5

July 28, 2011.  5 years since my mom died on July 28, 2006.  One of the first things I was told is that it takes 5 years to fully grieve.  "Five years?" I thought, not even comprehending at the time that my mom wouldn't be there tomorrow.  I hadn't even entered grief yet, I was still in shock.  But that allotted amount of time always stuck with me, for some reason. 


Five years, I would think randomly....then what?  Would the world magically become all poofy and fluffy and everything fine again?  Would I forget I even had a mom?  What was this arbitrary chunk of time?  The days, then months, and finally years tick-tocked away.  Life continued on.  And here I am at the five year mark already.  No, the world is not perfect, my mom isn't back.  And of course I haven't forgotten at all about my mom.  I can still feel her arms wrapped around my waist, hugging me from behind like she loved to do.  I still miss her every day, and wonder what she would think of me, what she'd have to say about my life, my plans. 


So many many many things have changed in 5 years, but the memories of her are so fresh.  At times it seems like so long ago that I got the call - startled awake by the cell phone ringing incessantly at 6 am.  Other times it's just yesterday that we were making plans for my birthday, that she was nagging me about getting a good job and going back to school.  The one thing that hasn't changed is her photo on my dresser.  She will never grow old to me, I will never see her with gray hair (more, she would add), more wrinkles, holding her grandkids, attending my wedding.  This is my reality now, a mom frozen in time.  It's not good or bad, it just is.  Maybe that's part of the 5-year thing, looking back and reflecting on life for a moment, accepting the situation as it is.  I still think it's a bit arbitrary, though.  Five years, 5 hours, my mom is still not with me in this world anymore.

Hey Jude

"Hey Jude, don't make it bad...

Take a sad song and make it better..."

Ah that Beatles song.  I remember singing at the top of my lungs with my sister and brother to this song, dedicating it our mom.  Just because the name of the song matched hers.   Usually in the car on road trips.  And when it got to the extended "nah nah nah, na-na nah nah..." that goes on for 17+ counts (yes, I counted once) we'd add a little extra loud belting it out.  She loved it....even if she didn't express her love for it at the time!

Nowadays that song always makes me pause when I hear it.  There are other songs that always bring me back to a time and place long forgotten.  It's funny, too, how I can remember the exact details of what I was doing - the car I was in, the road we were on, who I was with, when I hear some songs.  How strange how our memory works.  I suppose that's why I love music so much.  It's not just the sound of guitar and drums - or piano and bass guitar, or whatever instrument is involved in creating an amazing song.  It's the combination of a song + time and place.  Whether it's the lyrics of the song, or the activities associated with the song - there is something about music that produces a feeling of connection beyond that physical recording of the sound.

Have you ever been asked "If you had to lose your sight or your hearing, what would you choose?".  It's a hard one - and one I hope to never have to make!  But for me, I think I'd have to give up my sight before my hearing, for the simple fact of music.  Sound.

As I plan my wedding - flowers and dress and cake oh my!! - I keep returning to the music.  John of course is also very much into music, which I love.  In particular, the songs that will be involved in the actual ceremony are proving harder to choose than I thought!  Classical or contemporary?  Instrumental or with original lyrics?  Slow tempo or upbeat?  I've been on a musical journey the last couple of weeks, previewing all of my old favorites with a more critical ear - would this work to walk down the aisle to?  Is it too sad/obscure/fast?  It's been fun to go through my history of music - and the memories that pop up with certain songs.

Which brings me back to Hey Jude.  Ah, that song.  My mom.  I would love to incorporate it somehow, but I'm not sure if it's too sad, or too obvious.  I don't know....I wish I could call up my mom and say "Hey mom, what do you think....?"

Astoria: a mini-San Francisco?

Okay, I know it's a stretch - San Francisco and Astoria, OR in the same group!  But, think about it, both places are very hilly, covered with cute Victorian homes on the shores of the water (a bay or river) where bridges and water dominate the view.  Astoria usually has a few ships anchored just offshore, and an active (albeit small) port.  There's a tourist trolley that runs along the river's edge, complete with ringing bell and friendly conductor.  It has a long history of fires, and much of the downtown area was built on pilings.  The fishing industry is still present, but renovated canneries now host a lot more espresso shops, breweries, and museums.  Sounds more and more familiar, huh?  Okay, Astoria only has about 10,000 people, and is certainly not a thriving cultural center, but I can't help but think of San Francisco when I go on my morning run or meet friends downtown for coffee.  This article from the NY Times got me thinking, so there you have it - my waxing poetic about my current hometown!


http://travel.nytimes.com/2011/03/27/travel/27overnighter-astoria.html


http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2011/03/27/travel/0327ASTORIA.html

Lucky

Fort Stevens State Beach, Oregon Coast

Sometimes it's good to just sit back and get some perspective.  I got that tonight, as I was doing my monthly beached bird survey.  When I started doing these surveys I thought "once a month?  No problem!"  Well it turns out volunteering to do even one thing every month can be kinda hard for this girl.  If you haven't noticed, it's already Jan 31 - the last day of the first month of 2011!  - and I found myself rushing out of work at 4:30 pm to quickly do my beach survey before the sun set on January 2011.  At times like these I wonder why I volunteered at all.  I mean, the purpose is to monitor dead birds that wash ashore on local beaches, as a way to assess the overall health of the ocean and respond to catastrophic events like oil spills.  As a marine biologist, I get it.  Long-term datasets on what "normal" is - even in the dead bird world - is invaluable when something like the Horizon Deepwater Oil Spill happens.  Scientists can tell when an unusual stranding event is happening and react.  But when I'm rushing out at sunset, with plenty of other stuff to do, it just feels like more work.


That is, until I get to the beach.  Then I'm reminded of how lucky I really am.  As I prepare to get married and move (hopefully) in with John - probably in Seattle - I know that my time on the Oregon Coast - at least as my current permanent residence is concerned - is limited.  The beach at Fort Stevens State Beach is long, flat, and wide.  Sand stretches north and south out into the hazy distance, with the wild ocean waves crashing all along the shore.  Tillamook Head peeks out through the low-lying clouds, miles away, and the mouth of Columbia River looms to the north, marked by the long jetty with saltwater spray bouncing off the tops of waves.  I'm usually one of only a handful of people out on the beach - sometimes I'm literally the only person - and essentially have the big wide beach all to myself.  Luckily the shipwreck of the Peter Iredale serves as a good reference point on this long beach.  I can't imagine there are many places left like this in the world.  As I walk the beach, scanning for carcasses (and glass balls), I get lost in my thoughts.  The wind and waves are the soundtrack as I reset my mind and perspective.  I gaze out to sea - sometimes there are crab boats on the horizon, sometimes pelicans soaring above the waves.  Sometimes the wind is pelting rain into my face so hard it hurts, sometimes the sun is so bright it blinds.  But every time I'm on the beach, I feel lucky.  To have this place within 20 minutes of my house, to be able to witness Mother Nature at her finest, at the place where the ocean meets land, I am happy.  The sand I track back into my car, and the wet rain gear and soggy datasheets are all byproducts of the lucky life I have.