second chances

Middle Son and I knock heads sometimes over curbing his video game usage, but I also try to keep the conversation open with him, to understand what he likes about the games. So the other day, when he excitedly told me he’d been playing with kids from Scotland, and the day before with some English-speaking teens from China, it made me think.

These are curious times.

(Please feel free to write that sentence down and refer back to it for guidance at any time. Or better yet, quote me: “These are curious times.” – Megan Ault Regnerus)

I’ve really enjoyed getting to know virtual strangers from near and far via this blog. So Middle Son might hook up with teens from China to play his game, but not know the kids down the street. I might feel all warm and fuzzy about a reader in Denmark, Virginia, or here in Montana (whom I’ve never or seldom met in person), for example, and yet not know my neighbors, who live less than 50 feet away.

In some ways, the blog relationships, which I’ve experienced as sincere, are easy. I don’t have to look anyone in the eye, have anyone over (unless it’s for the annual minor catastrophes hootenanny!), remember birthdays or bring chicken soup when someone’s sick. With neighbors, input often equals output (you don’t say hi to me, I don’t say hi to you), and it at least initially requires the willingness to extend yourself in possibly uncomfortable ways to get further than “Hi.”

Anyway, one of the first posts I ever wrote here was about how Angus ran inside my young neighbor-lady’s house early one morning (she and her soon-to-be-husband left a sliding glass door cracked for their own dogs to go in and out), and pounced on their bed while they were still sleeping. The very male, naked husband-to-be greeted me on their deck in what was definitely a “before-coffee” sort of way. Somehow, our relationship never progressed after that.

Then, I wrote about their building a large privacy fence right before they moved out and put the house up for sale. FINE, I thought. The house sat empty for two years while the couple lived in “his” house a few blocks away. Sometimes my former neighbor-lady’s dad would stay in the for-sale house while visiting, and we got used to the intermittent emptiness, broken up by the occasional dad visits or an open-house hosted by their realtor.

Still, a long-empty house is a lonely sort of thing. So when I saw my neighbor lady surveying the yard of this house they just couldn’t seem to sell, now sporting a little baby bump, something shifted inside me. It struck me that my lack of relationship with her had a lot to do with me.

So I walked over and congratulated her about the baby, told her how much we’d enjoyed getting to know her dad’s dogs whenever he visited. With that, she looked at her husband, then back at me, clearly fighting tears.

“My dad committed suicide last August,” she said quietly. “I found out we were pregnant a week later.”

And that’s how I ended up openly crying with this neighbor I hardly knew; a three-year relationship — or lack thereof — changed and melted via compassion during a single conversation.

Turns out she and her husband are moving back into the house and attempting to sell his house now instead. Which makes me happy. A second chance! Happy day! A second chance to not be an asshole!

Because I really am a dipshit when it comes to this stuff, I need ideas. I want to do something to say, “Welcome Back,” and start anew. I could make and deliver food, but have no idea what they like. Should I invite them to dinner? (Please say no. The thought makes me scratchy.) Their baby is due next month. Maybe a baby gift? Got any other bright ideas? Something not too spendy that says I’M ACTUALLY SOMEWHAT NICE. LET’S FORGET ABOUT THE FACT THAT I HARDLY SPOKE TO YOU THESE PAST YEARS AND BE FRIENDS NOW.

permission to dine: meg's groovy smoothie

I’m not a martyr when it comes to eating. I don’t choke down things that taste disgusting just because I’ve heard they’ll make my insides smile. But I really love it when I discover recipes and foods that are both tasty and healthy.

Lately I’ve been listening to Michael Polan’s In Defense of Food (as an audio book), and watched Dr. Terry Wahls TED video on “Minding Your Mitochondria,” where she says that if you want kickass vitality, one should aim to include three dinner plates full, or nine cups, of veggies every day. So between these voices and my stated desire to increase veggies as a New Year intention, I’m just feeling mighty free range and Portandia these days.

Perhaps we could hang out and be groovy together?

I’ll bring the tofu and you bring the sprouted couch cushions for meditating.

Also, I might be writing this post on Saturday night while sipping a glass of wine on an empty stomach before dinner. Blogging while almost tipsy is not a crime; in this case it just makes me your highly-affordable and talkative date.

Anyway, I would make you one of my delicious smoothies, which I concocted myself, and have been drinking practically every morning for the past few weeks.

Also, please do not listen to Shawn (who would happily pack a box of Little Debbie snacks as his sole food cache for a long day of hunting) who said the following after trying my latest smoothie addiction: “Where I grew up, we called this ‘silage,’ Megan. It’s meant for feeding animals, not humans.”

Pfft.

“Now if you could create a meat smoothie, then you’d be on to something,” he added.

The taste of this drink is earthy and slightly sweet.

Should you care to join me in superior health and good taste, then please assemble the following:

 Meg’s Groovy Smoothie

1/3 cup of beets, shredded

1/4 cup of carrots shredded

Fresh ginger, grated  (to taste)

Handful of Swiss chard or spinach, torn to small pieces

1/2 cup frozen, sweet cherries

1 cup orange juice

Put everything in the blender and push the most powerful button you have on the damn thing while holding the top down. If you need more liquid, add a bit of water to get things moving. (If you’re lucky enough to own a Vitamix, well, mixing all of this into uniformity is sissy stuff. Lucky you.) Let it run for A WHILE. If you like your smoothies cold, add a few ice cubes at the end, once you no longer see chard bits floating about, reminding you that this is a “healthy” shake. Pour into a tall glass, and enjoy.

END NOTE: Do let me know if you end up trying this recipe, and what you think. 

free ride

This Camry isn't mine, but I feel an unspoken bond with this car's owner — like we would probably give each other a special, knowing wave passing each other on the road...

My parents gave me my first car about five years ago, when I turned 37. I wanted one when I was 16, but apparently they take the job of teaching their offspring to delay gratification very seriously.

Still, I appreciated their generosity after my previous car unexpectedly died, and Shawn and I drove down to Salt Lake City to pick up my new (used) Toyota Camry.

We were so excited we practically flew home in that car, until a cop pulled us over for speeding. He looked inside the car window, his eyes resting on the exposed wires of the steering column.

“Oh, you’re probably wondering what that’s about,” I said. Then I explained that this was a “family” car, and that my youngest brother had been driving it for some months when he lost the keys. Lucky for him, he knew how to hotwire cars, and was able to get the car fired up. (Whew!) Unfortunately, he either forgot where he put the steering column casing, or was too lazy to reinstall it.

The policeman listened politely, wrote us a ticket, then proceeded to make a whole bunch of phone calls that took 45 minutes until he was satisfied that we really did own the nearly 15-year-old car.

Since then, I’ve added my own character marks to the car. A spilled cup of coffee, dog hair and funk sealed inside the crevices, the ashtray jammed shut with pistachio shells. It’s not that I’m a messy person so much as keeping the car tidy seemed a bit beside the point. Like spiffying up a college freshman boy’s basement apartment. Then came the physical evidence of the car growing tired:

A spidery, cracked windshield became a map-like homage to a road trip.

The backseat passenger window fossilized into place, no longer willing to go up or down.

Hubcaps peeled off the running car like Frisbees at a parade, or perhaps a bra-burning event to liberate the load and allow one to see the goods beneath.

Passengers felt so relaxed by my car’s ambiance that feet routinely rested on the dusty dash, rather than the cluttered floor. (That’s how the heater vents were accidentally kicked in like rotting teeth.)

There were some problems with the brakes, then a CV joint had to be replaced.

We tried to make a copy of the lone car key, but it was so worn that no shop could replicate it. Instead, Shawn became expert at breaking into the car whenever I inadvertently locked the key inside.

The front passenger door grew rebellious, refusing to open for strangers from the outside, only responding to my sheepish shove from the inside.

It all seemed fine, until Oldest Son reluctantly accepted a ride to school from me last fall, filling me in on what a disgrace the vehicle was: “Do you realize your car is older than anything in the high school parking lot?”

Seriously? I thought. What a bunch of spoiled brats those kids are! What ever happened to driving an eyesore as a rite of passage? How do these kids build character driving new Audis?

I was proud of my 20-year-old car with its 234,000 miles on it. I didn’t NEED a sweet ride to boost my self-confidence or win friends. Plus, every month I drove my f-r-e-e set of parent-sponsored wheels was like money in my pocket for the car payment I WASN’T paying.

Am I right, admirers?

Then last November I slid on icy roads into the hitch of a pickup truck in front of me because my studded snow tires were worn to nubs.

There, I thought, surveying the plucked-out eye of a headlight and buckled front hood. We’re done with this car. (But not by my choice, By God!)

But then Shawn took the car up to his dad’s shop, pounded out the hood, and drove her back home. “Almost good as new,” he said proudly. “The high-beams still actually work, so I’d just use those at night. The lights are so dirty no one will notice.”

The next morning was frigid, and I walked out to my car, glum. Seems I was losing the love. But what to do — take out a loan and buy a new (used) car? Buy some stranger’s set of nasty problems?

I reached down to open the driver’s side door, and the handle snapped off in my hand like brittle bones. I stared down at it, betrayed.

What more, I thought?

Did I deserve this? Had I not been a terrific sport during my years with this car, gratefully standing up for it even during the worst insults?

I was done.

Then the phone rang.

“Do you want our 2001 Nissan Maxima?” my parents asked. “We just bought a new car.”

your turn: meet my good friend. she keeps poems handy like i keep snacks.

Savannah always wanted to teach yoga, and during my first years of knowing her it was just that: a distant want. But then she found a way to train and get certified as an instructor, and now she teaches at a local gym and a cancer center. I’ll start at the beginning. I met Savannah a decade ago when she came breezing into my office, pure elegance with her long, blonde hair and linen pants, looking for writing assignments. She was getting her MFA in creative writing in Idaho, and somehow I’d been bestowed the title of managing editor at Big Sky Journal. I gave her an assignment, and from there we ended up in a writer’s group together, became running partners, witnessed each others’ life transitions with work, relationships, etc.

In a sense, Savannah is my serious friend. It’s not that we don’t do silly together (she is the one who coined me Eunice, after all); it’s more that we don’t waste time. Lately that means we walk Peets Hill together with our dogs at dusk, and I give her my internal sludge, and she trusts me with hers as well.

Here’s a true story about my decade of friendship with Savannah: We spent one of those years not speaking. For my part, I have cowardly, conflict-adverse tendencies (unless it involves my offspring!) that make me more comfortable fleeing tense situations than working through them. So somehow it took us a year to tiptoe our way back to each other.

Because I spent much of my growing-up years moving every few years, I’ve never had a “lifelong” close friend. So perhaps I’d never been friends with anyone long enough before to realize that hey, if you spend enough time with someone, eventually there will come a time when you’ll disagree, annoy each other, or want to smack that person upside the head. With family, you power through these things, roll your eyes, yell if you must, and life goes on. So in some ways, with Savannah, I’m learning what long-term friendship means.

Here are some current facts about Savannah: she has a job she doesn’t love but pays the bills; she pads those hours with things she does love like teaching yoga to cancer patients; walking, hiking and running with her dog; working as a hospice volunteer; and making plans to go to acupuncture school. (Past fact: She gave Oldest Son his first car, her Toyota Camry, in exchange for him doing community service.)

Also! She is to be credited for introducing me to Shawn. She and Shawn had never met before, but that didn’t stop her from walking over to Shawn — after I revealed to her that I had my eye on him — and insisting he sit next to me during a slide show. When I dropped her off after the slide show that night she said, “I want to be a bridesmaid at your wedding,” before closing the car door.

Savannah always has a poem if you need one. So of course when Shawn and I actually did get married, she stood in front of our family and friends and filled our heads with lovely verses. 

Q & A:

What are some things you still want in life that you don’t yet have?

Build a doggie hospice, write for Yoga Journal and Runner's World, start a yoga nonprofit, live off the grid, write novels, make art, practice apitherapy on people besides myself, tend beehives, raise chickens, establish a bigger patch of raspberries and an indoor hydroponic system for blueberries, create a beautifully blooming yard and tree and rock sanctuary, go to acupuncture school, add 500-hour integrative yoga therapist to my current training, and become a death doula (thanks for making up that phrase, Meg).

Savannah's current dog Sasha (front) with some pals up on Ramshorn Peak, MT.

As an avid dog lover, tell us about the first dog you ever loved. (How you met, how long he lived, his spirit, etc.)

Satchmo, Homer, Alaska, 1989, in a trash can outside a grocery store with a big red bow on his head, about four months old, just enough out of his puffy fur-ball stage to apparently not be a purebred Samoyed, but a mix, most likely with Golden Retriever. Saddest thing you ever saw: a depressed puppy. Poor little guy had already been beaten: raise your hand to adjust your hat, say, and watch him cower and hug the ground, tail tucked. Soundless. Ironically, the dog I have now was also a throwaway, four months old when I got her, and had been beaten.

Satchmo lived to be 18. At one point, for an article about running with dogs, I figured we'd traveled by foot over 30,000 miles together — and that's before he was 14. He chose to quit running after that, although he was ambulatory until his dying day.

Satchmo's spirit was peace. Over his life we would many times encounter people who Hated Dogs, and he’d win them over. He didn't jump up, didn't lick, didn't chase cats, didn't do any of those things that give dogs a bad reputation. It takes a LOT of time and presence to achieve rapport with your dog — especially if they are already a wreck when they come to you.

What was it like going to Alaska as an adventurous 20-something and finding yourself right in the epicenter of the Exxon Valdez oil spill?

Life changing. I still refuse to buy gas at Exxon. On the one hand, yeah, as if I'm hurting their profit margin. On the other hand, as Margaret Mead says, never underestimate the power of an individual to change the world. Our small actions add up.

Mostly I saw how bureaucracy got in the way of a lot of good people simply getting the job done to save wildlife. That lesson has stayed with me as I read through the lines of different reports now.

As a hospice volunteer, what drew you to helping people die in your spare time?

It seems like a natural extension of yoga to me: being present. Just being OK with what is without judgment. Letting go of the past, letting go of ambition, just being.

Death doesn't scare me. It saddens me, mostly because it so saddens those going through it and those left behind. If I can look someone in the eye with love as they go through this transition, I'm grateful for the chance to do that.

It's the most alive that I feel when I am with someone in hospice. Not because "hey, I'm living and you're dying," of course. Because I am of use. Because it is, well, life or death. There are not many precious moments like that, moments that truly matter — or, maybe we don't give many moments that attention.

It's about an opportunity to love. In hospice there is no attachment to the person or family, but there is an opportunity to show up, to love in the absolute sense of the word. It's so simple. Read to people. Listen. Look. Really see who they are, what they need. That's all. There's a great African proverb I read recently: die while you are still alive. Maybe that's what I feel: I want people to feel like they got to be alive and be seen right up until the end.

And selfishly, as a writer, holy smokes! The work is loaded with stories, insights into what we love, fear, regret, what we define ourselves by.

Several years ago you were diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. How has this disease changed you, and what can you tell me about your situation that might help me to be a better friend?

Most important for me is to be around people — doctors as well as friends — who believe I can heal. I need friends who can tolerate my gluten-free, dairy-free diet and accept last-minute cancellations when I crash, yet who never don't invite me because I might be too tired or the activity might be more than I can do.  It's what we all need: people to give us each day to maybe feel fantastic and be able to say yes, people who give us room to be bigger tomorrow than we were yesterday. Conversely, I actually need people who recognize that I have a disease. Because much of MS is invisible or can be hidden, it's easy to forget the accommodations that are sometimes needed.

How has it changed me? Humbling. I've always been able to will my way through anything before. Broken ankle 10 miles out on a run? No problem! I can walk back on that. Herniated discs? Whatever. I can run through that. With MS I have finally had to face that there are times my spirit just isn't big enough to pick my foot up, literally. I can only imagine what Steven Hawking feels, what Christopher Reeves felt. To be so alive and yet so trapped in the body. It is damning.

It also makes me realize how many promises I've made to God and not kept, how many slights I've made to others and not righted, how little I've done with the gifts I've been given. It's a wake-up call: the clock is ticking. The first thing I did after my diagnosis? Bought a ski pass, my first one. I figure if my legs are going to go, better start learning to ski while I can.

On the upside, MS has given me increased empathy and compassion, increased skill with my yoga students. The big bonus: MS is a lie detector. I can no longer pretend something is OK that isn't.

The guys in my house didn't get an elk this year, so Savannah shared some of hers.

You’ve taken up hunting in the past few years. What has the experience of killing, butchering and eating animals been like for you?

Hunting is taking complete responsibility for what I put into my body, doing the least environmental damage in my eating choices, and giving my body the best fuel that I can. Hunting itself: like painting, you have to truly see, very slowly let the world reveal itself to you, the turn of a leaf, the shade of the light moving against the landscape, the juxtaposition of all of the textures and sounds and living creatures. It's magical to be part of, to have one little role in it. I've never felt small next to the night sky or the ocean or on a mountaintop, but with a gun in my hand, I feel like a speck, one tiny mote trying to feed myself.

storm

Photographer and electrician Sean Harvey took this photo of a supercell thunderstorm near Glasgow, MT, in July 2010. (It went viral online after winning a National Geographic photo contest.)

I remember how worried I was a few years ago about surviving life with three teenage boys. Teen pregnancy, meth ads showing ghoulish-looking strung-out adolescents, kids going through puberty who won’t even speak to their parents — I know enough to know these things happen even in “good” families. So I entered this chapter when Oldest Son started high school four years ago somewhat braced.

But guess what? So far, it’s been great.

I enjoy my relationship with all three boys, which their dad and Shawn would say they share as well. We eat dinner together most nights as a family, the boys generally stay out of trouble, their grades are reasonable, and sometimes we even have real conversations. I figure somewhere between the explanation that I’m wonder mom and just darn lucky lies the truth as to why it’s been this smooth so far. Fights or arguments are rare.

Except for last Sunday night.

I got in a nasty argument with Oldest Son. Like a tornado, it appeared out of nowhere, escalating from 0 to 150 mph in seconds.

He’d been needling Middle Son about his X-Box usage, which has been going on for weeks. (“Oh hey, I see you’re still working on becoming a professional X-box player. Except guess what? Professional X-Box players don’t make any money. They live in their mom’s basements and sit around in their boxers all day.”) I’ve mostly let is slide, except on this particular day, Middle Son had put in eight hours of studying getting ready for finals, and just endured a heated family meeting with all three parents about tightening X-box regulations. So Middle Son was already unhappy when Oldest Son came after him with his digs.

It ignited my mama grizzly, and I followed Oldest Son to the bathroom: “I don’t want you talking to him like that anymore. You’re not his parent, and you need to leave it alone.”

And somehow, from there, we were off. Oldest Son roostered up, drew his shoulders back and looked down at me, glaring at him from 8 inches below. He replied that he certainly would still give his brother crap about the X-Box whenever he wanted.

Then Eunice stepped in, and she was PISSED, right down to the bobby pins holding her wig in place. Suddenly the yelling was about respect, and deferring to your parent.

Oldest Son reminded Eunice and me that he was 18 now, an adult.

Eunice reminded Oldest Son that as long as he lives at home, parents are still in charge.

At some point, when things were clearly going nowhere, Shawn stepped in and told Oldest Son to be respectful, then said, “Hey you two, this really isn’t going anywhere.”

Then Shawn followed me into the bathroom and tried to wrap his arms around me.

“I don’t want a hug,” I said. “I’m not ready for hugs.”

“You’re a good mom,” he whispered in my ear.

Whatever, I thought, responding with a shrug.

I felt physically ugly, my emotions stuck in fetal position, and everyone tip-toed around the house until bedtime. That night I didn’t sleep well. Then the next morning I greeted Oldest Son with a box of cereal instead of the omelets and smoothies I like to start the boys’ days with. “I think you should start setting your own alarm in the morning and making your own breakfast since you’re an adult now.”

Strangely that didn’t inspire the desired apology from him, or motivate him to beg my forgiveness. Instead he barely answered “OK,” went to school, and I sat there, feeling like a giant pile of terrible-mom shit.

I called my friend Grethe, whom I was certain would assure me I’d done everything right and instruct me on the next appropriate step in this parenting course titled, “Winning Power Struggles: Yell louder, kick their asses and MAKE them respect you, damnit!”

Except she didn’t do that. Not at all.

“Just take that boy in your arms and tell him, ‘Let’s put last night behind us. I don’t want to fight with you anymore; I love you,’” she advised me.

“But...but, what about respect?” I said, incredulous. “Do I just let that go?”

“He respects you,” Grethe said. “You guys just headed down the wrong path and things got out of hand.”

So, I waited, because I really wasn’t ready to be that big yet, or to model how to mend a situation.

But then after more hours than I’d like to admit, I finally found my own version of Grethe’s script and watched as my big boy melted and we made nice…Turns out once the storm passed, he was able to hear me just fine about not teasing his brother.

END NOTE: Stay tuned next week for another round of Your Turn:)