That’s Me

“That’s me!” I yell up to John. I have felt the rope tug at my navel that signifies he’s pulled up the slack between us and can now set up to belay me. Shoed and helmeted, I climb the pitch.

“That’s me!” I yell inside my head. I am walking down a New Mexican road as the sun would be rising. There is no sunrise today - just a moisture-laden sky. New Mexico surrounds me: roosters crow, dogs bark, a hare - with those disproportionate ears - shuttles down the road, faster than I would have believed possible.

Snow pellets sting my eyes. I pull my mountaineering cap down and my buff up, covering as much skin as I can. My eyes can’t be helped.  Yet, I feel ten feet tall in my Microspikes, owning this road that has been tracked by only one vehicle.

“I’m better than the cars,” I think, as I stride down the icy rills. I see the vehicle had to arrest a skid and right itself to come back to center. I, on the other hand, stay right on center. Ha.

I have been at a spa resort for two days. I have been indolent. A good friend, upon hearing of my break-up, said, “Let’s go somewhere and get you healing.” I jumped all the way in and have been taking yoga and meditation classes, steam showers and massages. We’ve been eating gourmet meals and drinking wine and tequila.

Last night, my navel kicked in. I wanted to be outdoors and off of this compound. I woke at 5AM to four inches of snow coating the icy, packed snow from yesterday. I donned layers, boots, and spikes and climbed the hill out of the compound. I exited the gate out onto the road. Where I now stride, snow stinging my eyes and my arms cold, but with no intention of turning back. The allure of what’s around the next bend tugs. That’s me.

It's Christmas Eve

I wake up at 5AM and I know... it's Christmas Eve. Chills of excitement course through my 47 year-old body. I love this day.

I have awoken in the grooves of childhood when, on this day, I lived anticipation. First we would stomp out into the woods and spend hours debating over and wearing circles around contenders for the family tree. When we reached a consensus, it was turns with a saw and an axe to fell the thing. Then each kid would grab their portion, blue spruce needles poking through knit mittens, and drag it through the snow.

At home, Mom would be a blaze in the kitchen. She'd have every burner going with sauces, sautéing meatballs, and boiling potatoes. The oven could not fit another item. She made batches of rum cakes, candies, and bagels. She was a fury in the kitchen. Yet, while we were out, she had dragged down the boxes of tree ornaments and lights. The tree stand options awaited us in the garage: the green one if we'd gotten a big tree, the white one if a littler one.

We kids dragged the tree into the garage and gave it a prodding glance: "The time to look good is now." Mom would step out of the kitchen and give the tree an appraising look. All that circling the tree and debating was for her. We waited. We watched her face. She would either say, "Oh, that's a nice, full one," or "You'll have to make sure that bare spot is toward the wall," and the first person to have spotted the tree would either own their pick proudly or snap their head toward the tree, scanning for the bare spot.

Ornaments and lights came next. It took the whole afternoon - with breaks to nip into the kitchen for hot chocolate with milk straight from our cows and stirred with Nestle's on a burner that could be spared for five minutes.

Then came chore time, more onerous than ever with Christmas Eve so close. But as I got older, I got smarter and would dress quickly to get out and get chores started. Once chores were done, we were that much closer to presents. Milking the cows took two hours and felt like two days. Peter and I would run to the barn doors to see if we could spy Santa flying through the air, landing on our roof, by our chimney. Sarah would say, "You know he doesn't come if you're looking," causing a conflict that still twists my heart. Do I look and see the Santa of a lifetime, but risk not getting any presents, or do I fight that urge and miss my chance at seeing him?

When the last cow was milked and bedded for the night, we were released. Peter and I raced to the house and straight to the tree. We'd stand on the threshold to the living room and be dazzled by the lights, the pretty wrapping, and the sheer size of the mound of presents. I remember thinking it was a pile of presents on presents and it stopped me, just to gaze in awe, jaw dropped.

Showering was a fast affair, and then Mom's buffet - 18-plus dishes that she'd arrange around the kitchen and that Peter and I struggled to taste, every part of us being tugged toward that tree. The older kids and Mom and Dad tasted their food and talked. Sometimes, if Peter and I were good, we were dismissed and could go sit in front of the tree, but "Don't touch anything until we get there."

And then it came. The family would assemble around the living room and Peter and I could look at the tags and give the receiver their package. We each opened one gift first, so everyone got a chance to see at least one gift another person had received. Then the careful order dissolved as the present unwrapping proved irresistible and paper was ripped in every corner of the room and cries of, "Peter, look what I got!" and "Thank you, Santa!" filled the air.

We played then, driving toy tractors around the linoleum, trying and trading flavors in our LifeSavers books, playing the new family game. At some point, Peter and I might remember our tummies and go back into the kitchen to graze on the buffet that we could now taste. We stayed up late that night. Till our bellies hurt with tiredness and our eyelids grew heavy. But we wanted to stay up, to stretch the day, to make it last forever. When a preponderance of us were crabbing or rubbing our eyes or who-knows-how-they-knew, Dad and Mom hugged us and turned out the lights, allowing one more glimpse of that lighted tree, before sending us to bed.

We dragged heavy feet up the steps and poured heavy bodies into our beds, sated and grateful, having lived every moment of that day.

"Christmas was always a lean time," my dad now tells me. "Mom and I tried to use good judgement about the presents, but sometimes we got carried away." I need to tell him; I never sensed any of that fretting. He and my mom made Christmas fat and fulfilling and wonderful. And I'm grateful. Even at 47, their enchantment remains, singing through my veins when I awaken at 5AM. It's Christmas Eve.

My Plea

Let me remember you smiling and posing. Let me remember you loving and warm.

Not bitter and bucking.

We have both had a cost of living increase with this break-up. I know. It costs me too. I have to take the pit of my stomach wherever I go. The ache in my shoulders. The 3:30 AM second-guessing. I. Know.

The gnashing of my teeth and adrenaline spike when we "bump into" each other in my parking lot or when you email me SIX times in one day. I know it's hard to accept. Loss sucks.

But I don't want your bucking and refusing to accept to be what I remember. Do this graciously. Be generous. Be a person who I will rue someday. Be courageous. Accept it and move on. Find happiness. Be happy.

You just can't be with me.