The Contest

Just for fun...


She'd read about the contest in the newspaper and, yes, now that she thought about it she had noticed more strangers around lately. But everyone knows no one ever really wins these sorts of things. She's always been pretty sure the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes is fake, the shocked winners and plastic host just hired for the occasion.

And yet. There's no denying what's in the hole at her feet.

She hadn't read the clues or followed the webcasts. Not for her the fan forums filled with treasurehunter1967 and strike_it_rich09 commenting at all hours about lat and long and what the latest revelation could mean.
She'd just come out to the desert to bury Snookums, the last of his litter (turns out it doesn't matter how often you brush a dog's teeth if he won't stay out of traffic) and now here she is, looking down at a dead dog and a box of gold.

Alaska friends

I'm still reveling in memories of the last few weeks when we had the joy of hosting some friends we knew in Alaska. We hadn't seen Ryan since we moved away but at the end of June, he flew into Seattle, snagged Natasha (who lives there now) and caught a train down for a visit. My goal for their time here was to give them a glimpse of our lives in Oregon and to catch up on 10 years of stories. It's a good thing I didn't include "being well-rested" to that list, because somehow in a week and a half of visit, we managed to smash in a trip to the Columbia River Gorge, one to the beach, a day at the Aviation Museum, 4 days of sailing, a day enjoying Portland, church, 2 orthodontist appointments, a trip to the library, 3 hikes and lots and lots of good food. 

They met much of our family and many of our friends, and, despite the full schedule, we spent many hours just enjoying each other's company and remembering why we were friends in the first place. None of us had been particularly nervous about how we would relate, but it was delightful to slip back into old friendships with the same feelings of connection and affection we had 10 years ago. Of course, the girls are so much bigger now (Ryan had never even met Meira) and it was wonderful to see them interact with Ryan and Natasha with so much ease and joy. We all agree that 10 years is way too long to let pass before we see each other again! 

Feel free to skip ahead and just look at pictures if you want (necessary credit: they're all from Ryan's camera). I don't expect you to care nearly as much as I do about the minutiae of our time together, but if you have a few minutes, grab a cup of tea (with milk and sugar, British style) and read on.

The first day of the trip, Beth, (a mutual AK friend who lives in Portland now) was having a birthday party, so as soon as we picked Ryan and Natasha up from the train station, we drove up into the West Hills to see her. It seemed strange to see so many Alaska friends together in Portland, but it was great to see Beth and meet her new son.

Sunday, the girls and I helped lead worship in church, and then we spent the afternoon out at our CSA farm. Our farmers have recently added a significant amount of land to their property and it was fun to get a tour and hear their plans for the future.

Monday's weather predicted evening showers so we headed east to the Gorge in hopes of avoiding them. Our plan worked, and we spent the day hiking a 5.5 mi. loop from Multnomah Falls to Wahkeena Falls. Natasha was kind enough to hike at my pace (read: very slowly, with frequent breaks to ward of the peripheral warbling of an asthma-induced migraine) and Ryan took the girls ahead at his pace (read: very quickly with frequent stops for log/rock jumping and creek wading).

He and Hannah had been very close when he last saw her (at 16 months old) and it was fun to see the way they reconnected. He later said he had wondered a bit if they would want anything to do with him and we all laughed--that was not a problem!

On our way home, we stopped by Crown Point for some picture-taking and hand-rail acrobatics.

Tuesday, we'd expected rain, so despite the sunshine we got, we spent the day at the Evergreen Aviation Museum. Bryan's company has passes for 8, so we snagged Jenny and the kids and took them along too. The last time I was there, the Space portion of the museum wasn't open yet; it was fun to explore all the new exhibits. And we ended the day with a picnic at Chad and Jenny's, Bryan's cousins who live across Lafayette. Again, it was a joy to include Ryan and Natasha in a typical evening activity and to see people from our separate communities interact.

By Wednesday, Tuesday's rain was supposed to have passed through. But Tuesday's rain had held off, so it wasn't too much of a surprise to see rain clouds on our way to the beach. The forecast said "scattered showers" though, so we pushed ahead with our plans for a hike at Cascade Head. Soon the showers turned to steady rain with the occasional downpour and we resigned ourselves to a wet, muddy hike. Hannah and Ryan went on ahead and were rewarded by the sighting of a herd of elk in the mist.

Meira and Natasha and I made it to the lower viewpoint ( a misnomer on a day so misty we couldn't even see the surf below) and turned back to slog through the puddles back to the parking lot. Anyone who has ever spent a wet day at the beach can imagine our scramble for dry clothes and hot drinks, but the promise of a trip to the Tillamook Cheese Factory kept our spirits up. We watched the factory workers and the cheese parade, bought some fudge for Bryan (who stayed behind for that pesky job-thing) and headed home.

Thursday, we spent the morning getting the girls ready for cousin camp. Earlier in the spring, my parents had reserved the 4th of July weekend for my younger brother's daughters and our girls to get together. They had a full weekend planned, a trip to Tacoma's glass museum, Silver Creek Falls, and on the 4th, the Canby General Days celebration. 

We met Bryan at the Nike campus (where he's currently working) for lunch and a quick tour, then swung by the orthodontist's office before dropping the girls off in Canby and stopping to see my mother-in-law.

Are you ready for a break?

 Me too! But we had a weekend aboard planned; check back soon for sailing stories!

No right writing

Here's a pantoum from April's writers' group. I was grateful for the chance to record a conversation with Meira, one that meant a lot to both of us. Maybe you will be inspired to try your own pantoum. (You might not want to read the wikipedia definition before you read the poem; it makes writing a pantoum sound a lot more complicated than it actually is.) 

“There is no right writing,

There is only better writing.”

I wiped her tears as I spoke,

deep from my own brokenness.

There is only better writing.

I yearn, like she does, for perfection

deep from my own brokenness.

And she doesn't always listen.

She yearns, like I do, for perfection.

“Can I help you with your work?”

She doesn't always listen,

she doesn't know how much I understand

“I can help you with your work,”

I wiped her tears as I spoke.

She doesn't know how much I understand—

There is no right writing.

True memory prompted by a Grand Canyon postcard

It was the third, maybe the fourth day out when we finally arrived at the Grand Canyon, all eight of us unfolding from that tiny RV. The trip had been my mother's idea and, as such, plotted with the precision of a military invasion. But no plan survives first contact with my father so we often found ourselves on detours surprising and serendipitous.
Today's destination was not an surprise however. It's next to impossible to drive through Arizona without being caught in the gravity of the Grand Canyon. We stood on the edge--"not too close, kids"--and were surprised after all. For something so grand it got the word in it's name, no one was all that impressed.
Maybe it was just too big to comprehend, like the national debt. If we could have ridden down on a donkey or rafted it's length, perhaps we would have been able to hold the wonder.
But Grandma couldn't stand the altitude and the youngest ones were bored so we turned away and drove back down, content to explore the smaller wonders: Bryce Canyon, Mesa Verde, a family of 8 in agreement about anything.

Glitter

It seemed reasonable in those first few weeks

after the Elvis-costume-making party,

And also when the girls were young 

and princesses seized control of the kingdom.

Now it appears, like nothing in nature

except perhaps a virus, traveling

from door-handle to palm,

falling off sweaters,

settling on corduroy.

Does it alight even on the hunter

deep in the jungle,

Sparking wonder at this sliver of starlight?

Does he worship the speck, tiny mirror,

Or sense the distance it traveled to connect 

the enormity of this small world?

And what of his have I?

God is Good (all the time?)

I shared last week at my church's Women's Bible Fellowship. We're studying James Bryan Smith's “The Good and Breautiful God” and I spoke on the chapter about the goodness of God.

Each chapter in the book is coupled with what the author calls “Soul Training.” This chapter's exercises directed us to sit in silence and work to experience God in nature. Several people asked for a copy of my thoughts so I'm posting them here. Now if you read on, at least you'll know what you're getting into. We sang a bit together and then I sat (safely tucked where I feel safe—at the piano) and shared something like this:

As you read this week, maybe you wondered, as I did why the quality of God's goodness is so important, so central? In the list of the fruit of the spirit, it's tucked into the middle; after the cheerful “love, joy, peace,” it whizzes by just about the time my mind beings to wander and before I finish up with that dreaded “self-control.” Frankly, it feels a little wimpy—

Good dog

Good girl

Good job

Good enough

A few years ago, with the professor's permission, I sneaked myself into a Gary Fawver Christian Classics class. We read many books that semester, but Julian of Nowich's “Revelations of Divine Love” was then (and remains now) one of the most influential personally. At the time, I read passages like this one from the 6^th chapter with so much confusion:

For the Goodness of God is the highest prayer, and it cometh down to the lowest part of our need. It quickeneth our soul and bringeth it on life, and maketh it for to waxen in grace and virtue. It is nearest in nature; and readiest in grace: for it is the same grace that the soul seeketh, and ever shall seek till we know verily that He hath us all in Himself enclosed.

OK, so maybe I needed to get past some of the out-dated language, but I still spent a while working through how the goodness of God could be so important, so central to his character.

For the Goodness of God is the highest prayer, and it comes down to the lowest part of our need. It quickens our soul and brings life, and makes it to grow in grace and virtue. It is nearest in nature; and readiest in grace: for it is the same grace that the soul seeks, and ever shall seek till we know truly that He has us all in Himself enclosed.

If he were not good, the God of all holiness would be impossibly demanding, an all-seeing God would be no better than a peeping-tom. Without goodness, an all-powerful God would be a tyrant.

We need God to be good, so we can trust him to be everything else, all knowing, infinitely powerful. The problem is, our experience sometimes (in these days of world-wide media, often) doesn't appear to prove that theory.

So we make up excuses, “It'll all work out eventually. It's all for my long-term good. I'll understand it when I get to heaven.”

But if I really stop to think about it, I can't deny that it feels an awful lot like circular reasoning. “If life is good, it's because God is good in a way that is clear. If life is bad, it's because God is good in a way I can't understand.”

The Bible says that “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights in whom there is no variation or shifting shadow.” (James 1:17) And it also says that “all things work together for good to love who love God and have been called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:28)

So everything is good, or if it's not...wait long enough and it will be made good. My inner skeptic scoffs, “Isn't that convenient!”

Last weekend, Bryan and I went to the beach. We hadn't been away alone (except on our boat) for almost 10 years. It was so nice to be together in a place with standing head-room, flush toilets, one that didn't drift around at night, with absolutely no chance of sinking.

And I was in the mood to enjoy it. About halfway through the weekend, I caught myself exclaiming over one more blessing—“Isn't it wonderful that the B&B isn't too full? Isn't it great that the weather is so nice?”—knowing full-well that if circumstances had been otherwise, I would have been rejoicing in the chance to curl up inside and watch the storm or the opportunity to meet all these wonderful people. I am my own spin doctor.

Tuesday, we got a call that my pregnant sister-in-law had been in yet another car accident, her second during this pregnancy. It was a minor one, and the baby is OK (and she will be too, eventually). And we breathed prayers of thanksgiving to our good God.

But in the times in my life when the disaster has not been avoided, I have still found ways to see God's goodness, still work to praise him. This is both Biblical...and completely illogical.

Seeing the silver lining comes naturally to me, more, I've learned over the years, than for many others. And yet I still fight for faith.

Am I just beliving in God's goodness because I can't face the thought of living without that assurance? What if I knew I would never understand his reasons? Would I still choose to believe that he is good?

In the book, James Bryan Smith shares that Jesus pointed to the goodness of God. Despite the early death of Smith's daughter, even through and because of it, he came to believe more deeply in the goodness of God. That God would never harm a small child because of the sin of the parents.

But we just finished a study about David where it seems pretty clear, God did just that. I don't understand. I know that I have found ways to reconcile tragedy in my own life with my hope for a relationship with a good God. But there aren't easy answers.

Yesterday in the shower, where my mom says all good thoughts are born, I had a new wondering, one that even feeds my desire for logic.

For many people, the problem of evil in the world is a huge hurdle in their pursuit of God. If God is good, why is there so much suffering? Well, smarter people than I (with lots more free time) have spent their lives pondering this question, so don't think I have an answer for you.

But the opposite question is just as mysterious. If God is evil, why is there so much good? An evil God running a world where goodness persists makes a lot less sense to me than a good God working to redeem a world marred by his gift of free-will.

No matter how you look at it, it remains a mystery. We can't KNOW that God is good. All our experiences that point to a benevolent Creator can be countered with just as many to the contrary.

If I'm honest with myself, my circular reasoning about the goodness of God gets me through my days mostly sane and even happy. I'm not about to give it up.

But I have to admit it remains a mystery, something I don't understand, but choose to believe.

Here we stopped and sang together “Blessed be Your Name.” Lyrics like “Every blessing you pour out I'll turn back to praise. When the darkness closes in, Lord, still I will say, 'Blessed be your name.'” are hard for me to understand without the body of Christ around me, showing me what this looks like in real life—messy, catastrophic, mysterious.

Then I shared a bit of my experience with the “Soul Training.”

Initially, I was confused as to why the soul training exercises were coupled with this particular chapter. I mean, I like sitting in the quiet or with nature as much as anybody, when I can get it. I wondered if the author had a list of spiritual exercises to get into the book and figured this chapter was as good for these as any.

But as I worked through my difficulties with the quality of God's goodness, and came to peace with letting him be more mysterious than I like, I realized that nature and slience are perfect ways for me to interact with the mystery of God.

There are so many things I don't understand about nature—it's not always tidy or pretty—but God speaks to me so clearly through his created works; he orchestrates the universe as the chief worship leader and my heart can't help responding.

This week, the winter trees sillouhetted against the sunset called me to worship. The waves on the rocks at the beach bowed my spirit to his power. The fog in the trees outside my window hinted at his gentleness.

I hope you experienced similar moments in your life this week. Would you speak out a word or characteristic of God you saw displayed in nature this week?

The women responded with such a variety of God's character qualities. I wish you could have been there to hear the words of praise.

After all these weeks, you won't be surprised that I want to read a poem about daily noticings.

To light a candle without a prayer,

takes a practiced inattention.

It's hard work to listen to children laughing,

Revel in a perfect melon,

Watch the dusk fade into night,

Without feeling the soul respond.

This requires:

Clenching my heart shut,

Holding my spirit's breath,

Pursing the lips of my soul.

When will I relax into fearlessness,

breathe again the natural inhalation of mystery

and be at peace?

Over the past 11 years of motherhood, I've gotten really quite good at recognizing God's presence in my daily activities, in nature, in my children, my husband, in captive moments here and there.

This fall, for the first time, there has been space in my life for irregular meditation—not regular, my life is too scattered for that, but I have been practicing sitting still with my breath several times most weeks and have found it to be a very helpful practice for this season of my life.

I wouldn't presume to suggest that this practice is right for everyone in every season. In fact, I agree wholeheartedly with the writer I read the other day, Dr. Kristen Shepherd, who said about both meditation and yoga poses, yoga asanas,

“Today, despite wanting to fill you with the deep desire for stillness, I'll say this: Don't meditate until you want to. (In truth, I feel the same about asana. People email, occasionally, saying they hate yoga but would really like to work up the oomph to have a regular practice. My response is, don't do it. Stay away. Go on with needlepoint, caber tossing, or Vietnamese cooking. Pursue the things that are already delicious to you. If caber tossing brings you peace and a sense of oneness, caber tossing is your yoga. Yoga should not be a battle.) Meditation may be endlessly interesting, challenging, and blissful, but if your heart isn't leading you there, go with your heart.

I'm learning that it only makes sense to approach the mystery of God with a method of prayer that doesn't make much sense. Sitting still and thinking at least sometimes feels productive, but sitting still and NOT thinking—how could that ever bring me closer to an understanding of the infinite? Not to mention all the warnings I've heard along the way about not emptying my mind for fear something will enter.

I finally came to a place in life where I had the space and inclination to read all the books on centering prayer I'd been collecting and then, even, to experiment with practice. And because research is a great procrastinatory technique, I've also found many resources in the area for silent prayer, like the monastery and options for personal retreats; if you're interested, talk to me after.

I've found a few ways to sit with the presence of God, mental images that help me to calm the constant mental clutter, breathing practices that help to focus me, body and soul. And I've found , well I don't know what I've found...it's a mystery. But I am closer to the mystery than ever.

Jo spoke last week about God's ability to transform us through indirection, not willpower. And sitting in silence, meditating, centering prayer...whatever you want to call it...is a fabulous way to surrender into God's mysterious presence, that which is infinite and personal, he who is good enough to accept us and good enough to work in mysterious ways to change us.

I'd like to share a few more words read these slowly, please) from Julian:

For as the body is clad in the cloth, and the flesh in the skin, and the bones in the flesh, and the heart in the whole, so are we, soul and body, clad in the Goodness of God, and enclosed. ...all these may waste and wear away, but the Goodness of God is ever whole...

For the Goodness of God is the highest prayer, and it comes down to the lowest part of our need. It quickens our soul and brings life, and makes it to grow in grace and virtue. It is nearest in nature; and readiest in grace: fo it is the same grace that the soul seeks, and ever shall seek till we know truly that He has us all in Himself enclosed.

I don't know if you had a chance to find silence this week or not, but I'd like to give all of us the opportunity to meet with God in the quiet this morning.

Maybe it would help you to see your thoughts as a train rushing by, one you don't have to catch. Or maybe you could use the image of your mind as a still pool, not to be disturbed by anything, good thoughts or bad thoughts, good emotions or bad emotions.

Let's sing together and then enter a few minutes of quiet. Make sure you're comfortable, shift to the floor if you need so your body can help teach your mind to relax and be still. I'll keep an eye on the clock so you don't have to think about it and call us back to close in a few minutes.

At this point, we sang Steven Curtis Chapman's “Be Still and Know,” spent a few minutes in quiet together and responded with a little more worship in song. It was a lovely morning in God's presence, one that can't be captured in mere words. Thanks for coming along for the recap.

Standing in the Dark

I shared my daughter's writing with you. Can I share a bit of my own too? I suppose that's what a blog is, after all, a place to share one's writing, but I typically tell you stories rather than post scribblings. But this year I've enjoyed dropping in to an occasional writer's group in Portland and am finally getting brave enough to share a thing or two that emerged from my work there. This short piece came from the prompt, "Imagine you are standing in the dark." Maybe in the middle of your Christmas chaos, you can relate.

Why do I always leave the entry-way light until last?

I turn in the safety of the vinyl patch by the door,

working to recall the placement of each forgotten toy

The dollhouses dragged out for a city—here

the game—over there—too elaborate to bear demolition

And not just toys clutter the floor

There's the laundry,

piled high,

      pawed over,

            spilling out

                            here

Library books read, skimmed, ignored—ah—there

I step

They say it goes by so fast

Step

They say to cherish every moment

Step

They say to let the mess go

Step

I don't think they've seen this mess

Step

And again

Two more and…

Safe

I slide in under straightened sheets

the only straight thing, sometimes,

feel my good man breathe.

Safe

Appliance Odes

Thanks to a very generous donor (thanks...inexpressible thanks!), a new washer and dryer were delivered to our house yesterday. They're pretty high-tech looking and make cool noises when you operate them. We put in a load of laundry right away and later, when I went out to switch it, I found two notes (replicated here with spelling and punctuation intact).

Washer-
You are humble as you wash my clothes; yet you are fisty at my stains!
I love you in every way. From your bloopidy-bleep, when you bigin; to your bleepidy-boop, when you end!
Thank you!
Meira

Dryer-
You hum wile you dry the clothes. You are warm and you vibrate. You calm me down till I get to love you. I love you from your song to your warmth. Thank you!
Meira Lee

I think the new appliances are pretty cool, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have considered a love note the appropriate expression of my affection. I hope the new refrigerator doesn't get jealous.

Starting School!

We're starting school tomorrow. (I've got lots to do and am only writing this because I have to be at the computer overseeing the installation of our new encyclopedia). The girls have been begging to start for weeks, were only put off by the promise of the Wooden Boat Festival last weekend and today spent the evening working on a writing project from the only school book I didn't lock down. I'm feeling the pressure to have everything prepped perfectly, a ludicrous and impossible pressure made even more impossible by the fact that my journal (with all my scattered school thoughts) didn't make it home from Bryan's mom's house after our trip to the festival (The trip. Oh, the trip! It was so wonderful and will get its own post at some point, but tonight is all about school.)
We've got what we need, though: lots of books, a reasonably clean table, and eager, curious minds. Oh, and don't forget the freshly sharpened pencils. I think we're good to go.

Always Bring Extra Crew

We had been planning this trip for years now, ever since we got our new boat. My brother and sister-in-law really wanted to come sailing with us, but life kept getting in the way. Most recently, life came in the form of my small nephew. But now that he's quickly approaching 3, and we've got the boat so much closer, we synchronized our schedules and went out last weekend. We warned them that something always goes wrong and that half the fun of sailing is finding out what will go wrong this time and then fixing it. We've rarely sent guests home with boring stories.

We had intended to arrive well before our visitors, to stow our stuff and check on a few things. Bryan lived aboard most of the week while the girls and I were at Girls Camp, but it was his last week at Oracle, so he was a bit preoccupied. Of course, packing took longer than we anticipated and, of course, we forgot the girls' life jackets. (I can't wait until they are big enough for the extra adult ones we always have on board. No. I take that back. They're growing too fast already!) So we showed up only a few minutes before our family and then we did the headless chicken thing for a bit. At least they got to experience what is apparently an essential part of a typical sail for us.

We pulled up our headsail right away, taking advantage of the perfect north wind to help fight the current as we pulled away from the dock. Then we hauled up the main for a fast upwind sail downriver--not too far, we didn't know how Small Boy would respond, but soon he was shouting, "Ready, about!" at each tack (and randomly in between) like an old salt. We turned and sailed downwind upriver (got that?) on the Washington side of Sand Island for a while but before turning back upwind, we put a reef in the main. The wind had picked up a bit more and the reefed main made for a much more comfortable ride back around to the Sand Island Dock.

We had fun using Split Pea to ferry camping gear to shore for our visitors while the kids invented new ways to get dirty on the beach. S'mores over the campfire followed grilled corn and sausages and we all went to bed happy. 

After a windy, bumpy night on the boat, the campers joined us for a very leisurely breakfast (another Lee family boating tradition) and we set off again for a sail. Err, make that a "drift." After tacking unproductively across a few times, we gave up on making any progress past marker 77 without assistance from the engine. Bryan suggested motoring up to Sauvie Island for lunch and a wander in the bird sanctuary and everyone agreed.

Everyone but the engine.

It didn't cough or sputter, it was just on one second and off the next. When the problem didn't appear to be any of the usual suspects (fuel, spark plugs, etc.), we declared lunch the first priority, sailed toward shore, and dropped anchor. Blood sugar levels (and attitudes) restored by fajitas and Oreos, the men poked at the engine while Hannah played with her cousin, my sister-in-law and I lounged in the cockpit and Meira read the engine repair manual.

When attempts to reattach "this dangling wire" to "that thingamajig" resulted in stinky smoke, we postponed dealing with the engine and decided to sail back to the long, empty city dock instead of trying to sail into our slip at the marina. The sail back was uneventful, but docking when the wind and current are opposing is never easy and this was no exception. We prepared well, sending the kids below and giving everyone a job to do, trying to anticipate all the things that could go wrong.

We sailed past the dock, intending to turn up into the wind and tuck back in next to the dock. The current had other ideas though, and as soon as we turned downriver, we stalled out in a hurry, lost steerage, and got knocked sideways toward the breakwater. With a yank on the tiller and "turn, baby, turn!" from the captain, LiLo eased away from the breakwater and made for the inner finger of the dock. Thankful there was space at the end of the float, I scrambled to the bow pulpit to prepare for a hard landing. We were heading in bow-first and, despite loosing the sheets, approaching in a hurry.

I don't really know how I managed to climb between the headsail and the bow pulpit (a curve of protective metal railing at the front of the boat), jump down to the float, and keep the bow from smashing into the dock. I do remember rushing to loosen the dock lines from the starboard side (we thought we were docking port-side...lesson for next time: release all the lines when docking in difficult circumstances!) and looking up to see the guys madly fending the stern off a fishing boat, watching Split Pea drift lazily in as our frantic motions gave way to the exhilaration of relative success.

We've wondered since if there would have been a better way to dock, but, as my brother commented afterward, "Any landing you walk away from is a good landing." We provided ample Sunday afternoon entertainment for the bored fishermen on the docks. No boats or people were damaged in the making of this memory. And we (yes, even our press-ganged crew) are already plotting to go out and do it again.

So if we ever invite you to go sailing with us, consider yourself warned:

Something will likely go wrong.

You may be asked to use skills you do not possess to help salvage a situation you do not understand.

You will almost certainly want to come again.

Poet's Cove to Victoria, 2009

We reluctantly left Shallow Bay but soon turned eagerly toward our first stop in Canada, Bedwell Harbour. After checking in through customs, we called the marina to see if we could afford a slip for the night. Even after doing the dollar conversion (we were initially shocked at the high prices until we remembered), the cost was more than we wanted to spend. So we found a place among the anchored boats just outside the breakwater and rowed on in.

The marina there, Poet's Cove, is a charming little resort, but we wasted no time exploring once we saw the swimming pool.

The girls dove in while Bryan and I took turns doing the laundry. The kids spent most of the evening in the pool sharing pool noodles and snorkel masks with some other kids, while the adults congregated in the hot tub sharing sailing stories and making plans for a hike the next day.

After an early breakfast, we rowed back over to the marina and met our new friends. They were visiting from eastern BC, where they race a small sailboat and were enjoying the challenge of their chartered catamaran.

We worked our way up the hill behind the marina and soon found the trailhead marked, “Enchanted Forest.”

The easy network of trails and the interpretive signs along the way gave the eight of us plenty to talk about as we worked our way through the beautiful NW forest.

On the way back down the hill, we paused to stare at a not-very-wild deer nosing around the meadow behind the resort.

Over and over on each of our trips we stumble across wild things, wonder-inspiring sights and are grateful for whatever impetus impels us to get “out there” where all the serendipities live.

We're not very good about taking it easy while on vacation and soon after returning from our morning's hike, we weighed anchor and headed south toward Portland Island. We joked that even if we failed in our plans to sail down the coast and up the Columbia, at least we could say that we had sailed to Portland! We chose to anchor in the cove on the north side of this lovely island, which was a gift to Princess Margaret (when she visited BC in 1958) and from Princess Margaret (who gave it back as a marine park in 1967).

The mooring basin here is quite small, so to accommodate as many boats as possible, the authorities placed large rings into the rock walls around the bay. Ideally, one would drop anchor toward the middle of the bay, back toward the wall to set the anchor and then—quickly before drifting into another boat—row a stern line to shore to hold the boat in place. We'd never attempted this method and were grateful for a helpful neighbor who, whether for our good or the protection of his own boat we'll never know, dinghyed our stern line to the ring and back.

I laid down in the saloon and pretended to read, mostly staring out the companionway at the trees towering so close behind the boat and Bryan sent the girls to shore with strict instructions. “Tie the dinghy up tight, find a path and turn left. Walk until you're about half tired and turn around. Take every right until you get back to the dock.” We figured that with two of them on a round island, they couldn't get into too much trouble. And sure enough, we heard their happy voices as they explored, first that way...then back again...so confident and independent.

The next morning, we walked across the island to the bay on the south side, just for the sake of a lovely walk and a bit of beachcombing. Many of the islands seem remarkably similar, but each one has it's own history (in addition to being gifted back and forth across the Atlantic, this one has relics from it's time as a Native settlement and fruit trees and roses planted by Hawaiian immigrant farmers from the 1880s).

We took several hours to make the trip over to Vancouver Island (this beautiful boat was headed the other direction).

The original plan had been to put in at Oak Bay for a couple of nights and take the girls to the Aquarium I remembered with fondness from a childhood trip. However, I was concerned about the difficulty of nabbing a slip in downtown Victoria on a busy summer weekend. We decided to head straight for Victoria and take the bus to Oak Bay. Later, we discovered that the aquarium had closed a few years ago, so we were more than pleased with our decision.

The entrance to the harbor was busy as ever, but with the help of our harbor chart and memories of our previous trip, we worked our way through the traffic, slowed for the seemingly obligatory interaction with the uber-polite harbor patrol (“Would you like a harbor chart? Did you happen to notice that you came in on a seaplane runway? Have a nice day!”) and pulled into a primo spot at the base of the Empress Hotel.

Warren

My family just got back from a delightful 70th birthday party for a good friend of ours who happens to live with Cerebral Palsy. I'd like to tell you a little about this man.

I could tell you that he walks with difficulty and must work to make himself understood. That his hands shake when he tries to handle small objects. I could tell you that he has faced frustration and prejudice during his 7 decades in his problematic body.

Or I could tell you that this amazing man has volunteered at our local library and in our church for many, many years. That he claps and dances to any music (especially his favorite, Elvis! On a recent visit to his apartment, my girls treated him like a rock star, dancing with him in turn and laughing uproariously.) That my heart melts when I see my daughters walking in pace with him, watching his lips carefully to hear about his week, or playing a fierce game of Sorry at our church's retreat. That my respect for him has only grown as I have taken the time to get to know him. That the day he put on "Love me Tender," held out his arms to my oldest, and painstakingly asked, "May I have this dance?" will forever be one of my favorite memories.

But I think most of all, I would like to tell you that the love he has for others, especially for kids, shines unmistakably through him, completely eclipsing his disabilities.

Happy Birthday, Warren!

Shallow Bay, Sucia

We've been out on LiLo twice already this spring, each trip a gorgeous day of sailing spiked with its own surprises ("What? I thought you packed the blankets!" "Well I thought you packed them!"and "Didn't the marina say the approach to our slip was dredged to 7 ft? Then why is our 4'6" keel stuck to the 7' deep river bottom?") but if you'll pardon the belated tale-telling, I'm going to make sure I have a record of last year's trip before we start making too many memories this year. 

Last I checked, we were stuck at Jones Island with a broken engine, not a bad place to be stuck if it's absolutely necessary. In the morning, Bryan sent the girls and me to shore to explore the island while he tried to figure out how to file the points on the distributor cap. One of the previous owners had ominously warned Bryan that he might need to learn this skill at some point and the other owner (his wife) had laughed at the funny-later memory of that fateful trip when she saw more of her husband's backside than his front, as he spent most of the trip upended in the engine compartment. We were so thankful for their experience and especially for the preparations they'd made for future problems--a full point kit, complete with tools and instructions was tucked away in a back locker. 

The girls clambered over the logs on the beach while I sat in the sand and read. We finally rowed back to the boat, worried not to have heard the engine, hopeful the problems had been resolved, but either way, hungry. As the companionway steps double as the engine cover, getting down into the cabin was trickier than usual, and there wasn't any place to sit once we did, so we scrounged up some lunch and let Bryan go back to work. Not too much later, he managed to get the engine running again. I was so glad he could finally relax and enjoy the island with the rest of us.

We had dinner in the cockpit and spent another peaceful night before making the dash around the west side of Orcas Island to the small island of Sucia. Several years ago, this crab-shaped island was purchased by a group of marine clubs and later donated to the Washington state for a marine state park. The island's unique shape, with its multiple inlets, and its criss-crossing trails make it a very popular destination for boaters. We were glad to find a spot to anchor in Shallow Bay, on the west side of the island, where we spent a warm and fabulously sunny Saturday. 

The girls made instant friends with a golden retriever and his owner invited all of us to go for a ride in his Zodiac. I'd forgotten that some boats are made for speed! We had hoped to get a closer look as some of the other bays, and this was such an unexpected and enjoyable way to do it. We left the girls on LiLo and took a row around the bay and, later in the evening, set them off to for a row themselves. They ended up in an informal race with an inflatable dinghy weighed down with passengers and dogs and, despite the inflatable's questionable use of their electric motor, the girls kicked a little dinghy booty. We laughed with pride from the cockpit to hear the other sailors shouting, "You girls rock!"

The next day, many of the boats left the bay in the morning, perhaps heading home or just looking for a more protected spot to wait out the incoming weather system. It wasn't a storm, really, but the wind from the east sweeping across the isthmus at the center of the island, conspired with swells from the west to keep our boat turned cross-ways to the chop and we sat inside, out of the drizzle and increasingly miserable until Bryan convinced us to bundle up and go for a hike. We were so grateful for his wise suggestion and for his hard work building us such a sea-worthy dinghy. Even in choppy conditions, Split Pea is such a pleasure to row!

Once we were under the trees, we barely noticed the rain and it cleared off enough for us to do a little more poking around on the sandstone cliffs, famous for sheltering smugglers throughout the years. We stumbled onto a geocache and, according to the instructions, left an object and took an object. Hannah took a beautiful feather and somehow Meira ended up with a black baseball cap labeling her (in sparkling rhinestones, of course) as "High Maintenance." She was convinced that this meant she should do all the repair work above her head and for the rest of the trip tried to help with anything she couldn't reach. We didn't have the heart to explain otherwise.

That evening, back on the rolly boat, we debated putting out a stern anchor to hold us stern to the swells. We knew it would make for a more comfortable night, but no one else in the anchorage had one out. Finally, Bryan decided he'd give it a shot. He rowed out and set our stern anchor and immediately we could tell the difference. It was good to have the reminder that we're not the newest or least knowledgeable sailors out there anymore. Though it was a little thing, we both felt a boost to our confidence and a reminder to think for ourselves. We turned in satisfied and eager for the new day. Next stop, Canada!