Crater Lake and the Weight of Snow

Minutes into my early morning run, the howl of a lone coyote broke the silence in the basin. A second one responded, and then two quickly became three. Other coyotes joined in, their howling echoing all around. On previous trips to Oregon, I’d found comfort and hope while running on this path. I had also walked here with my family, under a brilliant rainbow that offered a well-timed distraction from the tension building between us. This weekend, I had travelled here to celebrate my son’s birthday. Although excited to see him, I was still nervous about how the next few days would go. I was not inherently superstitious, but I could not help but wonder what type of omen howling coyotes on a brisk March morning might portend.

I returned to the warmth of the hotel, leaving the coyotes behind, and checked the Crater Lake webcam for a visibility update. The website was down, which did not bode well for the day. Hoping for the best, I began the twenty-minute drive from my hotel to the Oregon Institute of Technology campus, which took me around Upper Klamath Lake. As I drove along a sharp bend in the lakeshore path, four deer revealed themselves just to my right, frozen still on a front lawn. They were unfazed as I pulled over and grabbed my phone to take a picture. One deer, the largest of the pack (does four equal a pack?), was focused intently on me, its eyes unblinking and staring. Animals and nature declared themselves the themes of the day.

Although only fifty miles away, the GPS indicated a ninety-minute drive to Crater Lake’s south entrance. Madison and I left Klamath Falls, with a glassy smooth lake on our left and imposing mountains on our right. The mood was light and easy as we listened to a podcast, pausing every now and then to point out a striking view or to dig deeper into the finer points of League of Legends, the topic being discussed on the radio. There was an absence of tension. No hidden agendas. Just a dad and a son spending time together.

As we hit the base of the park entrance, snow announced its presence. Starting as a light layer on the road, it steadily increased as we wound back and forth on our drive to the top. The guard rails, visible at the start, disappeared under the increasing depth. The towering Ponderosa Pines and Douglas Firs lined the road with their branches and needles covered in heavy powder. The trees appeared burdened by the weight, their branches bending downward towards the earth.

Thirty minutes later, we exited the car at the top of the park, 8000 feet higher. We stretched our legs as we breathed cold air into our lungs. The sun was brilliant, made even more so by bouncing off the pure snow that crunched beneath our boots as we walked to the rim. As the lake came into view, it did not disappoint. The reflections of the mountains on its blue surface was pristine. Not one cloud disrupted the sky or interrupted the sun. The snow was bleach white and bright. The water was still and glassy. The air was crisp and cool. And I was with my son. For a moment, there was clarity in the simplicity of those things. Air. Water. Sun. Snow. Family.

We spent some time taking in the view and took pictures that failed to do it justice, eventually making our way back to the car to start our return trip. As I focused on the ice and snow on the road ahead, movement to my left caught my eye. A chunk of snow slid off one of the branches of a Douglas Fir, breaking up into infinitely smaller and smaller pieces, as it made its way to the earth. The branch, no longer encumbered by the weight, sprang up, angling towards the sky.

As we finished our descent, my breathing felt easier. Maybe it was just due to the decreasing altitude, but I believe that our trip helped shake off some of the “snow” that had been constricting Madison and me. We were able to pause and sit with our thoughts a bit, instead of letting them race through us. To look beyond the next few hours and days and be open to a vision of what else is possible. That changing dynamic was infinitely more important than figuring out the hidden meaning of howling coyotes or glaring deer

The rest of our weekend was as beautiful as Crater Lake. Conversations with depth and breadth. Board games and movies, with some lap swimming mixed in. The morning of my departure, we hugged and said goodbye, before I started the hour-long drive back to the airport. Although it is still winter in Oregon with a fair amount of snow around, it feels like spring might have come early for Madison and me.

 

The Ties that Bind and the Weight of Connection

Traevelling 30,000 feet above the ground on my way back to Chicago, it’s hard not to think about distance and space. How people in the same room can still feel worlds apart while others can be physically separated by hundreds of miles and still be intimately connected. Traditional modes of measurement fail when it comes to matters of the heart. I feel the push and pull of these forces currently at play within me as I sit on a plane, wanting to distract myself with some mindless movie or loud music or just close my eyes and sleep. The plane, at its current altitude, disconnects my phone from the pages, texts and alerts waiting on the ground, freeing me for a short while from their intrusion.

To be intertwined with someone else. To belong to something greater than yourself. A family or community? To have purpose beyond ourselves. To give and receive. To be connected. These thoughts lead my brain back to chemistry and physics and learning of forces and attraction between molecules. I recall the weaker ionic bonds, able to be disrupted by water alone.  I remember organic chemistry and the tight sharing of electrons between carbon atoms, and its strong covalent connection. I think of the ultimate overwhelming gravitational force of a black hole from which nothing can escape.

In the past, those descriptions were just notes jotted down on paper. Simple lines to memorize to later regurgitate verbatim on a test or quiz. At the time, I did not have the capacity to truly understand those ideas. Now I find deeper meaning in these concepts. The invisible attraction exerted by gravitational forces and tight bonds cause visible and tangible effects. We learn of the “potential” within these bonds, to hold and store power and energy which I have felt in the pounding of my heart and in the heat of my salty tears. The paradox being that the strength within the bonds of connection that help withstand stress and strain can also cause disruption and damage.

How then to find equipoise and balance? Where this connectedness provides stability and strength to move forward, instead of collapsing under its own weight.

It is in this space that I am floating at the moment. Physically, 30,000 feet above the earth, yet right next to Madison in Southern Oregon and Maya back home in Northbrook. Can they feel me with them right now? Do they know how much they are in my thoughts? Do they feel the same tug on their hearts and in their core? And if so, does it feel safe and warm and a source of comfort and confidence? Or is it heavy and weighty and overwhelming and constricting?

The change of pressure on my ears signals the beginning of the plane’s descent back to earth. The thirty minutes or so left on this flight leaves nowhere near enough time to climb out of this rabbit hole in which I find myself.  But this is why I chose to go part-time. To find time and space to wrap my mind around these questions. It was too infrequent and rare to have the emotional energy and capacity to sit with and work through these issues

The plane lands and Becky and I disembark, still a bit disoriented with my ears plugged and cumulative fatigue of the weekend. I find myself adjusting to the changing forces of connection, now that I am two thousand miles closer to my daughter, but that much farther from my son.  But I sense this is a new theme in my life. Navigating time and space with those you love and balancing the benefit of the power of connection with the weight of its strength. And in this moment, these invisible forces couldn’t be more tangible,  as my heart is pulled in all sorts of directions.

 

Hiatus

Time passed. One day became two. Weeks became months. What began as a temporary absence evolved into a void.

No writing. No journaling. No attempt at an opening paragraph. On occasion, I hastily blurted a random thought or two into a voice memo on my phone. But the recorded words stayed in coded form. Bits and bytes waiting to be transcribed and brought to life as words on a page.

For the better part of a year, I have worked on at least one piece of writing at a time. An idea or story. An outline for a book. Always some small part of my brain processing and playing with an idea, while racing through the craziness of my day.

But the last few months have been a bit of a hiatus.

The intensity of my work life and family life converged for a while, with quite a bit of travel mixed in. San Francisco for a conference. Klamath Falls, Oregon for a brief family Thanksgiving. Preparing for my son’s long-awaited homecoming for winter break back in Chicago. Christmas spent covering the hospital and ICU. Ringing in the New Year while working in an ICU in Elkhart, Indiana.

And somewhere between the West Coast and the rural Midwest, I got lost.

That little part of my brain stopped sorting new thoughts and ideas. Instead, I fed it a steady diet of Netflix, cryptocurrency and progressive politics. Comfort food for my cerebral cortex. And as the writer inside me took a leave of absence, I found other parts of myself taking a time-out as well. My running shoes sat untouched most days. My swim bag remained buried in the corner of the mudroom, as I went AWOL from my water polo team. Whatever exercise I managed was mindless and without purpose. As my writing and journaling stopped, so did my desire to physically push and challenge myself.

But I did not close my eyes.

I watched my daughter continue to face the challenges of being a sixteen-year-old junior in high school, navigating the ever-shifting landscape of friends, school and life. Juggling final exams and ACT tests, hours of dance and Poms, injuries, babysitting and a boyfriend. Like her dancing, She stumbles at times. But like she does when dancing, she pops right back up and continues moving forward, becoming more adept and able every time.

I watched my son face the challenges of being nineteen, while working on the universal yet uniquely personal battle between autonomy and dependence. Between freedom and restriction. More often than not, that process now takes place out of my sight, as he currently lives two thousand miles away. I am still coping with this. But each time our orbits align (and hopefully not collide), I see a little bit more of the man he is becoming.

I watched my wife challenge herself to tap into her mathematics and education degrees, putting herself out there to help neighbors, family and friends with the mysteries of high school geometry and pre-calculus. I saw this amazing cycle of confidence build. Not only in her students as they became better prepared for their quizzes and tests, but also in herself as she applied a unique approach to help each student fill in his or her specific knowledge gaps.

I watched. More passive than active. Letting events play out and unfold before me, often while stretched out on the family room couch. My sweatshirt and a comforter worked overtime, protecting me from both the falling temperatures outside and having to actively engage in the world around me.

But it is time. Time to leave passivity behind, along with the comforter and the couch.

Despite the cold, I went for a run outside the other day. A few years ago, running in sub-freezing temps was a no-brainer. Just put on the right clothes and go! Now it’s a bit of chore. It took more thought and effort to push through the inertia of inactivity.

It started with shivering. Time felt slow. Movement felt forced. But ten minutes into the run, my body heat began to build, and with it, the familiar warmth comforted me. The sound of air moving in and out of my mouth layered on the rhythmic sound of my shoes disturbing loose gravel and stone under my feet, brought me back to an old familiar space.

For the next forty minutes my joints ached. My calves and hamstrings burned. I sweat. It was snowing, and the falling flakes were cool on my flushed face as I ran through their vertical descent. And sometime during that relatively routine run that I had done countless times in the past, a small dormant part of my brain came back to life.

It’s time again to write.

A Family Reunion in Seattle and Newton’s Law of Attraction

Doc, I don’t see why I need all these meds. Can’t I stop them? Any of them?”

I hear this often from my patients. Sometimes they are right. They are on too many meds and don’t need them all. But sometimes it takes removing a medication for a period of time in order to truly appreciate its benefits.

It’s a crisp morning in Seattle. The sun is trying to break through the scattered clouds and there are waning remnants of fog coming off the harbor. I walk the three blocks to Pike’s Place and the public market, which is half empty as the fishmongers are making their way in. The rest of my family is still asleep, having all slept under the same roof for the first time in months. Months. That is what’s on my mind as I walk this morning. Thinking about plane rides, hugs, siblings and reunions.

I grab a few essentials for my sleeping crew: gluten free breakfast food for my daughter, a razor for my son, my own Venti Americano, Coke Zero for Becky, milk and cereal. I make my way back to our rental unit, buzzing for the start of our day. Our family of four. Four individual orbits that have come together here in the Pacific Northwest for a precious forty-eight hours.

We take the Link Light Rail across the city away from the harbor and skyscrapers, and make our way to the University of Washington and its traditional campus architecture. It is truly a picture-perfect fall day for a college tour. As I walk with Maya, I try to picture her among the students walking through the quad, the red square, and the union. Becky and Madison head in a different direction to enjoy some time together.

While Maya is occupied listening to our tour guide, my mind is free to wander. The day is truly magnificent. A perfect mix of cool temperatures, warm sun, a light breeze and a backdrop of trees with leaves full of fall colors. Discrete patches of thick white clouds move quickly across the sky. Not as static shapes, but dynamically altering their form as they twist and tumble, with a three-dimensional complexity I find fascinating. On the surface so simple, but with depth and layers that are mesmerizing. Their future as unpredictable as Madison and Maya’s.

We all meet back outside the Union. There is silly chatter, pictures and piggy-back rides. We joke and tease and smile. Yesterday’s travel to get here, and tomorrow’s departure, forgotten for the moment. There is a levity surrounding all of us, with no expectation or agenda other than simply enjoying each other’s company. The four of us are not just in close physical proximity to each other. The rhythms of our interactions are in sync in a way that has been missing for quite a while. Our individual orbits, for now, have become one.

Newton’s law of universal gravitation states that a particle attracts every other particle in the universe. In high school physics, I struggled with this concept, that the person ten feet away was exerting a gravitational force on me. But now I do appreciate the pull of my family’s orbits. A few months ago, the intensity and depth of our connection was present but not felt. Similar to my patients who appreciate the impact of their medicine  only in its absence, I am now more aware of the forces that bind and connect my family. And for the moment my world is perfect.