welcome to...

I stood in the night with the building tight and tall rising silently up behind me like a giant ship sleeping in its moors.  I watched the crowd of parents about to be its long term passengers as they tried to comprehend the importance of the meeting going on before them. Life jackets not yet required.  Welcome to Compulsory Team Gymnastics.

I wondered exactly what they were hearing sitting on folding chairs in a parking lot the traffic of 33rd buzzing by.  What information did they think they needed to hear and what did they consider unnecessary.

Each of them clutched their packet of papers and a placement letter.  They leaned forward in their seats looking into an unknown future somewhere out there.

Some had dreamed of this moment. Others were totally caught off guard. A few missed the whole point. All of them stared at the numbers.

Welcome to the world of competitive gymnastics. 

The first thing you will notice (after the cost) is the pronouns. Let me clear this up for you.  The gym owner will say your placement letter, your schedule, your team account.  This is not a mistake although we often joke that it is.

Yes, it may sound more correct to say your daughter's or your athlete's, especially when talking about leos but that would be misleading.  Gymnastics is a sport that creates its own gravity.  Once you accept that your child is a gymnast the course of your life and your family's life will be altered.  You and your whole world will be on that giant cruise ship.

Dinner time will change.  Vacations will change.  Appointments, shopping lists, clothing purchases, birthdays, holidays, weekends, schooling, it all changes.  Maybe not all at once but it will happen.

And yes, it's true your child will get in trouble for being late even though she is 7 years old... Her coaches expect her to be on time because they respect her enough as an athlete to value and protect her workout time.

I look back at the life we had in compulsory (Lv 2-5).  An every other day sort of thing.  Meet season was short enough.  It seemed big.  We lived around gymnastics like it was the sun on holiday.  Our days starting and ending with it.

Then came the Optionals (Lv 6-10) with its 5+ days a week with travel meets.  And Regional Meets.  And because Beach is awesome! Westerns Championships.  So more like the sun on a hiking trip through death valley. Hot, so damn hot, and always there!

Practices. Upgrades. Injuries. Grips. Rips. Leos. Tape. The right flavor of Gatorade. Camps. Showcases. Backpacks. Beam bites. TSA lines. New skills. New bruises. Extra-extra practices. Routines. Water bottles. Heel cups. Clinics. Conditioning. Ice. ER visits. College coaches. Judges. Start values. Phone calls. Meet hair. Teammates. Chalk. Bad days. Good days. All days.

Within this world is you, your family, a few good friends, and your child- the child that picked this path for all of you.

Dear Parents: Our job is to stand behind our daughters- not in front of them. To cheer for them, to feed them good food and lots of love.  To offer shelter in the form of "not gymnastics" things.  Walk with them.  Listen to them.  Give them a second thing- art, music, science, theater, etc. Read to them- even when they are big and "too old".  And to the mothers, put on our swimsuits and swim with them without rolling our eyes at our own bodies as we pass our reflection in the mirror.

Your daughter has chosen to work. To work hard while others play.  I'm not supposed to say they are sacrificing but rather say they are exchanging or... I don't remember the other word... but this isn't the easy way.  Respect her as an athlete.  Love her as a child. Then look out at all those other girls out there, our gym, their gym, that gym, and do the same thing to them; respect them, love them.

And whether or not they "make it", the pay off for just being here is huge. The life lessons, the life skills, that thing that makes people turn their head to watch Beach as walks through the mall, that is the gold in this sport: Confidence, power, poise, strength.

Your other job as a parent is to keep your family culture going. At times it's like threading May Pole in a hurricane but it is possible.

Beach is our youngest so I can't pretend I know how it is to balance the needs of younger siblings. What I know is the number of times I have yelled at her older brother, "Stop wrestling with her she is expensive!" The number of times I tell my older kids "I'm sorry I can't something-something Beach something-something gymnastics".

When you have a competitive athlete time is the most precious luxury around.  Protect your family time- quality over quantity.  Your extended family will not understand, your neighbors will not believe you. Teachers will scoff and other parents will judge you. None of that matters.

The balance is hard. On one hand, it is just another youth sport but on the other, it is the proving ground for your child's future.

As a parent who has been here a long time, I say welcome to the cult of gymnasts.  Welcome to the hardest but most rewarding and amazing adventure you (and your family) will ever go on.

Welcome the family. 

b.u.s.y.

Busy.  That's all I can really say for myself.  A new dog.  Summer schedule at the gym.  A huge reorganizing project on the farm.  The addition of a Tiny House.  Helping BC with his new project Juniper Works. 

A little more time spent with the Nearly-Growns and Little J (can't really call her a baby anymore).  A 15-year-old daughter with a day and a night job... the discovery of Instagram.

Yeah. Busy.

But I miss writing.

I get positive comments on my Instagram. I like Instagram! But yesterday one of the kind commenters didn't know I even had a blog.  It's been that long.

I have seen this same post from many a blogger, it's been too long, I promise to be better, writing about not writing.

The truth is writing is like any other discipline.  It takes time and energy and practice. So yeah, I am out of practice but not out of stories or words.

One of the main storylines in my head and heart right now is Beach's recovery from her back injury.  Having an injured athlete isn't its own chapter, it is its own book.

The R&B Farmstead has stories too. Adventures in skunks mostly.

Then there is Juneau. He has awakened something in my heart I haven't felt for an animal since Kilo.  He is naughty and cuddly. 

He is terrified of men.  He pulls leaves off the sunflowers and puts them in the water bowls that are out in the yard. He is wicked smart- something you could never accuse Kilo of being. 

He likes to reorganize things, not too destructive so far, and really good at catching flies!

And back at the gym, fall schedules are going out which means Meet Season is on the brain.

On Wednesday night I watched the as new compulsory parents received their Meet Season packets and placement letters.

The Optionals BBQ is next.  I will watch the new Level 6's get theirs.  I find that always gives me a lot to say...

As for us, for Beach, it's like the bubble scene in Willy Wonka- we are on the ceiling trying to decide if we are having fun way up here or if we are just totally terrified of the whirling fan ahead of us. Level 10, that's as high as it goes here. Of course, there is a chance with her injury she will stay Level 9.  Levels mean both more and less at the top.

Yeah, it's been a minute but I'm back.

now reading: Before We Were Strangers

old smoke and mirrors

I don't think it is a secret.  And if it is I don't hide it well.  Most people who interact with me on any regular basis can see it.  Something grey around me, a rail-thin line of smoke from a dead fire. Flames that long ago extinguished themselves; ashes to ashes.

Yes, it is true, once upon a time, my life burned to the ground and you if sniff around me you can still smell it.

It was my sister.  Our middle sister. Her life, her death. It's a long story one which I don't know if I can tell any more. The memory of that time and space is a closed attic room.  Perfectly preserved yet nearly forgotten.

The air up there is musty and full of dust. If I think quietly about it I see the things that burned the hottest; the fan in her apartment window, her comforter in the tub, the smell of her blooded baked onto the floor. The radio. The mug. The lingering smell of her body. The color of her skin. The contents of her stomach. The photo of her children.

When my sister died I lost who I was.  She had been my sister, my best friend, my worse nightmare, my whole childhood, and in many ways my own child.  I loved her and I hated her.  Untreated mental health issues turned into an addiction. The addiction turned her into something not entirely human and hard to love but hard to give up on.

It makes sense in hindsight that the TA for the cadaver lab who ID her sister's 4-day rotting in the July heat body, flesh falling off her face where she had fallen, the one who cleaned the apartment stepping over the blood-smeared floor and chunks of her sister's hair, had a complete mental break down. Not metaphorically but literally.

The lapses were small at first typical trauma and the nightmares.  Then everyday objects began taking on new meanings like wood chips, flies, the phone ringing... and then it got even worse. I started seeing things.  I started seeing her. I somehow came to believe her finger was in our vacuum and I refused to use it.  I was terrified she was mad at me for taking all her stuff, most of which I donated to a women's' shelter. I was sleepless and yet I was never fully awake... for years.

The person I was before and the person I am now are not the same. Not even remotely.

The before Me was headed to medical school. The before Me spent 18 hours a day surrounded by the chaos that is carousal of life in the Pre-Med theater and never wanted it to end.

The Me of now barely tolerates the 5-hour shifts at the gym. However, the Me of now is a far better person than the Me of before. Kinder, softer, more aware.

My sister's death pulled me down so far the world outside my head stopped spinning.  Any life that comes to a crashing halt leaves casualties in its wake.

I remember the silence.  I remember looking out at the world from far away. I remember the nightmares, the hallucinations, the weight of not knowing what the dead knew.  The sadness that she died alone and for days no one knew. The guilt.  The irrational fear.  The questions.

The life I rebuild was not my design- it was Beach's.  She was 3 years old when my sister Wendi died.  As the months passed I slowly pulled her and me from the outside world.  I pulled her from the pre-k at the U.  I withdrew from all my classes and gave up my research position. By winter I had us in total isolation.  I remember little to nothing about that time except for her little voice telling me she wanted "us" to go back to school.

By the following Fall, she had managed to guilt me into enrolling her in a cooperative nursery school.  Without my grants and stipends, we couldn't afford it.  So I wrote a letter and she was awarded the first full-ride scholarship they have ever given.  By Winter term I was their first ever paid Director.

She was the one who returned us to society. This is one of the many reasons why my life is built around hers.  I never intended to return.  She gave me no choice.

In many ways I am lucky.  I already surrendered.  Everything on this side of it is extra.  I see life as extremely bittersweet.  The beauty in sadness is there is always contrast.

A loss means you had something to lose in the first place.

I won't pretend that I am completely recovered. When the phone rings there is still a small part of me that thinks it might be her.  I don't feel like she could have died, that doesn't seem possible. That can't of happened to her.  Maybe she was never real.

There are still nights when I have to switch BC sides of the bed because I am afraid she lies in wait for me. I have triggers: flies, fans, smells, red nail polish, white mountain bikes, a certain beer...

It wasn't until just this year that I looked a Beach and saw something I had never seen before.  She actually reminds me of my sister.  My sister is the one person I most fear my children (and her's) becoming.  But Beach seems to reflect the best of her, or at least what she could have been.

She too had been a gymnast. It is the little things mostly, the eyeliner, the lean build, the scrunchies on her wrist, the way she stands, the way she dresses, the big hair.

The last time I ever spoke to my sister was on a Monday the last week of July.  I don't remember much of what was said but I do recall her telling me she didn't want to die. That she was going to stop drinking and I laughed at her.  I laughed.

Someone in her building saw her on Tuesday and then nothing until on Friday the landlord responding to complaints about the smell found her dead in her bathroom.  He called the police and the police called my parents. Who in turn called me.

The moment I was told is a fault line that divides my life: before and after. Some of it was and is awful but some of it is sweeter than I thought life could ever be.

Death is part of living.  And to be honest not everyone is as lucky as me. Death gave me a chance to start over- in a natural disaster sort of way.

Slowly.  So slowly.

For better and worse, I will never be who I was before. I'm not sure how much I trust myself. I prefer to be alone for long stretches.  Being surrounded overwhelms me. I still hold things in my head I can't say out loud. I live with a level of anxiety that would surprise you all.

But the person I am, the one that I returned to the world as, was driving the canyon road on Tuesday afternoon.  The road that my sister used to drive.

Beach was my passenger, her window slightly down.  Summer was pressing in and the world around us was a swirl of gold and yellows and slow-moving semi trucks.

"Mom, if I died today I would be okay with that. I have had a good life. I think it is because I am happy- does that sound stupid? It's not that there aren't things I want to do it's just that I have done a lot in my life already. Even if I died tragically my life would not have been tragic. My life is good."

The Me from before never could have raised a child like this one. The Me from before would have been too busy to be there.

The Me before death came into my life didn't know how important the little moments are.

The person I am today tightened her grip on the steering wheel and doubled checked her mirrors because that Me knows how fragile life can be.

notes from the sideline

It takes a second.  The pause stretches out like thin smoke. 

Finally, she answers my question. 

"I miss Vault," she says. 

This is the hardest part of gymnastics; injury and the doubt it lets in.

Be patient with yourself I tell her.

Stretch and condition and you will come back stronger, her coach encourages.

Don't give up, her teammate writes in a note.

But what is she telling herself?  

We are well across the line of 4 weeks no pounding but she doesn't appear ready to return.  She still hurts.  The memory in her body of working out so hard, so long on the 2 compression fractures in her back lingers. 

I offer distracts. I offer alternatives, additives, advice but she holds her heart out behind her and lets nothing get near it. 

What no one tells you about is how drastically the road narrows at the end. Good friends have quit or retired.  They have moved on most leaving her and their friendship behind.  They move onto dance classes, cheer camps, and boys. 

Friends and teammates graduate and go off to college to their new teams, new worlds.  

Beach goes to practice every day.  She stretches and she conditions for 5 hours.  Her form looks amazing.  She is straighter, brighter, sharper.  

She helps the girls new to Optionals Team.  She coaches them patiently, quietly. Supporting them, guiding them, leading by example.

She cheers for her teammates.

She stands alone.

We should have pulled her at State Meet.  

We should have never let her compete at Regionals and Westerns. 

I know that now. I probably knew that then...

But with an athlete like Beach, it is nearly impossible to find the parent line.  This is a kid who competed a full Meet Season with an avulsion fracture in her hip preventing her from being able to hurdle or split her legs. She took herself all the way to Westerns that year just as she did this year. 

When I find them, I like to send words of advice back down the road to the moms and daughters coming up behind us.  Advice I wish I had been given. 

I find that we are at a point where I don't feel like I don't know anything anymore. And it seems like there is no one to turn to. 

in the land of many things

I am never the one who goes.

But under the circumstances... the new dog that we are pretending is BC's and not mine or Beach's. And the family of skunks out at the chicken coop reenacting the march of the Israelites around Jericho. I went for the beer.

Phoneless, no wallet, a wad of cash balled up in my pocket- the change from the adoption fee.

When I walked into the store it was full. Busy; nightfall wants, nightfall "needs".

I followed a man down the first aisle towards the coolers.  I had to stop and wait as he snatched up a bottle of juice with a yellow minion head on it.  He moved to the next frosty door and grabbed a gold and teal striped can of tea. At the next cooler doors, he got himself out a beer. He startled when he saw me standing behind him. He recovered quickly, smiled and walked towards the front of the store leaving me alone at the back at the wall of cold beer.

I grabbed a 6-pack and was starting for the front when I heard it.  I'm not entirely sure what it was.  Men. Angry men quickly followed by the sharp sound of a taser.

I froze. More men.  Angrier men. Maybe the taser again. A lot of accusations. A lot of denials. A case of threats.

I remember inching forward.  Staring at the shelves of treats and listening.  Cookies $1.79. Pringles $2.19. A box of crackers $4.89. More shouting the words starting to tell a story.  A theft, a robbery, maybe only a shoplifter. That's when I had inched far enough up the rows of shelves to see her.  8 years old standing beside her mother by the counter. Their exit blocked by the shouting, struggling men.

"Sweetheart," I whispered," come with me. Let's get out of the way." She followed me down the aisle pausing halfway down remembering her mother.  She called back to her in Spanish and the mother holding her own 6-pack of beer followed us.

I led them to the back of the store. Stopped before the large metal door marked Employees Only. It was the entrance to the cooler that ran behind the long row of refrigerated shelves.

"If we need to we can go in here," I told them pointing at the door.  They both nodded.

"I'm really scared," the girl said looking me straight in the eyes.

The men's voices and threats constant.  The suspect towering over the clerks who attempted to keep him contained near the front doors. I waited for them to spill outside but they didn't.

And they weren't going to. Slowly I came to understand the whole store was in lockdown. One of the clerks had triggered an alarm that locked the doors caging all of us together. We were trapped inside with this man.  A goldfish bowl with a rat in it. What a stupid fucking idea that was.

There were 3 clerks all on their phones calling out. I waited. We all waited while the man thrashed around.

I was trying to figure it out. Trying to decide if I might later regret not being afraid.

So we wait for the police now, I thought.

Then I remembered the response time and lackluster the SLC PD shows our westside neighborhood and our calls for help... remembered the words of the SLC officer who was too afraid to help the night BC was assaulted trying protecting a young girl who had been beaten badly by our neighbor's "house guest". Remembered how all 10 officers fully armed in vests refused to even approach the man as he stood in the grass hurling threats at any and everyone. The closed internal review.  The failure to come when called.

I realized no one was coming at least not soon. I turned all the attention I could spare to the little girl.

"Oh, you don't have to be scared.  We're fine," I smiled down at her.  She was standing closer to me than her mother. "He's having a bad night.  We will just stay out the way until it is over."

I started talking to her. Asked her about the candy in her hand. Learned her dad and little sister were out in the car waiting for them. She was new to Utah.  Moved here in April from Catalina Island, California.  She had never been in a 7/11 before. As I tried to chat calmly I thought of BC a half a block away. Knowing he must already be wondering what was taking so long. I thought about my phone charging on Beach's bed.

I inched towards the front to get a look at what was going on. It was that fire drill type moment; is this really dangerous?  Should I set down my beer?  Should I send the little girl and her mother into the cooler to hide? I hadn't meant for her too but the girl followed me peeking out from behind the burnt coffee in steaming crafts still waiting to be sold.

The man was pacing and yelling.  He was big and he covered ground quickly. Moving in jerky unpredictable ways. The clerks moving around his ever-shifting radius. A row of large men, other customers, stood back watching. They lined the counter.  They too were trapped.  Their indifference to the scene unfolding only confused matters more.  Did they think it was too dangerous to step in or was more complex than that, more political, more divided that right and wrong?

Minutes passed as I stood watching and listening and making small talk with the girl. I told her about our new dog, about the chickens and the family of dancing skunks. The little girl's mom who had also followed me towards the front let out a gasp as a man appeared outside the doors. She muttered something in Spanish.

The man was not alone.  There were a lot of people at the doors outside wanting in.  Not knowing what was going on.  Beside the man an even smaller girl dressed in pink.  The little girl's little sister.

He stared in looking beyond the crowd of men to his wife and daughter clinging to my side. His looked confused, then confusion faded and he looked alarmed.

Suddenly everything shifted and the man started in our direction. We had crept too far out of our hiding spot. For the first time he saw us; the women.  He saw the little girl.  Easy targets. I felt like I could see him trying to decide.

I hurried the little girl and her mom back down the aisle towards the cooler door.  The taser ripped loudly and the man reversed course moving away from us.

"Stay here for a second, okay?" I told the little girl.
"I'm scared," she repeated.
"He doesn't care about us. We are doing great staying out of the way.  This is almost over." I lied and I promised.

I inched up the aisle again until I could see the doors.  What happened next was fast.  Justin, one of the off duty clerks and an ex-marine appeared outside the doors. After calling the police the clerks had called for someone who would actually help.

The clerks fumbled a bit until they were able to disarm the alarm and open the doors.

Justin blew in the man tried to run from him heading in my direction.  He only made it a few steps before Justin had complete control of him.  The men who had sat by watching poured out the store carrying away their purchases.

Seeing the chance I rushed the little girl and her mom along the back wall directing them towards the open doors. And they were gone.

Justin dragged the man behind the counter and into a back room. There was a lot of noise.

And what is normal? I approached the counter. Put down my beer. Handed the clerk a $20.  He shook as he gave me back my change. The man was yelling. Justin was yelling back but in a much more controlled tone.

I shoved the change in my pocket, picked up my beer, and walked out the open doors.

As I was getting in my car the man, his wife, and his 2 daughters pulled in beside me and thanked me for helping them.

A half-hour later BC strolled over to the store to thank Justin for what he had done.  I checked the police call logs from last night.  It took the police over an hour to respond.

A few years ago at the other 7/11, the one down on California Ave, a clerk was shot and killed by a man stealing cigarettes.  I never go there because there are a lot of bad ways to die but dying in a convenience store is something that should never happen to anyone.  No one's death should be that convenient. In the land of many things, I believe there are too many wants being met and not enough needs.

mountain climbers

I haven't forgotten about this space, it's just that we, as a family, have been on a type of a break.  The once footrace that was gymnastics meet season seems to have turned into a marathon. The push towards State, then Regionals, and then Westerns.  We I  needed a break from the words surrounding it all.

BC took Beach and her friend India to Kauai for 8 days.  

I stayed home and reorganized everything- including my thoughts.

In the departing dust of change, as we have moved into summer training hours, as the requests from colleges wanting more information on Beach silently slip into my inbox I have wondered what to say.

What is important? 

From here I see the whole gymnastics thing as a mountain, not unlike Everest.  As the girls climb higher the group and the air thins. Girls Beach has competed with for years retiring because of injury, because of time, because of fear, because of the lure of the outside world. 

It is like I see them vanishing one by one from the backseat of my car. 

It makes you wonder what is out there?

I look back in time to Level 3, to Level 4.  I remember watching the big girls in the gym and now mine is one of them. One of the biggest, one of the oldest, one of the "best".

But right now her back is not good.  She took almost 2 full weeks off of training.  Returning to the gym (no pounding) on a Friday.  Followed that with a morning bars practice on Saturday.  By Sunday afternoon her back was hurting again.

Be patient we keep telling her.  Take as much time as you need. 

This is the hard part- watching her struggle.  And believe it or not, this is the spot you are racing your daughters towards.  The top is narrow and steep.  Some days it takes all they have just to hold on to where they are.

I never wanted this life for her but right now I would very much like to see her recover and successfully continue up her mountain. Plant her flag on the summit before moving on.