A Scar and Bear Lake

It's now been nearly ten weeks since the rather unconventional arrival of Mette into this world – long enough for the bigness of her actual birth to have found a little resting spot comfortably somewhere in my mind where it mostly sleeps rather than plays on repeat as it did at first.

Still, every now and then I find myself looking at the thin, long, reddish scar on my lower abdomen and pausing. It doesn't bother me. It's not unsightly. And it's not wrapped up in regrets. But it's there. Something that wasn’t for 38 years before. And, when I do find myself looking in the mirror, tilting my head, and considering its presence, I mostly think, rather simply, how rarely I get such a visual reminder of . . . an experience; and, strangely, I feel an inexplicable sort of gratitude to that long mark, for being something I can clearly see. “Remember that day. Remember the things you wondered. Remember the unexpectedness. Remember what followed.” And, for a moment anyway – in feelings more than words – that scar somehow stretches beyond its length on my abdomen into . . . something bigger. Something like: You are here. You are living the mortal journey you longed for clear back when you shouted together with all those other morning stars. You are having experiences. So many. They are all leaving their marks. And those marks are good for you. They are becoming part of you. Eternally.

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We've had a rather Indian summer.We spent perhaps the last warm bits of it at our cabin this last weekend (where we haven't been, together as a family anyway, since July – Mette’s arrival and other obligations having thrown us off our usual regular visits for a bit).

We went on a hike one day. There was enough complaining at one point that Mike called us all a bunch of Laman and Lemuels. Still, we enjoyed ourselves. And we enjoyed Abe’s occasional safety tips:

“If you see a squirrel, play dead. They only kill for the thrill.” And, upon the passing of several ATVs nearby, “Just remember. 4-wheelers can’t climb trees.”

And, in the end, I took some of the wee-est complainers home while the four oldest hiked another three plus miles with Mike.

I like the cabin most of all because I feel somewhat free of my usual to-do lists so I’m more likely to do things like . . . play cards with my kids.

Also, I wonder why I ever think that cold, darkness, or full clothing might ever make my kids consider walking nicely along the lake shore rather than soaking themselves in it.

Lastly, we often end up needing some small item or other from the little Ace Hardware store in town while we are there. They give out these little free paper cones full of popcorn. Mike will never allow everyone to get a sleeve full of popcorn. I guess there are so many of us that he feels it would be taking advantage of their benevolence? I always get a chuckle out of everyone grumbling over who is eating too much and who isn’t getting enough from the one or two free cones Mike allows us. I don’t know why the whole thing makes me laugh so much.