Living the Life?

I recently emailed with a good friend, both of us catching up on the past couple of months. She’s been struggling with change, but is looking forward to a trip abroad, to getting “culture-shocked.” I’ve been walking through a dark room, trying to believe I’ll find the door handle, but I told her about the side trips out the back to beautiful places: Mexico, Rapa Nui, and soon, Machu Picchu. She told me I’m “living the life.”

 

The other weekend, there was a children’s birthday
party in the backyard.

 

At first, the words threw my head back a bit—Living. The. Life.—But I have to agree to a certain extent. Day to day, I have the privilege to write my story and take care of a sweet dog and spend time with the children at the orphanage. While we play, I sometimes picture them 20 years down the road. Where will the innocence in their faces go? What will they remember of this time? How will they beat the odds? Because they will; I already see the tenacity and the wit in many of them. In the evenings, I make dinner. Ryan and I talk about the day at hand or the one farther into the past now or the ones up ahead. At 9 PM, we often watch “Property Virgins” and daydream about owning a house and all the things in it. We run through our hypothetical “wish list”: a nice yard for Ruby, an open kitchen, an airy, well-lit place for my desk, and a sizable garage space for Ryan. We go to bed. We repeat. It’s a comfortable routine. Were Lorenzo here with us, I’m sure I would say without a doubt that I’m living the life.

 

I looked down when they started chanting:
“Pi-ña-ta! Pi-ña-ta! “

 

But he isn’t. There’s grief everywhere. There’s a sub-routine of blood testing and waiting. There are the realities of age and biology and dumb luck.

 

Diving in for such perfect, simple joy.

 

I will say this: I’m living a life. That’s all we can ask of ourselves, right? We have our set number of days, never more than we think we’ll have. We endure the hardships that stun and clarify and then become part of the pain management. We dip our toes into something that thrills us. We get to know ourselves better. We teach and we learn. When we’re at our most conscious, we think of others first and consider the bigger picture. We don’t ask: “Why me?” We try patience on for size.

 

Anyone looking at them, any of them,
might think they’re living the life.

 

Living the life… It does make me wonder how I’ll look back on this time: these few years as an expat in Chile, this one particularly horrible year I’m rounding the home stretch of, this time to take care of my small family, these people I’ve met and conversations I’ve had because I live outside the U.S., these hundreds of hearts we’ve collected together. I wonder how my memory will shift it all. I wonder if the grief changes colors, like a bruise. It only takes a moment to be back inside every sensory detail of that hospital room last June. It’s everything that has come after that’s susceptible to time. I realize it’s a luxury to have the time at all. To live a life.

Restoration on Rapa Nui

Just as it’s an island of many names—Rapa Nui, Easter Island, Isla de Pascua—it’s also an island with many stories, histories, and much mystery. (At one point, the Rapa Nui population dwindled down to just 111 people—due to slavery, conflict, and imported disease.) It’s a complicated story and tensions remain. But it’s also a beautiful story of perseverance, and that beauty, then and now, is as undeniable as its landscape—at once reminiscent of the ends of the world as well as its very early beginnings.

 

A taste of it all:
Mo’ai statues, the rocky Pacific coast,
off in the distance the village of Hanga Roa,
where the majority of the island’s inhabitants live,
and the freedom we had to explore this island-wide archeological site.

 

Some of those stories and that air of mystery will no doubt find their way into posts for weeks to come. It’s that kind of a place—it doesn’t leave you, nor do you want it to. For now, I’ll share facts and photos… of the mo’ai sculptures that represented the ancestors of the Rapa Nui people, of the comforting Pacific Ocean we love so, of the many animals that roam free over this lush landscape, and of course a heart or two.

 

Standing at ease at Ahu Tangariki.
These, like all mo’ai, were once toppled.
The ahu (sacred burial platform on which the mo’ai stand)
was also destroyed in 1960’s tsunami.
Japan led the restoration of this site.

 

Doing so feels in line with the spirit ‘Notes from the Southern Hemisphere’ was founded in—to chronicle all the amazing things we have the opportunity to see living on the other side of the world. Along the way, we’ve had adventures and made adjustments, and our hearts have been broken.

 

On Rapa Nui, Ryan is a tourist first, surfer second.

 

While the ultimate kind of “travel” inspired this blog, it’s also become a coping mechanism in its own right—a way for Ryan and I to journey right to the present moment, where we step outside and feel fortunate for a brand new view. For most, getting to Rapa Nui means days of travel. In our case, all we had to do was take a five-hour flight to the most isolated inhabited island in the world (it’s halfway to Tahiti). Here are several more angles on the magnificent view from there:

 

Morning view from our incredible oceanside cabaña at Te’Ora,
which means something like:
“the start of a new beginning.” I love that.

 

Only to be rivaled by sunsets like this.

 

Two of the more well-known mo’ai at Rana Raraku,
the quarry where the majority of some 1,000 mo’ai
were sculpted before being transported to their resting sites.
It could take up to six months to sculpt just one!
Also from Rana Raraku

 

Ryan captured a sense of the scope of this quarry.
History standing stock-still while the world grows up around it.

 

For scale: Ryan and I standing behind Ahu Tangariki.

 

You really do see them everywhere.

 

Ryan got this cool angle.

 

You’ll notice a reddish “top knot.”
It represented the often red hair of the ancient Rapa Nui people.
Like all mo’ai, it was carved from “tuff,” or compressed volcanic ash,
but from an entirely different volcano to achieve the color.

 

For comparison, a still-toppled, unrestored mo’ai
and top knot at Akahanga.
The beautiful horses of Rapa Nui, a common site.

 

I think we kept finding this same sweet family.

 

Easter Day find. We did spend Easter on Easter Island, after all.
The massive crater of the volcano at Orongo.

 

A traditional stone house. Inhabitants crawled through the small doorways,
built as a way to protect the home from weather and invasion.

 

The precious little rescue kitty at Te’Ora.
She took shade under a massive heart leaf. <3

 

And of course a sweet street pup, presiding over the village.
I got to swim laps in this swimming “bowl” every day.
One day, a couple of sea turtles joined me.

 

I also tried my hand at some open water swimming here at
Anakena, the only natural beach on the island and
where the first Polynesian settlers set up their village.
Street art symbolizing the Bird Man cult of Orongo.
Each spring, the Manutara bird flocked to the islets off Orongo.
An annual ceremony was held where a representative of each
Rapa Nui tribe raced to the islets to return with the first egg,
naming him Bird Man of the year.
The egg also represented fertility… here’s hoping.

 

And here’s to never once forgetting Lorenzo,
no matter how far Ryan and I travel in this life.
(Notice the heart formed by the two Bird Men?)

 

I dare say, it’s the happiest we’ve been in months.
I’ll always be grateful to Rapa Nui for showing us
a bit of our old selves in such a beautiful new place.

Breaking the Spell

I can’t get over these children.

This week, after a lot of planning and permissions, the volunteers organized a park day for all but the newborns, or about 25 children in total from the orphanage. It was a chance for the kiddos to get outside, count passing cars, and climb/swing/chase to their hearts’ content. With one volunteer or Tía per baby or toddler, the ratio was finally 1:1, as it rarely is.

 

Of course the street leading to the orphanage should be studded
with hearts. I found most of these on my way there last week.

 

I happened to pair with F. She’s one of the “Grandes” I work with most often, though I also feed the “Medianos” and hold the “Bebes.” I know her well by this point, partially from having to watch her like a hawk. She’s the monkey of the bunch, climbing absolutely anything she can–the bookshelf, the chain-link wire outside the window, a stack of toys. With her chubby cheeks and dark hair and eyes, I didn’t look so much unlike her when I was two, but I venture to guess I was far more timid than this future acrobat. F. is vivacious and loud and loving. She’s the little girl who always tries to kiss the heart on the chain I’ve worn around my neck for many months now. Well, last week, when she went to kiss it, the chain broke and we both looked at each other in surprise, her mouth a tiny “o” of shock at her own power. Then we laughed.

 

Spells are usually broken with a kiss, right?

 

I kinda loved that if the necklace’s destiny was to break, it did so at that exact moment. When I told Ryan about it later at home, he said it had to mean something… that this little girl broke the chain, so to speak, for us. Maybe our spell of bad luck was ending. Maybe a new heart was out there to be found.

 

Four hearts.

 

At the park, the whole world seemed out there for F. and the rest of the children to find. We shook hands with leaves and pointed at all the cars. We saw a stray dog and watched the birds. We swung in the swing, which F. absolutely loved. And there, surrounded by such colorful, high, looping, sliding jungle gym equipment, she didn’t want to climb a thing. I suppose it was all too new and mysterious to take in at one go like that. To think, such a place is all of six blocks from where many of these children have lived their entire lives, but may as well be a world away.

 

Two halves.

 

Then, one of the Tías told me the most amazing thing of all: F. was getting adopted the very next day by a new family. She was going to have parents and a home and so, so many park days in store. Just think of how high she could climb! I also think that’s how the chain, the spell, was really broken. Hers was the luck that was turning around. And I was so honored to be the one holding her hand that day as we walked down the street, as she took in the world and I took in her wonder at it. It turned out to be a chance to say goodbye.

 

The heart of the map… a map of the heart.

 

Thanks to the Chain-Link Heart Project, I know it’s only ever a matter of time before new hearts find me and I them. (The hearts save me that way.) But imagine my own shock when I opened a care package from Angie this week and found, of all things, a new heart necklace—a worry locket to lock my worries away. Before I knew it, I had another heart around my neck and another heart link in the chain to share with all of you. As its card explains, “In ancient Greek times, worry beads were carried around to relieve stress and anxiety. The beads were often found objects and strung together to be lovingly counted in meditation. The modern day worry locket is filled with luscious nuggets of genuine healing gemstones or vintage seaglass.”

 

Worries casted away!

 

I wish I could give all of these kids their own locket to trap all that does or will worry them—they have a challenging start to this life. We’re at least going to try to make these park days more of a regular occurrence so the kids can grow accustomed to all that room to run and play, especially while the sun lasts. After all, it’s the first day of fall down here in the Southern Hemisphere. A most happy spring to all y’all up there.

 

Mantra By Mantra

A good mantra can take you far, and you have gifted me helpful ones. Here’s a selection:

• “Here’s to the good.” —From Linds

• “One step at a time is good walking.” —From Shana

• “Breakdowns precede breakthroughs.” —From Amanda

• “Fear is a natural reaction to moving closer to the truth.” —From Pema Chodron by way of Mlle_Michele.

• “Trust your grief to show you it knows. Lorenzo knows.” —From A.

• “Humans tend to justify prolonging suffering in the hope of a miracle.” —From Lorraine

• “Whenever yet another guilt thought comes up, follow it with and repeat: ‘This is not a God thought.'” —From Lisanne

• “When you can, try to think of all the people that love you and your wide open life with Ryan you have awaiting you still.” —From Angie

• “Maybe it’s not being cured, it’s about being constantly exposed and sometimes better than others and sometimes terribly triggered and sometimes okay-ish but never totally fine. Just, working on it.” —From Courtney

 

From my mom by way of The Dog Chapel by Stephen Huneck

 

Notice how the mantras spread out? How more words are sometimes required to get at what happened here? The simple and the not so simple–both help. Sometimes, I resort to a short list, a heart-pointed mantra of sorts. It reminds me the future is there for the shaping with the ingredients at hand. We know all too well that there are no guarantees, but there’s always a chance and things are always changing. I’ve made a similar list before, when I thanked all you angels out there, but that’s what a mantra is—something you chant over and over in order to go on believing. There’s a lot of looping and figure-eighting in Grief, after all. But repetition can also reveal new things. So, here’s even more from the list down in my heart that I try to actively believe in, especially on the days when it’s hardest to:

<3 Love. The ultimate mantra unto itself. This is where it should all come from, as my cousins reminded me this weekend. This is the most important way to fill the home. This is how the family grows, even when it’s just me or me and Ryan or me and Ryan and Ruby.

 

 

<3 Ryan and Ruby. First, my husband. The one strapped in next to me on this journey and who, whenever I cry or doubt, asks, “What’s the plan?” And I say, “We’re having a baby.” There’s no when or how attached to the storyline, but he’s the one who gets me to believe in it out loud. Then, Ruby Girl. I couldn’t love her any more. I couldn’t depend on her love any more. She is goodness.

 

 

<3 Finding home. The children at the orphanage, all 40 of them, most of whom I know by name and SIX! of whom I’ve now seen go home, either to a member of their own family or to a new Chilean family. Their little bodies contain such massive strength, strength they may not consciously know they have, but which is being summoned from them all the time—as strength like theirs, like mine, like yours, is. I see their personalities bubbling up and out. I know, without a doubt, I could love any one of them as my own. They make me want to do more with my life. They are not troubled lost causes; they are children in need. They are but one set in one orphanage in one city in one country on one planet.

 

 

<3 The life force that health affords you. This cannot be underestimated. I’m grateful it’s still in me, that the way partial molar pregnancies can go for the mother has not gone that way for me. I see it in Ruby, as she breathes in and out. It reassures me that a creature in my care can stay alive and thrive. It’s in my husband. It will someday, we pray, pass into a child who is both designed to live and to have a quality of that life in this world, never once forgetting Lorenzo.

 

 

<3 Hearts. All of Lorenzo’s that I’ve found. And all of yours that you’ve sent my way. The main aim of the Chain-Link Heart Project has been to discover all that hearts can mean and how they connect us. Your heart stories, like this one, have both fulfilled and elevated that aim.

 

 

<3 The future. It can’t be seen. We feel our way. Right now, I collect hearts. Just counting all of yours, we’re up to nearly 300 heart links in just three months. Let’s get to 1,000 by the end of the year, OK? Let’s turn them into a book and support heart causes. Let’s push the limits of the heart in ways we haven’t even thought of yet. If Love is the starting place, we can’t go wrong, right?

What’s your mantra? What’s on your list? What do you want to push the limits of? How can we help?

After the Fear Is Faced

Mike, a good friend of mine from grad school, writes a fantastic weekly column, The Casual Casuist, and recently posted about fear. His story is about claustrophobia and elevators and facing fear between the top two floors of a 15-story building in downtown San Francisco and prying open metal doors—prying open the fear itself—with bare hands. His overall point is about much more than all that and I encourage you to read the full story. His piece has me thinking about fear because I’ve faced one of the worst fears I think a mother could.

 

Notice the hearts in this one?

 

At first, I thought I had fear licked. Anything like it (anxiety, worry) just sort of went away. I no longer feared what I had before: letting go, flying ever so high in the sky, accepting the dependent visa issued by my husband’s company and writing full-time without apology, crying in public, saying what needed to be said or not saying a word because there was no longer a point. It was part of the priority realignment that took hold of our lives and gave us different versions of what did and did not matter.

 

 

I suppose I thought the loss would make the fear something I had conquered, but it’s crept back in the way it does when the random, worst thing has happened and then, to a different degree, happened again. Of course, things go wrong. Of course, there’s no reason. Of course, misfortune doesn’t discriminate. Of course, it could happen again. That’s not to say we should live expecting the other shoe to drop, but it also means I don’t believe anyone who claims to know otherwise. We don’t know. None of us do.

 

 

I should be at home with the unknown. I’ve spent two years fairly comfortable with the idea of inevitable, yet unpredictable change. We live here based on the premise that we could live anywhere and may have to depending on where the work is. But the most popular questions to date are still: “How long will you be in Chile?” and then, “Where will you go next?” The difference is I thought I didn’t have the answers to those questions in particular. It turns out I don’t have the answers, period.

 

 

When we signed up for this, it was all an adventure of starting our lives together and interesting people to meet and countries to see and perspectives to shift. It still is, but there’s an inertia and a new apprehension, I’ll say, around change because the grief is so thick. Because everything is different when you live abroad, the grief, should it become a part of everything, is different, too. Your family is far away. Your coping mechanisms align with where you are and what you have—a pup to love, the comfortable neighborhood to walk, the words to find in the language you can find them in, the consistency of what was recently unfamiliar now feeling like home, the sudden tears over a long-distance video chat and the real contact somewhere in the cyberspace between.

 

 

It can surprise people when they figure out I’m still crying, regularly. That the “bad” days still challenge the “good” though I don’t think “good” or “bad” are helpful concepts here. “Did something happen?” they ask. Triggers do exist, but most of the time I cry because of what already happened, nine and then four months ago now. Lorenzo, then someone else, are already gone.

 

 

Fear serves its purpose, I realize. It shows us what we care about and where the edges are. We push against it to understand where the strength comes from. I suppose my real question is this: So often we believe the end goal with fear is facing it, but what about living with the fear faced? That’s where I’d give anything for some metal doors to pry open. Still, I have to find a way through.