, 2020May 14, 2020 / Lisa / 8 Comments

I’ve seen some disturbing things lately about wearing masks.

On one hand, people not wearing them are immediately labeled as Republicans, right-wing whack-jobs, people who think the COVID-19 virus is ‘no worse than the flu’, or standing up for their ‘constitutional rights’.

On the other hand, people who are wearing them are immediately labeled as Democrats, left-wing crazy liberals, paranoid over-reactors, and sheep.

In other words, damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

So let me tell you a mask story.

A few years ago I was lying on a table. A warm, soft, pliable mesh was placed over my face and neck, and pressed tightly into place. It was held there until it hardened. Imagine how that felt. If you can’t take two fingers and press them against your throat until you gag.

That was the first step in radiation treatments. Every morning I was on that table, the mask pressed over my face, and then bolted down. Because I was receiving very precise radiation, no movement was allowed. Even if you thought you were holding still enough, you weren’t.

Every day.

Eventually my throat swelled. Eventually I struggled to swallow water. And then eventually it was over.

At the time, I knew it was difficult, but during treatments themselves, I just daydreamed. I’m a pro at sliding off into my imaginary world. The staff gave me roses and a certificate afterwards for being the first person they’d had who was able to go through it without sedatives.

I convinced myself it wasn’t that bad. I truly believed that. It was hard, yes, but just something to get through one step at a time.

Now people are wearing masks. Stores require them. A co-worker brought me a package last week. I took one look at them, burst into tears, and had to leave the office because I couldn’t breathe. My throat closed up. I couldn’t swallow. I stood in the fresh air, telling myself over and over ‘you can breathe’.

My husband, being the brilliant man that he is, suggested I practice at home, putting the mask on as long as I could stand it and building up to being able to wear one. I tried that this morning. For maybe a second.

The flip side of this is that my husband has an auto-immune disease. So he wears masks out in public to protect himself. He has no problem wearing them and needs to.

In other words, when you see someone wearing a mask, or when you see someone not wearing a mask, there are more stories involved than simple judgements. More hardships involved than politics.

Please be kind, no matter where you fall in the spectrum of this virus specter.

River Solitude

April 27, 2020April 27, 2020 / Lisa / 6 Comments

Recently I warned locals about the high number of deer on the highway. I gave the location as the area around Eagle Falls, Boulder Drop, and Split Rock. It dawned on me later that I used the river for highway locations rather than mile markers.

Boulder Drop and Split Rock are specific spots on the Skykomish River that are well known to anyone who lives near the river. And it’s nothing new to use landscape as maps or guidance or to center someone on where they are in their world.

The husband at Boulder Drop

The 13th of April was Sam Grafton’s 29th birthday. Those who read this blog know he is gone from our lives, lost to a kayaking accident. For his birthday we went out on a sunny and cool spring day to visit some of his favorite kayaking spots. There was still snow on the ground in areas and the old back roads were empty of people in these days of social distancing and self-quarantine. Empty except for us, on our river pilgrimage.

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Sam’s mother, when she invited me, didn’t give me directions by saying we were going up highway 2 and turning on a specific road. Instead, she simply said we were going to Top Tye.

From there we followed the river and streams to Log Trap and the Spout and Box Top. I had never heard of these places before as they are kayak routes most kayakers don’t attempt. But Sam did. He was one of only five to ever run Log Trap. A second is Rob McKibben, also known in the kayaking world.

The Spout. Use the rocks on the far side for perspective how high and sharp the drop is.

Not only is Rob an amazing kayaker, he was also our gentle guide on Sam’s birthday, leading us through the woods from one spot to another, telling us stories and bringing those runs to life for us.

Log Trap to the right and Box Top to the left. Photo doesn’t show drop well.

It was a beautiful day that will become one of those gems in my memory. I am grateful Sam’s family included me, and so glad I gave the day to sunshine and woods and river and stories and friendship.

I came home and pulled up a YouTube video called ‘Tumwater Solitude: Sam Grafton Kayaks Wenatchee River Class V’ (link below). There’s a scene in the five-minute video, right about 2:25, that is framed from above so that nothing is visible except water and Sam. The river is a living force in that frame, whitewater foaming and rushing, and this little spot of green in the midst of all that power. The video is heartbreaking to watch, but it’s also beautiful.

Log Trap. Again, the photo doesn’t give a good perspective for the size of the drop.

Those few brief seconds encapsulate all that the river is and how it impacts us and forms our lives and marks our landscape. And how it forms our memorials, not just for Sam, but also for my sister, who loved the Columbia River in its wide-reaching depths. This coming weekend should have been her memorial, but it was canceled because of the limit on gatherings. We were to release her ashes to the river on that day.

The Columbia

Two people important in my life, both deeply tied to rivers.

Those few brief seconds in that video encapsulate how Sam was part of the river. Not ‘fighting’ the rapids or ‘beating’ the run or any other phrase commonly used to show that someone ‘wins’ against nature.

He was just there, with the river.

We will reschedule my sister’s memorial and release her ashes and she, too, will be with the river.

And then both Jani and Sam will be with their rivers, forever.

Tumwater Solitude