Life's little setbacks

This morning, my dragon boating teammates are driving to Vancouver, British Columbia, taking a ferry to Nanaimo on Vancouver Island. They will be paddling in the Nanaimo Dragon Boat Festival this weekend. They'll be staying in the Painted Turtle Guesthouse, a renovated heritage hostel near the waterfront in quaint, downtown Nanaimo.

They'll be hosted by a friendly, fun-loving Canadian dragon boat team. There will be music, dancing and merriment after the races.

For months, I've been anticipating this mini-vacation to Nanaimo. Despite its relative proximity to home, I've never been to Vancouver Island. But alas! It wasn't meant to be.

Although my teammates have left, I am lying on my couch icing my leg and nursing an injured hamstring. Disappointment does not begin to convey my feelings.

But that's life, isn't it? As Mick Jagger and the Stones said, you don't always get what you want. In fact, we often get the opposite of what we wanted.

Was I injured dragon boating?  Skating in roller derby? Backpacking? Kayaking? Running a marathon? Running with the bulls? Sadly, no.

I wish I had an amazing, adventurous story about my injury, but here's the truth: I was climbing up onto the running board of a very, very, very high pickup truck. It was a long stretch for my short hobbit legs. Immediately, I knew I'd pulled something. I've been icing my hamstring and hobbling around like an old lady ever since.

Through the trials and tribulations of the past five years, I've learned a thing or two. First, life rarely happens exactly as we plan it. Second, the secret to living joyfully is learning to go with the flow and to appreciate the simple things when the current takes you someplace unexpected.

This weekend my unexpected adventure will be relaxing, icing my hamstring, reading a good book and savoring the juicy blackberries outside my front door.

And even from my couch, I'll be cheering for the Mighty Women as they paddle in Nanaimo.

Living small: Cutting through the clutter

So many books, so little time!

After spending $5 to buy five books at the library's book sale last week, I am now faced with tough choices. Because I live in 600 square feet, I have one self-imposed rule: one new item into the house means one old item from the same category must find a new home. The naked truth: It's time to let go of five old books.

When you live small, too much stuff quickly overwhelms your space. I don't have to look more than three feet from where I sit typing these words to see an example of needing to find space for something new. My lovely flaming dragon roller skates from my fresh meat roller derby tryouts a week ago are still sitting jauntily on the living room floor because I do not have a space to put them. I need to let go of another pair of shoes in my closet to make room for my gorgeous purple dragons.


I am proud of myself for limiting my purchase to only five books when other bibliophiles were filling boxes with books. I'm looking forward to immersing myself in my new book-friends including "The Sea Runners" by Ivan Doig, "Reservation Blues" by Sherman Alexie and "The American Indians: The Woman's Way" by Time-Life Books, which is filled with photos, artwork and stories about Native American women.

A Quaker friend, Wess Daniels, coined my downsizing of December 2011 as my "involuntary simplicity." He was right. That exercise was the antithesis of mindful simplicity. Circumstances beyond my control (being laid off without warning and having two months to sell my house at the real estate market's lowest point and move into 600 square feet) forced me to rid myself of more than half of my possessions in six weeks. It was a painful, but necessary step in my journey.

The process of prioritizing a lifetime of possessions changed me forever. I can't go back to being the woman who held so tightly to things that I missed out on the joy of experiences. When you live in a three-story 2,400-square-foot house with three humungous attics, a basement, a garage and a storage shed, opportunities abound to collect "stuff and junk" as my Grandma Lydia called it. I was the Estate Sale Queen and was always hauling home new treasures.


Now, five moves later, I am the Queen of Downsizing. I practice voluntary simplicity. Friends have invited me into their homes to help them organize their basements and closets and to determine what stuff to let go. It's much easier to help others get rid of their possessions because I have no emotional attachment to their stuff.

But here in my cozy, small living room/study/dining room, it is time to make tough choices. I know I can do it. Six months ago, my adventurous friends Kalyn and Mat MacDonald emptied their house and moved to Alaska. I chose 12 books from their library, which meant I had to let go of a dozen of my books to make space for them.

Now I must do it again. Am I ready to let go of "The Secret Life of Bees" by Sue Monk Kidd or "People of the Book" by Geraldine Brooks? They are among my favorites, but will I read them or refer to them again? I know I am not ready to get rid of my childhood copy of "Trixie Belden," the adventurous, mystery-solving, horseback-riding tomboy who inspired me in my geeky youth. I already let go of a dozen other Trixie Belden books in my big purge. Is it time to release "A Thousand Splendid Suns" by Khaled Hosseini? Decisions, decisions.

Although my too-many-books dilemma does not possess the life-and-death gravity of Sophie's choice or of Indiana Jones choosing the holy grail, it's still been painful to choose which five books I'm going to let go into the universe.

As I stare at my bookshelves, I hear the voice of the old grail knight: "Choose wisely."

Adventure for one: My first solo hike

Blue larkspur bloomed beside the trail.

The sunrise through the woods was glorious Sunday morning. It was going to be a stunning day in the Columbia River Gorge, and I needed to get outside before my work week began again. I was itching to go hiking.

Quickly completing the most pressing tasks on my to-do list, I considered who might be my hiking buddy. One friend was still out of the country, another was visiting her aging mom across the state and yet another was not feeling well. What other friends were hikers and could go on short notice?

In my old life, I hiked first with my husband, and then with my husband and children. But now I am alone. And then it hit me: Why not hike alone? Although I walk the trails in town alone all the time, driving out to the Gorge for a solo hike was a first for me. It would be a gigantic step in my journey of paddling my own canoe.

I changed into my Keen hiking boots, and packed my backpack with water, sandwich and apple, sun hat and sweatshirt. I was ready to head out the door when I recalled two women who recently were stalked--one even grabbed--by men on trails in town. In my head, I heard Dad's cautious Kentucky drawl reminding me to "be careful" every time I left the house. In fact, he still warns me to "be careful!"

As a precaution, I zipped my fixed-blade knife into my pack. My knife isn't an enormous Crocodile Dundee knife, but just having it in my pack made me feel safer. Then I grabbed my sturdy wooden walking stick--which I also could use as a weapon--and headed out the door for my first solo hiking adventure.

As a single woman, having the confidence to go places on my own is a necessity. I've been divorced for five years, so I'm used to being alone. Having the courage for solo adventures doesn't come naturally to me. It's something I've learned to do. It requires me to be comfortable in my own skin and to enjoy my own company. After practicing, I do enjoy my own company. I've pushed beyond my comfort zone to get out, go places and do things. I've taken solo day trips to the beach, road trips all over the Northwest and have worn my little black dress to community dinner events sans a man on my arm.

Even married women or women with a committed significant other should be prepared for the inevitable: the majority of us outlive our male partners. In some chapter in our lives, we women most likely will be alone.

Although I'd hiked that trail before, it was almost as if it was my first time on the trail. Instead of talking to a hiking buddy, I had the luxury of paying attention to my surroundings. I found a shriveled trillium long past its bloom, but the blue larkspur grew profusely along the trail. As I stopped at a meadow, a pileated woodpecker flew past me and landed on a tree.

After gradually climbing to the viewpoint, I was rewarded with a stunning view of the Columbia River Gorge. Sitting on the ground under a tree, I ate my lunch at an exclusive table for one with a river view. Another solo hiker, a seasoned woman like me, entered the clearing and gazed at the view before us. We gave each other a knowing look and smiled.

After gaining elevation as I hiked through the lush woods, I reached this viewpoint, 
where I ate my lunch and dreamed great dreams.

Being fearless: My first solo ski run

This ski season, I conquered my fear of the chair lift,
made my first solo ski runs and started parallel skiing.

My heart beating wildly, I skied toward the chair lift for my first solo ride to the top of the mountain. I was determined to conquer my fear of falling to my death from the chair lift. For more than three decades, this irrational fear had kept me from skiing again.

"Can you do this?" my 55-year-old experienced brain asked my timid, 19-year-old self. That unsure  teenager was the one who had nearly fallen off the lift all those years ago.

I'd been standing to the side for several minutes, gathering my courage and watching skiers and boarders approach the lift, sit down and ride calmly to the top. Plenty of athletic young adults did it, but so did middle-aged folks and even grandmas and grandpas.

Yet, I was still gripped with fear from my first time skiing--in 1979--when I'd been dragged up the chair lift by my boyfriend, who didn't seem to care that I didn't know how to turn, control my speed or stop. I nearly fell off the chairlift, and then tumbled all the way down the mountain, hollering. My sister, Judy, who was working at the ski resort, recognized my screams of terror.

After that horrifying experience, the fear of falling off the lift was ingrained in my brain. It was the timid, teenage me who still held onto that fear.

I was brought back to the present when a group of elementary school kids zoomed down the hill in front of me, laughing, and got on the lift. None of them faltered, let alone plummeted to their death.

"Can you do this?" I asked myself again.

But this time, it was not the timid, 19-year-old me I asked. It was the adventurous 55-year-old me. Now I'm the dragon boat paddling, zip lining, kayaking, belly dancing, bow-shooting, backpacking woman with the dragon tattoo.

And thanks to the encouraging teaching of Kirby, my certified ski instructor boyfriend, I had been learning to ski. Although I had ridden the chair lift successfully just that morning, Kirby had ridden with me, coaching me and calming my fear with his soothing voice.

But now Kirby was teaching a skiing lesson and would be busy for the next hour. If I wanted to go skiing, I'd have to get back on that horse--er--chair lift--alone. It was time to conquer this irrational fear.

"Do you want to do this?" I asked myself.

My 19-year-old self was still tentative. But at that moment, I decided I would no longer let that timid girl or her fears control me.

"Yes! Be fearless!" my 55-year-old self said, with enthusiasm. "You're the girl with the dragon tattoo! Let's go!"

I skied forward, held my poles in my left hand and turned to grab the chair with my right hand. Then I sat down.

Miracle of miracles, I didn't fall.The timid teenage me might have closed my eyes for a nanosecond, but then I opened my eyes and looked at the beauty around me. As I approached the top, I could see the Wallowa Mountains blanketed in snow in the distance.

My heart began pounding again as I approached the top and prepared to exit the lift. I'd never exited the lift without Kirby. What if I fell when I stood up?

But then I remembered what Kirby had told me: "Stand up and ski to the right!"

I gulped--but did exactly as he'd instructed me. And I didn't fall!

My solo trip down the mountain was the opposite of my first ski experience all those decades ago. I was in control of my skis. I could slow down, turn and stop. I was having fun.

At one point, I stopped to admire the view. Then I looked down at my skis and realized I wasn't afraid anymore. I'm pretty sure I saw my 19-year-old self giving me a thumbs-up.

Smiling, I pushed off with my poles and glided down the mountain.

Savoring a simple, homespun Christmas

My homespun Christmas tree is adorned with paper snowflakes, peacock feathers, sage and dragon boat bling.

Living large in 600 square feet translates to simplicity every day. This is magnified tenfold during Christmas when wrapping paper, ornaments and other stuff can take over a home.

Two of the most important guidelines for living small are: 1) Have a place for everything. 2) If you can't find a place for it, perhaps you don't need it anymore.

In October I donated my Christmas tree stand to Goodwill because I don't have floor space for a tree. Last year I bought an artificial tabletop tree at Goodwill for $5. Downsizing to a tiny artificial tree was a huge concession for me, the farm girl who always had a large, fragrant evergreen at Christmas. But I did what made sense for my stage of life.

I've come to appreciate my tiny tree. Instead of hanging dozens of ornaments, I must choose carefully. Last year, my daughter and I made paper snowflakes and tied them onto our miniature tree with ivory ribbon. This year I reused those snowflakes. At the top of tree, I tied a peacock feather and a handful of fragrant sage from a trip to Eastern Oregon. I also tied my dragon boat medal earned in my paddling adventures with the Mighty Women. I added simple ornaments my kids made and an old photo of my daughter and me.

Beneath the tree I've tucked treasures from my adventures: moss and mountain goat wool from a backpacking trip, a chunk of granite from a forage into the woods, a burl bowl Kirby helped me make, a large seed pod and a remnant of robin's egg I gathered on a walk in the woods.


In my old life, I had space to set up a wrapping station during Christmas. In my new life, my diminutive dining table, once used for cutting fish on a boat, doubles as my gift wrapping center. During a move, I donated a mountain of wrapping paper, bows and ribbons and kept only what could be stored in a small box in my closet. Now that I'm the parent of adult children and the child of aging parents, I don't buy many gifts.

Christmas is over. I've wrapped my last gifts and stashed my wrapping supplies. But I will keep my tree up into the new year. The moss, mountain goat wool and feathers collected in the past year are a reminder that even though our holiday celebrations--and our lives--may change through the years, the next adventure is just around the bend in the river.

Paddles up! Wishing you the time to savor what's really important in life in 2015.

At the top of my tree, I tied a peacock feather and sage from Eastern Oregon. And I added dragon boat bling from my Mighty Women adventures.

A time to gather possessions, a time to let go

Before I die, there's going to be some 'splaining to do.

This circa-1920s beauty is no relation to me. So why do I display her photo atop my bookcases in my living room? I call her Lucretia because it suits her. She's wearing a fur collar and likely a cashmere sweater. Her finely coiffed tresses are smooth and chic--quite unlike my tomboy hair wrestled into a ponytail. Yes, she's far too polished to be hanging out in my family tree. In my downsizing mode, I've unearthed precious photographs I've collected of women taken around 1900, the 1920s and the 1930s. Lucretia and the women in the other photos are not my ancestors. They were estate-sale finds from the previous chapter in my life, when I was gathering possessions. But now, in my new chapter, I'm letting things go. Dozens of things. Hundreds of things. Yet I still hold onto Lucretia. Why? Odd, isn't it?

Then there's this youthful scholar I've named Margaret. But I'm sure her friends called her Meg. She is a modern 1920s teen not afraid to let the boys see that she's both brainy and beautiful. I'm hopeful she was gutsy and had amazing adventures in her lifetime.

And then we have the Bunny Girl. Her name hasn't come to me yet. However, I'm intrigued as to why she is holding two bunnies in her arms in her studio portrait. Were these bunnies her pets? Was it fashionable to have one's photograph taken while holding rabbits? I know the perfect name for the Bunny Girl will come to me--possibly in my dreams. Collecting these women makes complete sense to me. I am not planning on getting rid of them anytime soon. I am a writer, and the women in these photos will populate the novels percolating in my head.

However, this stern old man, who I've named Hezekiah, is still in my storage unit. I'm thinking maybe it's time to let go of Hezekiah as I continue to lighten my load. He's the one who really caught my attention when I recently was knee-deep in my storage unit getting rid of more "stuff and junk" as my Swedish grandma, Lydia Blomgren Smith, used to say. I now have no extra furniture in my storage unit. I have let go of an antique armoire, a 1930s green chair and my daughter's white metal twin bed. Mostly what remains are some papers, lots of photographs, camping gear and odds and ends. I've decided to wait until the first of the new year to tackle my remaining stuff and junk. In the meantime, if I'm hit by a bus, daughter, please note that none of these people are your ancestors. But they are dear friends of your eccentric writer mother.

Mothering in the trenches: Finding time for yourself when your kids are little

In my downsizing quest, I've found stacks of old articles I wrote 15 years ago, when I was in the mothering trenches raising young children. Here's the opening to a story I wrote that was published in Vancouver Kids magazine in March 1999 when my kids were 9 and 6.

"It's difficult for mothers to take time for ourselves. On a recent evening after dinner, I locked myself in the bathroom for a much-needed Calgon moment in a hot bath with soothing vanilla candles, fragrant bath oil, a loofa sponge and a resolve to shave both of my legs.

"Almost immediately after settling into the steaming bath, I was jolted back to reality by my children knocking on the bathroom door. What was I doing in there? Could I pour some juice for Conor? Answer Katie's questions about her homework? Where was Conor's Batman cape? And when was I coming out?"

Ah, those were the good old days!

I'm serious.

Although it's exhausting raising young children, I loved being a mommy. I enjoyed playing with my kids and sparking their imaginations. We built fairy houses on the banks of rivers, read stacks of picture books and created art projects. Visits to thrift stores helped me stock the kids' dress-up trunk so they could pretend to be dinosaurs, pirates, cowboys, fairies, knights and princesses. Even Batman.

Fifteen years later, I'm a single empty-nester. I can take a soothing bubble bath whenever I have a hankering. How ironic that a bubble bath is no longer what I long for when I need to relax.

Now, I most often head for the woods or the river for a hike, call a friend for a chat or make a cup of tea and read a book. When I was in the thick of raising young children, I didn't have the luxury of such freedom.

I have several younger friends who are in the child-rearing trenches at this moment. They're giving every bit of themselves to their families and their jobs. It's brutal being in the trenches.

I hope these women realize what a wonderful job they are doing--and that before they know it, their kids will grow up--and they'll have plenty of time for bubble baths, walks in the woods and reading an entire book from cover to cover.