grief and motherhood

Taking the Long Way

~ Jenna ~ 1 Comment

Our road trip from California to Minnesota on the fringe of winter kneaded me like dough into an expanded version of myself. Travel has a way with transformation. 

California has always been the promised land in my mind. I have traveled many places, but never taken a road trip across this many state lines before.  Every day we moved with intention from one geographic landmark to the next; dry desert to striated red rocks to black hills to prairie lands and finally to 10,000 lakes. 

What I came to experience, is that there is so much land out here in America. There is so much beauty and so many incredible ways to live, one not better than the other. Just different. My compassion and awareness broke through border lines and into the vast wide open spaces of states I never dreamed of loving. 

San Diego, CA – St George, UT

While there’s something unsettling about a long trip ahead with no “home base”, the forward motion helped to keep the anxious part of me at bay. I was forced to find anchors outside of my window and within the canyons of my internal world. 

Jaws dropped in the backseat as we drove through our first pit stop: the Las Vegas strip. Coura wanted to eat the big M&M while Maisley yelled out “I want to live here!!” 

We quickly upgraded from city lights to constellations in the desert sky as we finished our first, surprisingly simple drive from San Diego to St. George.

St. George – Park City, UT

James Taylor serenaded us up and over the majestic hills of Utah while we belted out: “In my mind, I’m going to Minnesota…”.  Every time we hit a pot hole or felt our tummies drop down a hill, Mara squealed out, “Weeeeeeee!” from the backseat. 

Rusted sandstone mountains with deep creviced shadows lined our pathway to Park City, UT. We swam at Homestead Crater hot springs when we arrived and stayed at a farm just outside of the city where we fed apples to horses in the brisk 15 degree air. 

Park City, UT – Custer, SD

Maisley sat me down before our longest day – 9 hours of driving – and said that she was done with all this driving and not doing it anymore. 

So, we learned a lesson that day about being able to handle more than we thought was possible.

When we crossed into Wyoming, a part of me sighed in relief. Have you ever watched a frozen river get lost in the prairie lands? Looked in every direction to find nothing but land and a few passer-by?

The road continued to rise up and meet us at every turn as we cruised through never ending solitude. Thankfully our “no flat tire” prayers held us through to the next morning.  

Over-shadowing the anxious thoughts of aloneness was the sun setting over Wyoming’s endless rolling hills. A sequential cascade of pinks, purples and blues before true darkness settled in for the night. 

Custer, SD – Sioux Falls, SD

Waking up the next morning in a tree house in Custer, SD restored my energy tank and excitement. Custer exceeded all expectations; the craggy mountains and pine trees, the buffalo on the ridge and big horned sheep on the road-side. Fresh mountain air. 

As we set off for Sioux Falls, SD we found a nail had punctured the outer wall of our tire.  After a few phone calls and grim outlook from the auto keepers of this tiny town, we finally found Anderson Auto to fix and patch the tire. Three generations of Andersons sat idle in the tiny office with us while we humored them with our questions and tales. 

Our final long drive lay just ahead. 

As we drove past a lookout in the Badlands National Park, I abruptly asked Ryan to pull over. The kids yammered on and screens played tired stories in the backseat while I ran toward the opposite. I laid my body onto the earth and melted into the utter stillness below me. I felt like I had traveled through time, if only for a few moments. 

Sioux Falls, SD – Eden Prairie, MN

One of the main factors for road tripping rather than flying to Minnesota for Thanksgiving with my husband’s family, was to stop in Sioux Falls, the birth place of dad’s mom, Grandma Joan. As I get older, I crave to know more of who I am and where I come from. Particularly with the absence of my dad here on earth. 

We walked past her old home site in the quaint historic district of this now trendy downtown. I loved being on the sidewalk where she ran to school and the city where she came of age. 

While much of this road trip was actually fairly smooth, it is of utmost importance to note that the last hour of every drive was pure misery – we were almost, but not quite there.  Everyone needed a snack and had to pee. I had my head on a swivel, throwing food and entertainment around like a ring master. But we did it, we survived, and I guess that’s what I will remember the most. 

We pulled into the driveway of my brother and sister-in-law’s home in Eden Prairie and were met with a welcome sign and the most beautiful smiling faces. 

(Our time with them is for another story, but we enjoyed 6 magical days of fun, playing, exploring and extraordinary hosting.)

Eden Prairie, MN – San Diego, CA

On the way back, we were smart, and flew home. 

**My mind’s memory bank bridges the gap between these words and the photos we took, never quite enough to paint an entire story. **

Not Another Motherhood Post: Part 187

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One moment I am devouring my kids, dumbfounded by their brilliance and my insatiable need to snuggle them into oblivion. 

The next, motherhood devours me whole —  then spits me out, bitter to the taste. 

When we had our third daughter, Mara, we were living in a tiny Airbnb. The railroad tracks ran just to our east and the Pacific Ocean was a stone’s throw to the west. Every night around 10pm the old bones from our 50’s cottage would tremble as the train raced by. 

I would close my eyes and imagine I was living in New York City; specifically the vibrant neighborhood of Harlem. Probably near something called the L train (don’t quote me). An entire life outside, vibrant and awake, a city humming in perfect chaos and continuity. Every cuisine from around the world is right at my doorstep. I am both never alone and perfectly anonymous. I am an artist living in a tiny loft (it’s all I can afford) in a state of uninterrupted creativity.  I mosey about like a local and come home to my cat (I don’t even like cats).

A world apart from mine, but a part of me. Or maybe in some version of this life, it was me. 

However, if I’m living in a parallel universe somewhere, I know that I’m always longing for the tethers and love of this one.

Mother // Nature

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I wonder what it feels like
to cozy up with my arm and 
entwine with my hands. 
How does my warm body
wrapped around the entirety of you feel?
What is it like to be comforted by the sight and the scent of me;
to watch me leave?

Tell me, does the ocean wonder how her waves feel to the shore? 

Tell me, what is it like to have all of my love?

Mother // Daughter

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I am not responsible for every bad mood
Every freckle that appears
(Should have put on more sunscreen)
Every failure and every success.
I am responsible for me
For who I am and the choices I make. 
We are separate 
Me and her 
Different people with different childhoods. 
Though sometimes it’s hard to see the lines between us when
She came from me, through me.
She never walks, only skips.
While other children pop about like dandelions, she’s an orchid –
miraculously beautiful yet meticulous to care for.
I cry because of how hard it is to parent a highly sensitive child,
especially when you’re a highly sensitive parent. 
If only I can remember again why I am here;
to be the earth below the river of her life, 
guiding her to the ocean of herself.
To be the earth below the river of my life,
guiding me to the ocean of myself. 

Garden Whispers

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I was always praised for being fast and efficient –
At work, at school, walking, even going pee
Go go go go 
Get married, have kids, buy a house –
Get it done.
Then I stepped into the garden and all I kept hearing was slow down.
This was very irritating.
I’m better when I’m fast
More worthy and certainly more valuable.
But then, 
The wheelbarrow tipped over and I accidentally pulled out a row of beets
I thought were weeds.
Slow down she whispered
Slow down 
Slow down
Slow down.

More on Braving Joy

~ Jenna ~ 1 Comment

Nothing, other than grief, has taken me further from and also brought me closer to myself and the depth of human love than motherhood. I think that’s what they mean when they say, “Yeah, but it’s worth it!”. 

I am someone who relates to the world in a deep, larger-than-life way. My process is to feel and surround an experience from all sides; only then do I understand and move forward. I am learning to let that be, without the internal judgment that I feel too much or that I am too sensitive. I am learning to find beauty in the way I interact with the world around me, even when it’s inconvenient. 

I wrote a letter to each of my girls at 10:45pm the night before we left for a spontaneous trip to Big Sur.  I was an anxious, sad mess thinking of something bad happening to Ryan and I. Nothing makes me consider my mortality more than getting on an airplane with nothing but freedom and impending joy on the horizon.

I went there. I mean I really went there. How Coura and Mara would pretty much have no memories of me if I died. How all of this life we have lived together so far would only be an essence of who they are. No one to recall the exact intimate details, connection and love we shared. The tiny details like the way Mara’s hair curls after the bath, the shit grin on Coura’s face when she’s been up to no good or the brave, determined look when she’s trying something new. The way Maisley laughs and all of her gums show when Ryan uses his Forrest Gump voice. The way she cuddles in when we do special time at night and asks me to draw with her. 

**Of course, I know they would have stories and photos and videos, they would have my sisters who know them like their own kids, their loving grandparents and my amazing friends.**

I would hate for them to read my words or my blog and only see the hard parts of early motherhood. The truth is, they are the good parts.

The first day of a trip is always disorienting to me. My rigidity and fear don’t match the loose seams of wanderlust-ing. Once my body catches up, I recalibrate and can see myself where I am again. When I open my eyes, there I am, in a bright new world with so much to see and experience. 

I hope my girls visit Big Sur when they’re older and come to the Henry Memorial Library for a concert. I hope they remember when their mom and dad went there on a whim. I hope they feel us there, our memories, the magic. Our awe and wonder deep in the forest floor. I hope they call me and Ryan so we can reminisce on the way we cried at the opening ballad of Rising Appalachia, their serene voices traveling through the redwood trees. 

I hope they know this trip was magical because of them. Because I have them to come home to. Both the luxury of a beautiful, full, family and the richness of a diverse inner life of freedom. 

The adventurous part of me was in pure bliss, driving down the California coast, listening to live music, experiencing novelty at every turn. Meanwhile the more fearful part who craves comfort and safety played a little song and dance. When my parts get loud, when they conflict, or mix and match it makes me feel disoriented. Why can’t I just feel joy without fear tethered so close behind? Who do I believe? Which part is true? 

I guess what’s true is that I am neither part. I am something deeper than all of it. 

I am the one who witnesses it all, who disappears into the earth and comes up only to deliver branches of love, truth and wisdom. 

Heart Berry

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“Did I ever tell you the story of how strawberries got their name?” my Dad would ask. 

My sisters and I would laugh and roll our eyes. Dad would throw us a friendly nudge. All of us knew that he had in fact told us that story. Too many times to count (though I was secretly happy to hear it over and over again). 

Today we picked blackberries and strawberries fresh from the vine at Stehly Organic Farms in Valley Center. I was sure to stop and tell the girls how strawberries got their name. 

“Back in the day, farmers placed hay instead of plastic at the base of strawberry plants to protect the berries from frost and mold,” I shared confidently. “That’s why they’re called strawberries.” 

They didn’t care much about my fun fact, mostly interested in who could find the juiciest ones.

Walking away with berry stained hands and the earth still under my nails, I thought of my dad (I always do). 

I thought of his family who owns Loftus Farms in Indiana. I thought of us as kids planting a garden in the backyard that never seemed to grow. I thought about pulling weeds and doing chores on Sundays, my dad in his white construction shirt, old blue jeans and a baseball cap. I thought of the way he would eat a whole apple, seeds and all, maybe spare the stem. A peach would be cleaned to the pit.

Did you know that strawberries are also known as “the heart berry” in many indigenous cultures because of their shape? Or that the word strawberry comes from the Old English streawberige because the plant sends out runners that look like pieces of straw.

Planted in the hearts and minds of me and my daughters are little seeds of curiosity and the magic of folklore sparked by strawberries. In this place, Dad, you are alive and well.

Not Another Love Story

~ Jenna ~ 1 Comment

We tell our love story
like words on the back of a wine bottle
How it all started
How the rest was history.
We smile and laugh at the same parts,
we remember the serendipity and irony of it all. 
At some point the “story” ended and we actually began:
Marriage, a baby, a second baby, a move, a death, another baby
How do you capture such complexity into such a short attention span?
The way we will feel distant for a few days and then always come back together
Or the way grief has polished us like rocks from the tide, into something neither of us recognize 
For better, for worse. 
How do I possibly share the cavernous depth of gratitude and love I feel
or how a part of me stayed behind when we got married and another part when I became a mother.
My wild, my bigness, my longings, my power – subconsciously afraid she didn’t belong.
(When all along, she was the part you fell in love with)
Together is complicated 
Where you end and I begin 
A new love story is slowly blooming
The one where we are living the life we want
not the life we think we should want
The one where I am fully me and you are fully you.


Not Another Motherhood Post

~ Jenna ~ 1 Comment

I lay in bed and circle the pothole of guilt
wondering if I’ll step into it tonight. 
Will bathing in the pit absolve me of my sins for the day?
Tomorrow I’ll read more books, meal-prep sooner, do an art project, pay more attention to the middle one, draw with the big one and promise not to make anyone feel bad. 
I’m so cautious with every word I say, aware of all the dollars I’ve dropped in their future therapy jars. 
Maybe they’ll say, I made them focus too much on their feelings. 
I’m beginning to think the next hot parenting method is the one where I just say nothing at all. 
My therapist asks if I’ve heard of the good enough mother?
As my three little birds cry out for something they need,
My inner child also begs, “what about me?!”
I am juggling in a three-ring circus
I am the heroine and the villain
I am a human vending machine 
I am Mother…
But who else am I?

521

~ Jenna ~ 1 Comment

My daughters run up the same path I did as a kid; the same one my dad did thousands of times when he was a kid. Free oranges hang over the fence from the neighbors yard, tart and sour, full of seeds, their scent creating a perfume across the yard. Other trees with over 60 years of wisdom dot the large plot of grass that leads to the front door; avocado, persimmon and orange trees. Still offering gifts to the little grabbing hands at their trunks. The corner window is intact, once shattered by a golf ball that was meant to be the magical sound of reindeer landing on the roof. 

Our family and extended family all gather to celebrate my Papa’s 91st birthday. A classic front yard party at 521. The kids make themselves right at home with their favorite toys, while all the “grown ups” enjoy casual conversation and a delicious spread of food prepared by our Aunts. 

Papa has so lovingly maintained this home, keeping intact and honoring her original beauty. I can trust this house, the way she smells and the way the stairs leading up from the entry almost propel you into a slight skip. I never tire of gazing at the old photos in the hallway, in awe and wonder of my dad’s “brady bunch” style family – three boys and three girls – with their silk shirts and long hair. 

The old cuckoo clock immortalizes my Grandma Joan’s playful nature. In quiet moments throughout the day, I can still see her in the kitchen window, hear her whistle that dinner is ready and taste her guacamole with fresh avocados from the tree. The room where we said goodbye to her.

After lunch we all go out to the front yard for games, organized by Uncle Chris, the biggest kid of them all. Wagon rides around the yard, field goal kicking contests, three legged races, and the pinnacle being a game of flag football. As we all huddle together, my uncle flips over his left hand to trace the football play on his palm, the exact same way my dad used to. 

Many things are the same, others are different. My memories are just a tiny snippet of the ones held here. But they are vivid and important, a corner of my heart where all is always well, everything makes sense and laughter and fun are mandatory. 

As we start to pack up for the day, I get a sense that the home feels pleased. Content to again be the space holder for memories, entertainment and joyful chaos.  Sturdy, in great condition, well-loved, strong character, an immeasurable legacy – her dedicated bones are a mirror of my Popster’s. Thank you 521, thank you Popster. See you next time!