2014 Balloon Festival Countdown

Sam announced this weekend that she wanted to see the Balloon Festival in person this year, and since the tent spaces supposedly sell-out early (despite almost no one being there last year), as of this morning, we've got reservations in place.

Afterwards, I texted Marci, guessing she'd be busy as usual, and was delighted to get a "Sounds great!" reply instead. 

After last year, we've got a better plan in place so that Marci will arrive Thursday night and we'll set out, with a stop in Santa Fe, early Friday to be sure and get there with plenty of daylight to set up the tent and avoid a sleeping in the car repeat.

Looks like I just found my last hurrah before months of rehab and crutches post-surgery!

Photos and trip report from 2013 here.

Summer Concerts

Ah, the season is upon us. To summer concert or not? It's an expensive proposition. 

There are not a lot of artists I would never miss in concert, and until Billy Joel's prices went insane he was near the top. 

So, no Billy, no mo'. 

Last summer John Mayer was touring and I made that one with Amber at Red Rocks. His was one of only two I was willing to shell out the bucks for. And I'm not sure I will for him again.

The available list this summer is pretty eclectic, but Sara Bareilles is one of them. 

Sam and I saw her open for One Republic last summer at Red Rocks for her Little Black Dress album and, surprise!, this summer she's still touring the album, this time at Denver Botanic. Do we spend the bucks to see what will essentially be the same concert, in a pretty-but-not-Red-Rocks-pretty space?

Still, it's a Saturday night, which is pretty rare and nice not to have to rush over from work on a weeknight.

But, in the "con" column, there may not be a "we" involved. Sam has taken a summer job with the Colorado Renaissance Festival which runs every weekend. And guess what the LAST weekend is? Yep: August 2 & 3. So, poop. Maybe no Sara.

Then, that same week, but on a Thursday night (not ideal) is Ray Lamontagne at . . . Red Rocks. 

And I have yet to find anyone up here who is a big Ray fan, so the idea of this one is pretty iffy. 

But . . .  Red Rocks.

Still, of all the acts on the Rocks concert series this summer, he's the one I'd be most interested in. I'm not brave enough to deal with the crowd at Soundgarten/Nine Inch Nails, etc.

And then there's this unknown:

Richard Marx's album drops on July 8, which would signal, to me, that there's going to be a tour in the near future, if not late summer, then the fall. He's probably the only person I would happily go alone to see in concert at midnight on a Tuesday in a blizzard in the scariest hole in the wall around. Maybe I should just save up the bucks and wait him out.

yeah. Just... yeah.

Maya Angelou's "When Great Trees Fall"

When Great Trees Fall
Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly.  Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed.  They existed.
We can be.  Be and be
better.  For they existed.

More Maya Poems Online

Nick called about twenty minutes ago to tell me they'd arrived in Dumas for the evening. Our conversation was short. You could hear the tiredness that comes from six hours on the road (with another 8 tomorrow) that is like nothing else. 

It struck me, in our snippet of conversation, what's at the core of my melancholy.

I said, "The house is too quiet." 

And he responded, "I'm sorry" with a hint of sadness behind the exhaustion. 

"That's just how it goes. I love you." 

"I love you, too."

And so it goes.

He's gone. Again.

He stays gone for long periods now. 

The first time I was driving behind him, both of our cars loaded up for his first dorm room at UNC, those hot tears welled up with the realization that, every visit from here on out, will be only temporary. The goodbyes will always outnumber the days at home. 

Because while my heart has grown tendrils around him from the moment I heard his heartbeat inside my belly, my baby boy has been growing apart from me, into a man who will make his own home somewhere else. 

This.is.as.it.should.be.

I say this, silently, religiously, as a prayer to quiet my surging, sad heart, over and over.

That's just how it goes.

I don't hear from him for weeks at a time. Then he'll call and catch me up on what's been happening, but it's always, and always, farther and farther away from knowing him in the day to day ways that once were our intertwined lives.

The day they sent me home from the hospital with him, I had a momentary seizure of panic: "They can't believe I'm capable of being responsible for this tiny human being!" 

And those newborn days (and nights) dragged on, sleep deprived, colicky, teething moments punctuated by the biggest, sweetest smiles and giggles that made every slow second worth it.

Lots of days dragged, and so many years flew by. 

I saw it happening, of course, as every mother does. And, as every mother knows, there is no stopping it. 

There is only acceptance. 

I accept that most of his life I am no longer privy to.

I accept that our time together will always be short now . . . temporary, but precious.

I accept, or am trying to accept, that this seemingly bottomless sadness at his absence will spike right after his departures and then level off to an easier to manage hole in my heart, until the next joyous reunion, when the cycle will begin all over again. 

And so it goes, and so it goes.

Saying goodbye

The tough morning we've all been dreading as the weekend sped past is here. 

Two weeks ago on Monday Nick and Ali came pouring into the house and, as always, the time together was far too short, and never enough. Nick used his longer arms to snap a happy photo at his arrival.

There was my quick trip to Detroit overnight, then Ali's birthday, then a trip to Colorado Springs, Sam's award ceremony, Sam's graduation, trips to Victor, and the zoo, and Echo Lake, family dinners at home most nights, a few nights eating out, curled up on the couch watching movies, lots of photos, Scattergories, Scrabble, and multiple nights of fiercely competitive Taboo rounds, including one last night. It sped past.

Ali was even trying to get Nick to stay another day. But I knew, and so did he, another day would only prolong the sadness that their visit was over and that goodbyes had to be said. 

Part of the hardness is the unknown time table. When will I see my boy again and get to hug him and laugh with him? He's staying in Texas this summer -- the first summer I won't have him filling up the grocery cart and laundry baskets, stuff strewn all over the floor of his room, running out for workouts everyday, playing on the floor with Katy and Evan, running errands for me. We had only fourteen days of dinners and outings and playing games and watching movies in the evenings. This time, summer lasted just two weeks. 

On this final morning, I put on a brave face and tried not to let my voice crack as the last of their laundry gets done, and I look down at the giant shoes on the floor in front of me and know it's the last day I'll have to trip over them for a long time. 

I sweep the floor to keep busying during the packing, and make one last breakfast, and try in vain to slow down that last hour before I'm hugging and waving, taking a few last photos,  

 

 . . . and closing the door to a much emptier house, emptier than it felt before they even came.

And then I stand in the doorway of his empty bedroom, spotless again, bed made, and just let that sadness well up, because no one has to watch me struggle to make sense of how the comings and goings of my adult children is exactly the way things should be, and yet so terribly hard to stomach, visit after visit. That's when the tears really get going.

I keep thinking it will get easier over time, but so far, no luck. 

Just a heart sickness that times goes too fast and too slow all at the same time. 

Memorial Day @ Echo Lake