Getting Off the Wheel

I have trouble reaching a place of solitude. I’m guessing I’m not alone. 

Mental to-do lists and my tendency to constantly rearrange the furniture in my mind cause quite a needless ruckus. The persistent commotion makes it hard to hear subtle messages from on high. Gentle nudges from the Holy Spirit can be unfortunately squelched by an evening of pathetically unnecessary tasks. I’m all about perpetual activity. Even when I’m not showing signs of physical bustle, my mind is on a hamster wheel. I mean, is it really necessary for me to spend cerebral energy second-guessing the true intent of a  friend’s unusual and obscure comment?  If I haven't planned out the next two days in my head, is it still okay to close my eyes at the end of a long day?  And for the sake of all that is worthwhile, do I REALLY have to organize my spices in alphabetical order? 

Occasionally and mercifully I am reminded that the world will not stop spinning if I close my mouth, turn off the music, and find a place of less distraction to stop the madness. In fact, I have discovered that when I just cease moving and thinking for a moment, I am infinitely more accessible to my Creator. 

Some time ago, I spent an amazing two days at a spiritual retreat center doing something completely out of character. My time was spent in silent personal retreat. I actually was forced to be quiet! It was one of the most powerfully enlightening experiences of my life.

But pressing the pause button on busyness does not come naturally. It takes serious reminders for those of us intent on making lists for every aspect of our lives. I put things on my lists just for the pleasure of crossing them off when complete.  It’s pathological.

So if you’re like me, try this on for size: Put time alone with God on your list. Better yet, make an appointment with Jesus in your datebook!  Include the time you plan to "meet." Don’t let anything get in the way. God is standing by and anticipating your attention. Getting off that hamster wheel to spend some quiet time with God will likely be the one item on your agenda providing the encouragement and connection required for every other aspect of your day. And I’m telling you from experience, your paprika can wait.

The Nurse Goes Back to School

I hate those Back-to-School advertisements.  I know they’re just trying to sell their overstocked 3-ring binders and Hello Kitty lunchboxes, but the mid-summer media jingles are like pins in my ears.  It happens every July, don’t know why I should be surprised.  And just as I have delightfully forgotten how my alarm clock functions, August has rolled around and impending doom (AKA the new school year) is an inescapable reality.   

  

It sneaks upon me just as I get used to the calm rhythm of sun-soaked living.  The evil calendar page turns and I am facing a mailbox stuffed with health forms and new medical records.  Tiny paperwork tasks join larger jobs of restocking and writing care plans, and before I know it, my to-do list is decidedly longer than my grit.

Wasn’t it just yesterday I defrosted the ice pack freezer?  I’m relatively certain I just waved good-bye to last year’s batch of frequent flyers. Guess not because in less than two weeks, I will once again experience the return dozens of anxiety-ridden children (impossibly 2 inches taller than last time I saw them.)  They’ll be sporting tanned faces, new haircuts, and have eyes wide with anticipatory fear.  Some will be ecstatic, but most will arrive with stomachs tied in knots as their new sneakers squeak down the shiny buffed halls of Penn View.       

                                                                                                        First day bellyaches are inevitable. Many of the known cherubs will check in with me before the first bell.  They need a little fix of nurture from the nurse they’ve known since kindergarten (not to mention some of my magical saltines to remind them that my office is still a safe haven.)  They’ve yet to meet their new teacher and it will be at least four school days before they are comfortable enough to ask said teacher if they can visit me again.  Some teachers will send them willingly- hangnails, broken shoelaces, or half-baked descriptions of pseudo-illness, it doesn’t matter- they’ll send them.  Other teachers are more judicious about wasting class time and won’t allow students to come to my office unless they are bleeding from the eye.  (Those kids see me at recess and during specials, when the homeroom teacher is a safe distance from the request.)  I saw a first grader once who claimed he had sustained a cardiac arrest in math class but was not given permission to see me for evaluation until recess…..

After a decade of this August to September pattern, the tempo is predictable.  You’d think with an entire summer to walk and be otherwise active, I’d be physically fit for my return to the workplace.  But factor in the annual consumption of sweet tea and it will become clear that once again, none of my work clothing is a comfortable fit.  But an easier snapping of trousers is soon to follow because I will start burning off my summer accumulation of bliss with the constant motion that is my job.  One days-worth of hand-washing alone is good for at least a zillion calories.  Throw in the hundred sore throats I check, the thousand times I duck when a snotty child coughs directly in my face, the myriad of Bandaids I apply, the ice packs I wrap, the tiny hearts and lungs I listen to, the countless walks to the farthest end of the building for the kid who repeatedly forgets to come by for medication, the numerous pokes to sweet little diabetic fingers for constant glucose checking, the jogs to the playground when someone is injured and “can’t move” and the constant lunch interruptions, and I’ll be back in shape in no time.        

So my life should calm down to a reasonable cadence by late November.  I’ll have a handle on the 100+ new students I am suddenly responsible for, I will have organized the mountain of new medications which will be dumped upon my desk the first day of school (some without names.)  I will have finally received the final emergency information card which was due prior to the first day of school but I find myself pleading for despite weeks of classes.  I will have tracked down the 20^th EPIPEN for one of the children with a life-threatening allergy (which was also due the first day and finally arrives after the ninth note to home and the third pleading phone call…) 

Notwithstanding the sudden and jolting shock to my relaxing summer, I am thankful for my job.  For there are things this job gives me that make it worth the stress of reorganizing my life every September.  This job gives me 550 little people to love.  It gives me a window into their lives and a chance to share a little joy with someone who might need me. It gives me two months every summer to recharge and remember I am something besides a nurse to children.  And it gives me a fresh start on a new page every new school year.  Who gets to start fresh in their job every year?  I can try to make things better.  And for that I am grateful.  I just have to remind myself of that when my morning alarm goes off next week and scares the daylights out of me.

WEST COAST ADVENTURE - DAY 9 of 9

FERAL PARROT FAREWELL

The awesomeness of sleeping in a redwood forest cannot be overstated. Looking out our front and rear windows we saw enormous trees that ought to inspire red-barked embarrassment in their stubby Pennsylvania cousins.

Ever optimistic, Jim attempted to tackle the waffle iron this morning. But he forgot to spray it with Pam. (To his credit, he managed baking it with only slight beeping from the iron.) 

Climbing into the car....again....., we began heading through the tiny village of Boulder Creek.  We saw lots of homemade signs advertising firewood for sale.  There is certainly no shortage of wood in this town.  If one tree falls, the entire village of Boulder Creek is set for the season. Selling firewood in Boulder Creek is like people in Souderton trying to sell zucchini to their neighbors in August.

We began climbing the snaking curvy antiemetic-requiring roads toward Big Basin Redwood Forest.  This kind of thing should be undertaken to the strains of something akin to Mozart.  But instead, the Equinox was vibrating with the thumping chords of Billy Squier’s “Lonely is the Night.” (I somehow neglected to consider the musical tastes of the rest of my family while packing for this trip thereby foolishly leaving my IPod at home..)

The trees along the sides of the road were growing more and more massive the closer we came to Big Basin. Arriving in the lot, we all began looking straight up, our necks bent at a severe angle.  We would remain pretty much in that awkward position for our entire visit with the giant timbers.

Jim was paying our fee and patiently receiving a parking tag and trail map from the kind forest ranger when I jumped in with my pathetic lack of decorum and cut to the chase. “Where’s the shortest trail with the biggest trees?”  He looked down his nose at me and answered derisively, “The Redwood Trail…it only takes 30 minutes…” To his credit, he tried (but without success) to respond without allowing a strange combination of amusement and loathing to creep across his countenance. I thanked him for his expertise and Jim went back to the car to prominently display our parking pass.

Ike, Abby and I perused the information center and returned to find Jim standing very still and listening to something with great intensity.  He shushed us as we approached and bade us listen too.  After a short pause we heard knocking resonating from a nearby tree.  Jim (in his usual manner of saying a lot with very few words) elucidated, “That may be the most determined woodpecker in the world.” 

The Redwood Trail is ½ mile of astounding beauty.  We hiked through majestic sequoias that just take your breath away.  The rays of sun peeking down through the colossal trees were another reminder to me that the minutia of my days amounts to only dust. 

The lower portions of the trees managing the most impressive girth were marked with telltale blackened rashes; charred bark from forest fires earlier endured.

Jim and Isaac were inside the trunk of a tree which was still towering, plush with green leaves, yet completely hollow inside.  This coastal redwood is theorized to have overcome several fires, eventually forming its own perfect chimney effect. 

The literature told us that another of the trees in that part of the forest is recorded to have smoldered and burned for 14 months before the fire actually extinguished.

See “chimney tree” below.

The “Father of the Forest” is estimated to be about 2,000 years old.  The “Mother” is the tallest in Big Basin at 329 feet tall and over 70 feet around. Truly astonishing.

Our little “tree -hugger” below:

It is nearly impossible to list which parts of this trip have been my favorite, but the redwoods are definitely up there pretty high. No pun intended.

There is not enough Dramamine in the universe for the 13 miles of zig-zagging torture that was Bear Creek Road.  My mint gum was my only hope, and it was agonizingly insufficient. Where the serpentine road on Coastal route 1 provided pullovers for scenic vistas, Bear Creek Road had shoulders for adventures of a more gastronomic kind.   The steering wheel was in constant severe motion. And when we turned onto CA 35 and saw a sign reporting that the next 5 miles was going to be winding, I had to cry.  Literally. It was like riding the Tilt-A-Whirl after just disembarking from the Spinning Tea Cups. 

By the bottom of the hill, Jim was directing the car to creep along like a geriatric patient after hip surgery, yet it was still somehow too swift.  It felt like Christmas morning when we pulled out of the forest and onto the nearly straight road below.  Thank heaven for Highway 17.

We did some shopping and had lunch in the adorable little shopping district of Los Gatos. Since Jim and shopping aren’t really compatible, we didn’t stay too long before we were back on the road to San Francisco.

SHOPPING IN LOS GATOS LINK

It has been an awesome nine days, but I am beat.  Waking at 6:30 each morning and getting to bed after my usual early bedtime is catching up to me.  I can barely contain my enthusiasm when I consider waking at 4:00 tomorrow morning to catch our 6:30 am flight.  And it won’t be our last flight of the day….that one will arrive in time to get us back to Hatfield sometime after midnight.  And I have to say goodbye to Isaac early tomorrow morning for at least several months. Brutal.

I had forgotten how vertical the streets of San Francisco tend to be. I suspect the Irish visited San Francisco at some point, inspiring them to pen the blessing about the “road rising up to meet you.” 

While waiting near the Coit Tower for a spot to park, Jim attempted to summon the feral parrots of Telegraph Hill from his car window.  He was unable to lure one, but he did catch the interest of several feral pigeons nearby…

The elevator to the top of the Coit Tower was overpriced but provided an effective way to see the whole city at once.  That is, the whole city except for the Golden Gate Bridge (which remained shrouded in fog the entire time we visited.) 

The Bay Bridge was much easier to spot.  We traveled the length of the Bay Bridge later that night on our way to our last hotel.

Drove to the pier area and walked from Pier 39 to Ghirardelli Square.

Ate some much-anticipated sourdough, saw the sea lions, and tasted chocolate samples. 

We did have 4 sightings of the famous wild parrots, the first of which was when Jim, Isaac and Aubrey exercised their leg muscles on the meandering elevation that is Lombard Street.  Having experienced enough S-turns today, I sensibly waited in chocolate square. 

I did not take this photo (OBVIOUSLY....since I was still hanging out with the Ghirardelli chocolate-
photo credits for this image of Lombard Street to the land of internet images via Mase's Weblog) 

About the parrots, it is helpful that those green feathered city-dwellers announce themselves so well.   They are such a raucous band of rabble-rousers, you can hear them coming before you spot them.  (I actually had hoped to add a noisy little sound track of annoying parrots squawking to make the experience more REAL for you, but no sound bite I found online could do the original feathered band of hooligans proper justice.) Had the birds not been screaming wildly as they passed us several times in a streak of green, we might have missed them altogether. Once sighted, they are so speedy, I was scarcely able to snap a picture. If you look closely, you can spot one near the brown growth protruding from the bark. I concede it is challenging to distinguish the riotous bird from the palm leaves. If he had cooperatively directed his bright blue or red face toward the camera, he would have been more obvious. Okay, I realize as I'm typing, I was a bit obsessed with the whole wild bird thing. Maybe because for a month or two we've endured the heart-rending posters of a lost yellow cockatoo on telephone poles in Hatfield and I'm imagining some strange new breed of backyard bird with fancy yellow plumes protruding from their heads taking up residence in MY town. Enough about the wild parrots already. 

Someone recommended a restaurant known for garlic dishes (Aubrey’s favorite food) called The Stinking Rose.  But we ate too much sourdough to have an appetite for dinner.

Once we hit the hotel in Oakland that evening, we officially came to the end of my tediously premeditated itinerary. The marathon day of flying tomorrow makes me want to pout. But I am riding too high to be anything but grateful.  It was a wonderful trip with some much appreciated family time.  I’m a little sad that the adventure is at an end but a rather large slice of me is thrilled that our exhausting agenda is finally completed. Barring any airport calamities, tomorrow night I’ll be sleeping in my own bed, which sounds pretty heavenly at the moment. 

Just imagine the the helpful dent we might have made in our debt had we chosen to stay at home.  But as Jim says, we shouldn’t count the cost this time, just count our adventures.  He’s a wise guy in every sense of the word.  My road-weary soul is ever so thankful we opted to spend our pennies on some family memories. Seriously. California dreamin’ and nine days with my husband and kids.  You just can’t put a price tag on that.  

WEST COAST ADVENTURE - DAY 8 of 9

LOST IN PEBBLE BEACH – July 18

The Villa de Shelly was nice but the breakfast nook was rash-inducing.  When you hear that breakfast is included in the stay, you are pleased with your frugal find and your looming food budget savings.  But after spending several mornings with the turn-key Frosted Flake dispensers, passing up the bulging bowls of hard boiled eggs, and pouring medicine-cup sized batter into the handy-dandy flipping Belgium waffle makers, it starts to get a little old.  I’m sounding spoiled, I realize (and I feel a little guilty about that) but the piercing alarm beeps associated with the waffle baking cycles at this particular hotel were sharper to the ear than any fire alarm, intravenous infusion pump or McDonald’s French fry siren I've ever experienced. It was positively deafening, driving Isaac and his half-banana out onto the ledge of the Villa de Shelly prematurely.  Or maybe he was trying to put some distance between himself and his family because all this togetherness is becoming a chore.

After breakfast we drove to Carmel-by-the-Sea, an adorable little seaside town.  There were quaint shops, art galleries, and fabulous well-kept cottages skirting the white sandy beach. 

To the right of the beach we could see the greens of Pebble Beach golf courses right against the sea cliffs.

We paid a toll to drive up through Pebble Beach.  The road signs were confusing to say the least, the streets cutting paths between expensive homes, golf courses, and on the most scenic route, bordering the sea. Looking at all that green grass right up next to the ocean, I wonder how many golf balls have been lost at sea. 

Though I appreciate being able to see the dark birds against a lighter background, the large sea rocks that have become completely white with guano are more than a little gross.

There is a large cypress tree in Pebble Beach named Charles Crocker.  I get that this guy was some famous tycoon and important somehow to the area.  But is it somehow an honor to have a tree named after you?  I must be missing something.   

And speaking of cypress trees, we stopped to see the legendary “Lone Cypress”.

This tree is such a big deal, they’ve made it part of the Pebble Beach marketing and built a little stone wall around it.  It’s a cypress tree, and it’s alone.  So what’s the attraction? I’m telling you, it looks just like any other cypress tree in California. The 17 mile scenic drive through Pebble Beach proved too much for us. 

After the Lone Cypress, things deteriorated quickly and we started realizing we were all turned around on our silly little map.  It felt like we were stuck in a Pebble Beach sand trap.  We had seen enough and wanted out but we were lost in a maze.  After much consternation and trying to cue the handheld navigational tools within our possession, we finally found route 1 again and dragged our road-weary selves to the Point Pinos Lighthouse.

There was a slight detour for some ocean rock climbing in Point Pinos. While my family was climbing, I was accidentally attracting sea gulls.  This big fella landed squarely on the hood of the car and looked at me in hopeful expectancy.  He thought I might share one of the M&Ms upon which I was snacking. (It’s always wiser to pull out the chocolate when your family is off climbing rocks.)  After some inner deliberation, I did opt to launch a multigrain cracker as far out the window as I could fling it in order to get him off the car before he added his own white adornments to the hood. My family mercifully returned before the beggar had a chance to return to the scene and fly into the open SUV window. (Jim had the keys...)

Point Pinos Lighthouse was under renovation so this is as close as we got.

Monterey Bay Aquarium was definitely the nicest aquarium I’ve ever visited.  But there were WAY too many people who had the same idea today.

Touching starfish and bat rays was fun.  The bat rays steered a clear path away from poor Jim and would not allow him to get his fingers near enough to reach them. 

It was mesmerizing to watch the jellyfish swim. The elegant jellyfish and the dainty seahorses were my favorites.

This enormous fish caught everyone by surprise when it swam by the large tank window.  I have no idea what it is. Not to disrespect the fish, but his weight alone could make enough fish sticks to feed several small villages.

Jim and Aubrey had a captivating close encounter with a penguin. I surprised Aubrey with a stuffed penguin on the Santa Monica pier earlier this week.  It happened to be in her backpack when we were at the aquarium.  She decided to introduce the real penguin to his stuffed counterpart.  Through the glass, the penguin was immediately intrigued by this smaller fuzzy newcomer.  Aubrey shot a great little video of the encounter and I’m hoping the link below works so you can see what I mean.

It was inconceivable to me that thousands of anchovies can spend their entire lives swimming in one direction in their compact tubular tank.  It was like a shimmering merry-go-round of fishy silver going by (and at a pretty rapid clip.)  But I guess swimming in circles at an aquarium is preferable to resting atop the cheese on somebody's pizza.

The speedy murres flying through the fishy water of the large tank were so fast it was impossible to capture a picture.  They look like small penguins but are speedy beyond imagination and are masterful swimmers, flapping their wings and zooming through the water, zipping around all manner of fish as though everyone else was standing still.

Isaac enjoyed watching the schools of fish swim by in the large tank but was more delighted when we left the crowds of the aquarium behind to go find some lunch. We ate on the patio at First Awakenings where forward pigeons paced around our table, hoping for some generosity.

The sound of Pop Rocks sizzled from Isaac and Aubrey in the back seat on the drive to Capitola.  This was a cute little place but we only stayed for a few minutes before continuing our drive north.

Drove on to Natural Bridges State Beach and gave a final salute to the beaches of California.  With the sand blowing directly in our faces, we trekked down the beach, barely pausing to admire the huge bridge-shaped rock in the sea. 

There were flat sandstone (and other) rocks along the far side of the beach (which of course to certain male persons in our party meant MORE CLIMBING.)

Continued on to Santa Cruz Boardwalk, which was sadly not a boardwalk at all, but a long cement portion covered in amusement park rides and unhealthy food selections. 

Because we haven’t done enough traveling, we rode the Sky ride down to the other end of the park.   A distant lighthouse was the point at which I chose to fasten my gaze as it was a lot nicer to look at than the alternative (looking down and seeing my life flash before me in the form of a fall to the very hard concrete slab so very far below.) 

Aubrey ate a deep fried peanut butter and jelly sandwich (with powdered sugar and a side of dipping chocolate, no less.)

 Not to be outdone, Isaac ingested a glazed donut nearly the size of his head. Boardwalk nutrition at its finest.

Walked the wharf where locals were catching mackerel and harbor seals were barking beneath the pier. We spotted a second lighthouse from the Santa Cruz wharf (which was also disappointingly paved in blacktop.)

It seemed surreal that only ten minutes from the beach we entered the serpentine roads through the Henry Cowell State Park redwood forest. Route 9 north was almost magical. We found our hotel and it was positively adorable, the chilly pool area delightfully adorned with roses and tucked right into the middle of a redwood forest. Doesn't get any better than that.