Year One Scorecard: 3.990 GPA In the Bag

And here we are. The first year at Stanford is now one for the record books. My initial posts to this blog are so interesting to me now; when I read them I can feel what I was feeling then--how disoriented, how terrified, how thrilled by the unknown.

Here are some of the things I learned this year:

1. I can write a serious and scholarly research paper, an "A" paper, even after changing my topic at the eleventh hour.

2. It is possible for a 50-year-old to pull an all-nighter. Without caffeine. There is such a strange moment around, oh I'm going to say 4 a.m., when you know you won't be going to bed before your 9 a.m. class. You wonder what that weird humming is. You move very slowly and stare before making major decisions like which shoe to put on first.

3. I never want to pull another all-nighter. NEVER.

4. There are brilliant professors at Stanford, people that make me want to pursue the possiblity of my own brilliance. Especial thanks to Scott Herndon and Elizabeth Tallent.

5. Even in this astounding place there are professors who can be just a tad arrogant. I'm thinking of--well, let's just suffice it to say, he didn't get invited back next year, but I did.

6. There are 20-somethings who are utterly stunning in their insights, comprehension, critical thinking, logic, and humor.

7. The same 20-somethings often use the word "like" as a conversational filler when in casual conversation.

8. A particular 50-something with minimal interest in football can go a little nuts when Stanford kicks Berkeley's ass at the Big Game GO CARDINAL!!

9. When you are 50, people are always very surprised to find out you are an undergrad. If they are over 40, they are almost universally pleased for you, and often say they are jealous, that they'd love the chance to do it again. This has come from peers, parents of other students, checkers at the Stanford Bookstore, and the doctors at the Vaden Health Clinic.

10. I can draw a five-page mini-graphic story that makes people cry. (Sorry Professor Johnson....)

11. I love the clock tower, the carillon, and the organ in the Memorial Church. I love the tour guides who have to learn to walk backwards. I love the Bender Reading Room in Green Library and the made-to-order omelette bar at Stern Dining. I love tourists on campus, even the ones who point video cameras in classroom windows. I love visiting-writer colloquia in the Terrace Room in Margaret Jacks, and the great snacks the Stegner Fellows put out for Writers' Workshop. I love the pink magnolia flowers and the smell of orange blossoms near the main quad. I love Maria at Olives for always knowing when I want a double-decaf-soy-mocha. I love that one of my fellow transfers chats a moment about singing in the university chorus, then mentions that he will be doing research on Einstein's theory of relativity over the summer. I love the way main campus feels on Sunday, an hour before the sun sets.

It sounds like the cheesiest sort of Oscar-night speech, and I just don't care. HAIL STANFORD, HAIL.

My friend Robert

Spring quarter allowed me the privilege of taking a small poetry workshop with dear Robert Bly, great-hearted, sometimes controversial, always amazing American poet. Once a week, for three hours at a time, I sat with a dozen or so other fortunate Stanford students and absorbed the beauty and intensity and humor of this amazing man, whose passion is abundant, particularly at the age of 81.

I made a special connection with Robert. I'm certain he enjoyed having someone over the age of 50 in his class. When the subject of war came up, when we began to speak of similarities between Vietnam and Iraq, our eyes would meet and we would both become very quiet, two people understanding the terrible similarities and feeling the ugly fact that human beings persist in their follies, their dark follies.

Robert gave me tremendous encouragement. He told me I should be preparing a book of poetry. When I won first place in Stanford's 2008 Urmy-Hardy poetry prize, he came to the reading to hear me read my poem. We talked a lot in class about soul, about having lived through pain, about what these things bring to the work of the poem.

On the last day of class, Robert and I talked before I left. He invited me to write him. He hugged me and told me that he would miss seeing me every week. We embraced and kissed each other on the cheek.

I do miss him. Very much. I am thankful to have made a soul-connection with such a vast heart. Thank you, Robert Bly, my teacher. My friend.

If you would like a taste of what my class was like each week, see for yourself the wisdom of Robert Bly .

The poem that won the prize (first printed in the Northcoast Journal) is here:

LIVING BY OUR LIGHTS—1966

You did what you knew how to do,and when you knew better, you did better. Maya Angelou

Timber was a despot
king when I was buying
penny Tootsie Rolls at Bonomini’s,
a freckled kid with one eye on the
newest Classic Comics. Jean Val Jean
could walk right through that door
and I would die trying to give him
every loaf of Wonder Bread.

Leland worked the mill and made
just enough to raise seven
sons to pull green chain. His one girl
learned to cook and sew and stretch
a dime paper-thin: pinto beans
ladled onto buttered white bread
laid in the scarred bottom
of a melamine bowl.

One night we heard that Timmy P.
was headed for St. Joe’s, three
fingers lost to a crosscut saw. He drove
his primer-gray ’56 Plymouth around
afterward, left arm on the open window,
hand just thumb and pinky and fat
bandages in between.
And he went back

because trees were everywhere, just
like schools of Chinook, and everywhere
names that big trees made
big: Dolbeer, Carson, Vance. The trees
that grew right down
to the edge of the bay
when Humboldt was the name
of a man and not the silver water.

We rode the train to Pacific Lumber,
a third grade field trip. Huge,
loud, hard hats and the useful
tang of redwood everywhere. Behind
a thick glass window, pressure jets of
water stripped long hanks of fibrous bark
off the pink wood, pink like salmon. It was
damn near patriotic.
~~Baku

Where Have All the Housewives Gone?

Now I understand why June Cleaver was such a stiff. Look at the Evil Clown at her right elbow! Scary! Imagine the nightmares for poor Beaver.

This week in advanced fiction we workshopped a creative short piece by one of my young female classmates. The story is set sometime in the near-ish future, with a protagonist who is also a young woman (twenty-five). During her research, the protagonist "discovers" a syndrome called 'Housewive's Depression.' There are some brilliant descriptions, lists of things the housewives talk over with the researcher that clearly show they are suffering from a large dose of Feminine Mystique. But the bottom line is that, in this fictional world, Housewive's Depression is a groundbreaking field of study.

During workshop, the three women in the room who are over 50--the professor, a journalist at Stanford on a Knight Fellowship, and me--all came at the story with the same question: Why is Housewife Depression being hailed as a new discovery? This has been done, said the Knight Fellow. Seems there should be a gesture acknowledging the work of earlier feminism, says the professor. Isn't the term housewife an arcane reference for a piece set in the future? I ask.

When it was the writer's turn to speak, she was quite clear in letting us know that she is a feminist studies major and she know about all the women's movement of the sixties and seventies. She's read the books, you see. There was a pretty strong feeling of nettlement coming from her side of the table. I felt that I could almost see we three mature women through her very young eyes, a trio of fading females treading on her story idea, perhaps too locked into the rhetoric of the feminist movement as it used to be to truly appreciate the fresh place from which she was trying to write. Well, maybe.

I feel about this rather as I felt when my youngest son, at the age of 12 or so, waxed expansive on the relative demerits of a car I mentioned liking the look of. I smiled and asked where he got his information. "I've been under the hood," was his answer. Say what?

What the feminist studies major does not (and cannot) grasp is what it actually felt like to be walking around in a pre-feminist American culture. I wasn't allowed to wear pants to school until I was in junior high. For crying out loud--no pants! I used to hang from my knees on the monkey bars. Damn those pipes were cold. Every girl had to take Home-Ec in the ninth grade. No exceptions. It was legal to pay a woman less than a man for the same job. It was legal to pat a female co-worker on the ass. There was no such thing as marital rape. Hell, there was no such thing as domestic violence.

Sandra Day O'Connor recently spoke at Stanford. Back in the day, when Ms. O'Connor whizzed through law school and set out to get a job with her shiny new law degree, she was told during an interview that she would not be hired because she was a woman. The man told her "the clients just wouldn't stand for it."

I was born into a world where there was no birth control pill and no legal abortion. Where women still wore gloves when they went out of the house. A world where the only thing I could think to say when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up was "teacher" or "nurse" even though I didn't want to be either of those things. Once, playing in my best friend's backyard (we were on the monkey bars again) she said to me, "It's better to be a boy." This was a conventionally feminine young girl--she wasn't confessing questions about gender identification. She just saw the limits the world wanted to slap on her. I was surprised, and I asked her why. "Everything is just a lot easier for boys," she said. "They get treated better."

And that's why we old girls don't hesitate to speak up, you see, to dust off the rhetoric when we feel like it's being taken for granted. We've been under the hood. Really.

CARLA BAKU LIVING DESIGN MANIFESTO

I'm required to take an applied science class while at Stanford--yes, me, the mathematical dunderhead. I was able, by dint of blather, to talk my way into a lovely mechanical engineering class: "The History & Philosophy of Design." This week we are to bring a 'design manifesto' to class. I don't know what all the engineering students around me will be aiming for, but the following is my go at the assignment.

“What will you do with your one wild and precious life?”
--Mary Oliver

I am the designer and architect of my one wild and precious life, arbitrary and oppressive interference by a corrupt and corporate mindset in the greater community not withstanding. In recognition that I have a moral responsibility to myself and my fellow sentient beings, I choose to base my designs in the following Twofold Consideration: How will my design increase happiness in my life and the lives other sentient beings? How will my design reduce, prevent, or eliminate suffering in my life and the lives of other sentient beings?

A single life, vibrating in the web of the space-time continuum, has a vast influence for good or ill in the universe. This influence is precipitated by the decisions of the individual. I choose to recognize the power and value of my individual decisions and to become more deliberate and conscious in my life designs.

In keeping with these observations, I will take the following specific steps toward accomplishing my living design:

I will adhere to Michael Pollan’s An Eater’s Manifesto: “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly Plants.” I will abide by the Twofold Consideration by purchasing locally-grown, organic, fair-trade food whenever possible. To maximize my ability to grow my own food, I will begin the conversion of my front lawn into raised garden beds, with a sustainable irrigation system.

I will avoid product consumption whenever alternatives exist that honor the Twofold Consideration. I will subject all product consumption to the most rigorous interpretation of the Twofold Consideration.

I will conserve financial resources in order to begin converting my home to sustainable energy sources. I will make concrete steps toward living a carbon neutral life, in particular, the purchase of a veggie-oil vehicle.

I will interact with other humans by following the prescription of the Golden Rule and the proscription of the Silver Rule. I will approach my fellow life travelers with kindness, courtesy, and a sense of humor. In this way I will strive to live gently with my fallible nature and the fallible nature of others.

I will write a poem every day and I will read a poem every day. I will remind the most important people in my life that I love them and that they are the central focus of my dearest thoughts. I will allow the natural world to instruct me on my place in life. I will meditate on the fact that I am a carbon-based life form, existing in an essential mystery.

Disciples

While I was home for spring break, I took a drive out to Loleta, a pastoral place that ultimately overlooks the ocean. Back in the very early 1970s, there was a hippie commune set up at a former lighthouse/coastguard station. It was called the Lighthouse Ranch, and I lived there for a while.

I recently wrote a short memoir piece about life at the Ranch, and it was strange to trek over those old times. It seems a little like a dream, how earnestly we pursued our desire to love God and love each other. The photo above is on the side of the old 'brothers' dorm.' So much of what was there is either gone, locked up, or melting back into the ground. It's a perfect metaphor.

This is the main building. There was a big dining hall and giant kitchen on the ground floor; I spent quite a bit of time working there. It looks grim, but back in the day, I was in love with the place and the hundred-or-so people who lived there. Below is a little excerpt from the memoir.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Disciples"

Trying to explain how it was is like trying to explain how you would know the sound of your lover’s breathing, even in a dark room full of breathing strangers. We were all very young. There was a war, and we were tired. We were tired of the war and tired of the passions war inflamed. We wanted to love each other, so we called each other brother and sister. We had decided that we were on the bus with Jesus. Not only did he look like one of us, he was offering paradise. We got on the bus with Jesus and it was a new trip.

The thing that you don’t know about living with a hundred people is that the most important thing is jam. It is very important that everyone get the same amount of yogurt at breakfast, and that no one eats all the jam. You might think the elder’s job is to drag you out of your little bunk, sisters’ dorm, brothers’ dorm, married couples too, everyone huddled in a stupor at 6 a.m. to hear a recording of the Apostle’s purpose and vision. But it is actually his job to make sure about the jam. Jesus may have increased the loaves and fishes, but he hasn’t made any moves toward increasing the jam.

It was always something with the food. The girl who shopped for groceries wept every week in the co-op, standing by the bulk bins. No matter what she planned, there was never enough money. There were sandwiches made of fava beans. ~Baku 2008

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Drop me a comment if you'd like to read more.

Crones gone wild?

Spring break--no bikinis, no beer bongs, no wet t-shirts. Just two weeks AT HOME. The first thing that strikes me is how really dirty a "clean" house can be. The guys go on a cleaning jag for my arrival, but there are still places around the kitchen sink I can't touch without gloves, bless their pea-pickin' little hearts. Two days after my arrival, 19-year-old son spontaneously says, "It's so good to have you home." (Pause) "There's always stuff to eat." Yes, I missed you too, boy.

It is so quiet in Humboldt County. A long afternoon walk and the small ambient sounds of the neighborhood--a lawn mower, a couple of kids at the park, a car or two driving past--all seem so inconsequential and easy to ignore. At Stanford I'm under the flight path of both the Oakland and the San Francisco airports. I'm between two major freeways and a block from a major surface street. There is a rail line about a mile away that runs almost 24 hours a day. And there are just a LOT of people.

Gearing up for the last quarter of my first year at the Farm. I have gorged my scribbler's heart on creative writing classes this year, so will be hating myself next year when it's all about fulfilling the other part of getting an English degree: ye olde literature, etc. Three of the four classes I want for the spring quarter are "throw your hat in the ring and cross your fingers." I have submitted a manuscript for advanced fiction writing, and a nifty class called the novel salon--wherein one reads a novel a week and class meets at 6-ish for dinner, cocktails and discussion. Please. Break my spirit.

I did write a couple of fun short stories this quarter: one is called "Maybe We Danced," about a former hippie in an old-folks home; the other is basically memoir, recalling my days in a Jesus Freak commune in the early 1970s. I'm hard at work on my novel, though "hard at work" means faithfully producing at least 2 pages per day. I'd like to up my output to a minimum of 1000 words, so I'm pushing myself. Not having to turn in those pages for close inspection every week is allowing my imagination to supersede the internal critic/editor.

One note about creative writing workshops: if 99% of your readers are under the age of 21, they may not read things the way you intended them. One of my young classmates thought I must be referring to neighbors when my character said, "After dinner, Mama and Daddy watch the news with Huntley and Brinkley." Another, reading about a homeless man who carried a jack handle in his shopping cart, corrected my manuscript by writing "handle of Jack." I had to ask around to learn that this is term for a bottle of booze, particularly Jack Daniels. Which would make sense for the homeless guy, when you think about it. Oh, the generation gap. :)

The Big Question

For the one or two people out in the world who actually read this thing, I'm sure you believe me to have fallen off the edge of the known world. I suppose, in a manner of speaking, that is precisely what I have done.

I'm already 2/3 of the way through my first year at Stanford, and the first days on The Farm seem like a very long time ago. Our first adventure was just getting me here, driving two vehicles, and my husband white with stress from trying to drive in Bay Area traffic. Once we got on campus, getting into my little place was smooth sailing--no red tape, no worries. The main obstacle was not knowing where anything was in the boxes (I couldn't find my underwear for three days) and trying to figure out how to get around on campus.

They gave me a great little apartment in an eight-story mid-rise. I have a wonderful view on the seventh floor (I took the picture above from my balcony.) This is grad student world, lots of serious (grim?) students, so although the walk to main campus is kind of long (about a mile), it is pretty peaceful.

First day here, Brian and I took my bike over to get a permit. It's a really old bike with no visible serial number, so a helpful lady brought out her engraver to give me one. She asked if I was a student. When I told her yes, I was an undergraduate transfer, she straightened up and looked me in the eye.

"There are only twenty of you this year," she said. I agreed, yes, just twenty. "Are you on the football team?" That was a good one. "You must have a hell of a transcript." I smile, thinking of my many C's in math, the many classes I had to withdraw from, leaving W's on the paperwork. I think of the 380 in math on the SAT. "I don't know," I say. "They seem to want me."

This interlude is what I have come to call "The Question." It has been asked by lots of folks. It boils down to: "What are you doing here?" I've been asked if I was a parent of a Stanford student, if I am a grad student, a fellow of some sort, a PhD candidate, or a professor. Or on the football team. I'm often asked (wink wink nudge nudge) whether I go to frat parties or have joined a sorority. I'd like to show up at a frat party sometime with a video camera--can you say "harsh my buzz??"

A young classmate approached me after class one day, asking about how I ended up at Stanford. After some chatting, he asked if he could do a story for the Stanford Daily. His name is Luke, he's decided to be a creative writing major, he did a great job on the story, and you can read it here:

Luke's super article in the Stanford Daily.

I had plenty of occasion for self doubt in the first quarter. I spend a lot of time alone, and I miss my husband so much it makes my skin hurt. But often during intense and daunting discussions about research papers or close reading of 19th century literature, I would become overwhelmed with gratitude. Just to be here, at one of the most esteemed universities in the world--well, need I say more? Now it has been six months, and I still tread lightly through the arcades, thinking about all the ones who went before and all the ones who will come after. I am still amazed to be here. On a daily basis, I remind myself: Carla--remember this. Hold this moment in your memory, because it is one of the high points of your life.

I have made connections in the creative writing department with faculty (Elizabeth Tallent is one of my professors, and Tobias Wolff is my academic advisor!)

I spent these two quarters being mentored by current and former Wallace Stegner Fellows Shimon Tanaka, Andrew Altschul, Molly Antopol, and Josh Tyree. Andrew's novel comes out next month, and watch for the rest of those names--they'll be big in the future, I guarantee it. I've also met many wonderful aspiring student writers, have written several short stories and have begun work on a novel. Funny thing, when you tell people at Stanford that you intend to write a novel, they just pat you on the back and say "Great!" They believe you. I'm starting to believe me, too.

Holy Moley

I took this shot inside the Memorial Church at Stanford last week. It doesn't do justice to the beauty of this building. I have a lot of issues surrounding organized (or disorganized) religion, but I LOVED being in this sanctuary. I can see myself using this gorgeous space for meditation. They set up a labyrinth to walk each Friday on the huge marble area by the altar (which has, I am sure, some particular and outside-the-common-vernacular name).

Hey, I went to Stanford! It was. . .hmmm. It was absolutely overwhelming. The Good Man and I arrived in Palo Alto (the ritzy little town on the outskirts of the University) as it was getting dark, and the enormity of what I am about to tackle came over me like a fever. We found a lovely sidewalk cafe and had a bite, and were both feeling the upcoming separation as a reality that is right around the corner. I am crazy in love with this man and not being able to be in the same room on a daily basis is a sad thought. We have shed some tears over this, yet we are both firm that me NOT doing Stanford is out of the question.

The next day was the Transfer Visit Day on campus. I drove over and promptly got turned in some bizarre direction, despite a decent map. Stanford is the largest college campus in the U.S. and second-largest in the world (topped only by the University of Moscow). Getting lost on campus seemed to be a common theme throughout the day, mentioned by pretty much every person that chatted with us, from faculty to staff, to recent graduates. The Good Man arrived on campus after lunch and even with cell phones it took us a ridiculous amount of time to run into each other.

The welcome showered on the transfer students was humbling and heartening. Stanford only accepted 22 this year, out of 1400 applicants from around the world. That number made me a little swimmy in the head. Two acceptees will not be attending; one deferred so he can do a tour in Iraq (may he stay safe and sound) and one person declined. Declined?? I would shave my left eyebrow to know what other offer could have come up.

I saw a fraction of the campus, a few of the many fountains, some of the incomparable Rodin sculptures. What a day! By the time I drove back to the hotel, I was massively overwhelmed. I wanted to weep, but kept holding it at arm's length.

Finally, discussing the day over a glass of good California Zinfandel at dinner with the Good Man, the multitude of feelings culminated in a wave that I could barely contain. All the things that I have overcome in my life to get to this place: half-assed parenting by my folks, 18 years of marriage to a man who made it his mission in life to grind me down so far that I would never find my way back; the devastating loss of my little girl. I was crying, and I wanted to slam my fist down on the table and shout:

"I AM! STILL! HERE! AND HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW??"

Life in the Blender

Tensions are running amok here in the Northwest.

See this guy? He rocks. He is MY rock. We are slogging through a nuisance lawsuit cooked up by his deranged ex-wife, the attorney fees of which have necessitated my 51-year-old husband getting a second job. As the old saying goes: Some days you eat the bear; some days the bear eats you. Maybe a bear will eat the ex-wife.

We are pushing my youngest son (18) ever closer to the edge of the nest, while my oldest son (27) is going to be back in the nest tomorrow, needing to get his bearings and re-settle in California after a fairly miserable stint in Arkansas. My stepdaughter is heading back for year three of a college education that is making her mother loony and her father a pauper. Blended family? Blenderized is more like it.

Seven weeks to Stanford, and counting. Have I mentioned lately that my scholarships and financial aid are paying every penny? I stare at the beautiful campus picture on my desktop and try to get through my head that I will soon live there, will soon be walking those hallowed halls with these tired old feet and laying my trifocals on wonderfully tough class syllabi. It barely seems real. I will be traveling there in ten days for a transfer student get-together/tour/advising opportunity. I am pinching myself repeatedly to ensure this is not a dream.

You know all those woo-woo new-agey theories about visualizing success and asking for what you want? IT WORKS! Of course, the visualizing takes place simultaneously with working your ass off.

In the meantime, I make little piles of stuff to take with me, and I tell people how to find the really big trees. Repeat after me: Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway. . . Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway. . . Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway. . . .

Where am I ??

Summer rolls on, and Stanford still seems like looking at Denali from many miles away: It’s kind of lost in the mist and seems more like a rumor than a reality. So I just concentrate on getting up every day to work at the visitors’ center, telling folks all day how to get to the sights. The questions tend to rank as follows:

1. “Where do I go to see the really big trees?” (A close second is “Where am I?” I point to the map. A lot.)

2. “Isn’t there a tree here that you can drive a car through?” (There are three, but not in the National Park. Call us crazy, but we tend to shy away from cutting holes in ancient old-growth forest.)

3. “Can we get the permit for the Tall Trees Grove?” (A great question about a long, rigorous hike. Unfortunately, often asked by perfectly coiffed and manicured folks in expensive leather shoes/coats, or those carrying oxygen and recovering from hip replacement surgery.)

4. “Do you have bumper stickers?” (Or hats, postage stamps, film, batteries, vending machines. . .the answer to all these being, no, no, no, no, no, aaaand….no.)

Most of our visitors are truly delightful. We get to hear how wonderfully cool the coast is (while the rest of the country broils, poor dears, we are basking in our usual summer temps of 63-68°.) They are thrilled to be in the midst of the tallest trees on earth, walking among giant coast redwoods that tower well over 350 feet, taller than the Statue of Liberty. They are excited about the accessibility of the Pacific Ocean (our center sits directly on the beach with a wall of windows overlooking the surf.) They get to see California quail, brown pelicans, osprey, and Stellar Jays. On many days, sea lions, seals, and gray whales make an appearance. On great days, folks spot a black bear. On the best days of all, no one sees a mountain lion.

There are, of course exceptions to the delightful visitor rule. There are visitors who have driven through the entire park without taking any of the scenic routes, are irritated that they missed the sights, and staunchly refuse to drive backward just seven miles to see the most incredible coastal redwood forest on earth. I mean, come on, people! This is Return of the Jedi and Jurrassic Park II scenery, for crying out loud!

One gentleman, when I started to tell him about fabulous things to see, stopped in mid-sentence and looked at me like I was trying to sell him a used car. “I already went to Yosemite and…how do you say that? Moor? Meer?” (It’s Muir.)

“I’ve already seen some nice trees,” says he. Now, I have a snide side a mile wide, and oh, how I wanted to say, “Well, gosh, you should probably just GO HOME NOW.” But I was good. I was professional. I smiled like a flight attendant on Demerol and said I knew that if he just drove seven miles up the highway he would not be disappointed. For a minute, I sort of hoped a mountain lion would show up and maybe play with him just a little bit, but I was feeling some hostility, you know. Abraham Lincoln got it right about not pleasing all the people all the time, and not being able to beat them unmercifully.

I think that’s how it goes. It’s all worth it, though, when a visitor gives you a big smile, and thanks you profusely for being so helpful. When they ask your name and shake your hand. When they happily tell you how glad they are to be here from Germany, France, Japan, Ireland, Australia, Missouri, Montana, and Maine. One dear lady came in and was exceptionally effusive. This grandmotherly woman was absolutely giddy, happily buying postcards and redwood seedlings. She told me it was her lifelong dream to see the redwoods. I told her, in all sincerity, that I was honored to take part in the fulfillment of her dream. She had come with her sister and brother-in-law from somewhere in the Midwest. When she went outside to see the ocean, her sister put it in perspective for me.

“My sister is so happy to be here,” the lady said. “She’s always wanted to see the redwoods. Last year she got breast cancer, and she said that if she pulled through, she was coming out here, no matter what.” People come in sometimes and say, “You’ve got the best job in the world.”

And sometimes they are absolutely right. Come see us.

Stress and Affirmations

Yesterday, moments after waking, my heart starting flailing around like a bird trying to beat its way out of a box. After ten long minutes, laying there in the five a.m. gloom, breathing deep and waiting for my pump to shift back into gear, I decided I had to go to the ER. I brushed my teeth, then leaned over my sweetheart to deliver the news.

"Honey," I whispered. He tried to crack one eyelid. Sleepy. Very sleepy.

"Don't freak out," I said. Both eyes sprang open wide. "I need you to take me to the emergency room." He sat up and immediately, but quietly, freaked out.

It's called atrial fibrillation, which means the small valves on the top of my heart lost the beat they learned when I was an embryo, and started slam-dancing around to little circulatory effect--quivering, was the term my ER doc used.

I'm much better now, after meds to remind my little atrium the trick of synchronicity. My doctor has ordered me off caffeine, and wants me to find more effective ways of dealing with stress. Let's see: my youngest son is moving from high school dependent to college/job/I can do as I please; I am gone from home for almost 11 hours a day for work; and I am negotiating the unfamiliar waters of "approaching Stanford."

To ice the stress cake, my husband's ex-wife has decided that what my husband paid in child support for ten years wasn't okay after all (although they had full agreement at the time.) Now (even though their daughter is almost 20 years old) the ex feels she should get a fat arrears check. Said fat check falling into the "let's squeeze blood from a turnip" category.

So I am to replace my looming worries in the watches of the night with an affirmation, something along the lines of: "My heart is at perfect peace," or "Everything will work out all right." Not to be confused with my former mantra: "I hope that mercenary harpy develops bleeding piles."

I think I'll go have a cup of chamomile tea.

The Good Life

An hour-and-a-half up the road from my home, and look where I got to have a picnic with my husband. This is Bald Hills, an area above the redwood forest filled with natural meadow land created in large part by fires (lightening-caused, and human-caused). The view is panoramic here, and this picture is of the yearly bloom of purple lupin. This shot was taken about a week after the flowers were in their reproductive prime, but the hills were breathtaking. Birdsong and a bit of wind were the only sounds. I'm making this a desktop for my computer, and it will be one of many photos to sustain me through my time in Stanford-land.

Summer Jobs

This is the first time I've ever gone out looking specifically for a summer job. Usually I am concerned mostly with the perks of job longevity: how soon do benefits kick in, pay raise increments, health insurance. The summer job is all about just making some money until school starts in the fall, and trying to save some of it.

I think I found the perfect summer job. For 12 years I've backpacked into Redwood Creek, in the Redwood National Park (this photo is from one summer trip.) This year I have a job at the National Park visitors' center, showing people where to hike, where to find the biggest and most beautiful old-growth redwood trees, and selling them books that fit their outdoor interests. In the past few days I've gotten to talk with visitors from Germany, France, Japan, Korea, China, South America, England, Ireland, Scotland, and from all over the United States.

If you're travelling into beautiful coastal northern California this summer, come see me at the Kuchel Visitor Center just south of Orick, and I'll show you how to get to the Lady Bird Johnson Grove and the Newton B. Drury Scenic Bypass.

Next step to Stanford: send off financial and scholarship paperwork, and find out if any of my community college credits work for my major course work. Find out what kind of Stanford math class I have to take. Try not to quail in fear at the previous statement.

Next Stop: Stanford

Surely someone is about to wake me, but I'm going to hang out in this amazing dream state as long as I can!
Three weeks ago, I won an incredible scholarship that will finance the remainder of my undergrad degree. Five days ago, I was accepted to Stanford University. Yes, it happens every year to lots of people, but not to ME! I'm a 50 year old re-entry mother of four, who spent 12 years going to community college and working mostly as an administrative assistant. Now I'm going to Stanford, and it is completely paid for. For the past five months I have visualized myself being accepted; I would look at this picture, put my finger on the chair, and say, "My butt HERE." And now it's happened.
Now that the dream has materialized, I have to figure out how this all works--it was just theory before! My wonderful husband is staying home to hold down the fort while I chase the white rabbit. He'll be a loooong 7 hours away, so time together will be at a premium, especially with gas at damn near $4.00 a gallon.

My heartfelt urging to any reader: dream the big dreams, work your ass off, and never, never, NEVER give up.