Chapter 28: Outside

I admit, moving from Central Texas to Central Oregon was a bit drastic.  We moved from a town of 2 million, to one of 80,000.  From a major metropolis to a mountain town.  From two seasons to four. 

Sometimes, I long for the familiarity I once knew.  For foods and faces that I was used to.  And places where I knew my way.

But then I have new experience, and it knocks me off my feet.   

We had heard rumors of people heading to the forest to cut their own Christmas trees.  After a quick search online, we found the rumors to be true.  And better.  For a little bit of money and a whole lot of time, you could do exactly that.

Loading up the truck with a saw, step ladder, and measuring tape, we stopped at the neighborhood market for an overpriced ball of twine, and drove west towards the mountains.

We all held our own expectations for the hunt.  Chris imagined an off-roading adventure over ungroomed forest roads and far away from civilization.  The kids wished for a snow-filled wonderland – tromping through powder and dropping down into snow-angels.  I wanted to not-get-lost.  Or injured.  Or angry.  And we all wanted the “perfect” tree.

Somehow, we all got what we wanted.  We started in the snow, then headed to a very Off-Road road, before finally parking in a place in between.  It was uncanny how similar it was to the Christmas Vacation movie – with whining kids and an overzealous Clark/Chris.

Everyone was arguing over which tree was the Best tree.  Or when it would be lunchtime.  And dramatically asking for help trying to get over/under fallen pine trees.

By the time we half-agreed/half-defaulted on one, we realized we had left the saw.  In the truck.  A good 300 yards up the road.  Defeated, I shuffled back to retrieve it.

Maybe it was because I was hungry.  Or tired.  But finding myself alone in the forest suddenly overwhelmed me.  The tall pines creaking in the wind.  My footsteps crunching underneath.  The silence blanketing.  Peace hushing.

I was reminded that all is well.  My heart brimmed with gratitude – not because the moment was perfect, but precisely because it wasn’t.  

When we got home (five hours and frazzled later), we noticed the tree was a teeny bit too tall.  By, ahem, four feet.  We sawed it down, dragged it in, and admired our prize: all scrawny and Charlie Brown Christmassy.  To most it must look pathetic, but to us, it’s priceless.

Sometimes you have to step away or step out, to really take notice – whether it’s removing yourself from a situation or moving halfway across the world.  Worn-in routines and rutted traditions are comforting.  

But, only in the disruption can you see things with fresh eyes.    You realize what really matters: Relationships.  Love.  And time spent together.

Chapter 27: Horse Crazy

I’m not sure when Eloise’s obsession with horses began. Maybe it was when she was a toddler and we put her on a pony at Kiddie Acres. Or after watching Black Beauty dozens of times.

Regardless of the start, by the time she turned seven, she was hooked. She devoured anything on the subject – from movies, to books, to photos. She begged us weekly, if not daily, for her very own horse. She rattled on and on about how she wanted to live on a ranch and ride all day.

We could have easily squelched her dream and laughed at the outrageousness of the idea. Neither Chris nor I are horse people.

But we didn’t. We did quite the opposite. We embraced it. Encouraged it. Supported her. We threw her a horse Birthday party. We arranged for a horseback-riding lesson. And in a swelling crescendo of love, we signed her up for Horse Camp.

You would have thought that she had died and gone to heaven. Everything was pure magic. The setting was more idyllic than a Western movie. It was sweeping views and bluebird skies. The majestic mountains in the background and a worn-out barn in the foreground.

She loved every. Single. Second.



The night before her last day of Horse Camp, Eloise whispered, “I’m sad,” before giant tears dropped to her bedspread. She sobbed that she didn’t want Horse Camp to end.

It was like she knew that the dream was ending – and no matter how much she wished it to not-end, she couldn’t. The clock would strike midnight, and the fairy dust would settle.

I think that’s what makes such moments even sweeter. Because they don’t last. The experience ends, and you’re left with only the memory. The imagery and feelings snuggled in tight.

Chapter 26: Texas

I assumed that I would always be a Texan. I married a Texan. We made our life among the ancient oak trees and raised our kids among the bluebonnets. We had become accustomed to the culture of BBQ, cowboy boots, big trucks, and even bigger egos. It was our home.

At least until June.
And then, it became our past.

The weeks leading up to The Move were pure chaos. We spent months getting our condo fixed up, only to sell it in one day. We juggled craigslist buyers, boxes, and good-byes – all while maintaining the routine of school, work, and life.

Our dear friends threw a Texas-themed going away party. It would be our final hurrah.

A thunderstorm raged as we trekked through the city to their house. Roads were flooding. Wipers sloshing. Then, as soon as we pulled into their driveway, the rain suddenly stopped. It was as if some other force was orchestrating the entire event.

Once inside, we sipped on margaritas, while outside, the kids captured frogs. We smiled over fajitas and filled each other in on the latest news/gossip/plans.

It was as it always had been. Sharing meals. Memories.







The night was perfect. We danced on the lawn, then took way-too-many pictures of the bright, burning sunset. We laughed/cried. And laughed/cried some more.

There were promises of visiting. And good, compelling intentions. But there, lingering, was the space in between. The knowledge that things would be different. And that the chapter, This Chapter, was closing.

You know that trite, almost tart, saying “Better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all”? Well, it’s true. Spot on. I will always cherish the time we had in Austin. All the firsts. And all the lasts. I have no doubt that we are the people we are today because of the experiences, relationships, and seasons that shaped us.

Texas is no longer our home. But I love telling people that it’s where we’re from.

Chapter 25: The First Step

I have an affinity for lists.  I love writing things down – and especially crossing things off.  One of my favorite lists is my bucket list.  Each year, I scribble down new goals.  Some are strong and substantial.  Others, trivial.  But, one item that never left my list was to run a half-marathon.

I’m not sure why I wrote it in the first place.  I am not a runner.  I love the idea of running, but not the practice of it.  I ran my first 5K two years ago and felt like I had accomplished an Ironman.  Afterwards, friends asked if I wanted to run the Austin marathon with them and I laughed.  Me?!  I think I’d rather get a root canal.  Or ten.

And then my non-running, noncompetitive friend, Jeanette, finished the half.  Mind you, she hated it.  But she was so glad for the experience, saying, “It reminded me that I can do hard things.”  

I was sold.  I signed up and paid the fee.  

It’s funny how sometimes all it takes is another person to go before you to assure you that everything will be okay.  To breathe deep in the certainty that if she/he/they did __________, then I can do __________.

I started training nine months before the race.  My schedule revolved around my jogs and I found myself focused like I had never been before.  I would speed home from school during the weekdays and wake early on the weekends.  I contended with the weather and my mood (one was almost always foul).  But still, I pushed on.

Then it was February.  Valentine’s weekend.  My sister, Laurie, drove down I-35 to run with me.  And I was so grateful to not be alone.

We started together.  Side by side.  Then I slowed down and urged her to go ahead.  Somewhere around mile three, my body got into a rhythm.  My breathing syncopated to my feet-pounding and heart-beating.  My mind floated between thoughts and awareness.  

By mile ten, my muscles started to weaken and I was moved my sheer will power.  And then, I crossed the finish line.  I wandered down the tunnel, legs numb, eyes wet.  I couldn’t believe I did it!  I still can’t believe that I did it.

Jeanette was right.  We can do hard things.  

It begins with the first step.