And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
I left the little house in Waldport, Oregon, on Sunday morning, to drive into Portland, where I began my flight home on Monday. Before I left the house, I went for my final walk. I realized I hadn’t seen any whales on this trip. On the majority of my previous trips, if not all, I’ve seen whales. Last year, there was a whale party going on one day and I sat on the deck and watched whale tail after whale tail, breach after breach. There is a whale tail on the cover of my most recent book, Hope Always Rises, and seeing the real whales right there in front of me, I didn’t even need binoculars, just took my breath away.
So realizing I hadn’t seen them made me a little miffed. But then a brown head surfaced next to me in the ocean. It disappeared, it came back, it disappeared, it came back. It kept pace with me.
A sea lion joined me on my walk and I laughed out loud.
He continued with me until I turned to go back to the little house and my waiting car. Then he disappeared.
Before the visit from the sea lion, I was in tears. Again. I am getting very, very tired of tears. I swear my skin is dry because of the constant onslaught of salt. But then, thanks to the sea lion, I laughed, and when I gave my last wave to the ocean, I was smiling.
Then I set off on the journey home. Waldport to Portland, overnight, Portland airport to Salt Lake City to home.
Whenever I first arrive at the little house, I walk or run through to the sliding doors, throw them open, step out on the deck, and gasp when I see the ocean. Always, always, the gasp. The first time, I wasn’t surprised. I was seeing the ocean, it was in my back yard, and oh so glorious! But time after time, even though I know the ocean is there, even though I see it on my drive from the moment I race down the mountain and burst out through the forest to find the coast spread out before me, from Newport to Waldport, and even though I can see it through the sliding doors, my reaction is the same. I gasp, and I bring both hands to my mouth. The awe and love and admiration I feel each time, even when it became familiar, is overwhelming. My reaction is spontaneous.
I always cry upon leaving too. Though this year, that sadness was heavier than usual.
My plane didn’t land on Monday night until 9:30. By then, I was exhausted and stiff. The Milwaukee airport was emptier than I’d ever seen it before – no one waiting for flights, all the stores and kiosks closed up. I plodded my way through the airport and when I turned onto the final aisle that would lead me to the terminal, I began to look ahead.
I was being picked up by my son Andy and my daughter Olivia. I watched for them and I couldn’t see them. When I stepped into the terminal, I looked all around and still didn’t see them. But then they stood up.
And I gasped.
Familiar to me as can be, one child 38, the other almost 24. I knew they’d be there. Just like I knew the ocean would be there, each and every time, and I gasp anyway. The awe and love and admiration I feel each time, ever since the day each was born, even when they became familiar, is overwhelming.
So here is my ocean at home. Which makes my home as lovely as the little house in Waldport, with the big ocean in the back yard.
Sons Christopher and Andy. Daughters Katie and Olivia. Grandgirl Maya Mae. Son-in-law Nick, daughter-in-law Amber. And of course, my daughter-by-proxy Rayne, who I’ve known since she was in high school with my big kids (Christopher, Andy, Katie), and who I stayed with in Portland.
I was greeted with hugs. And then that sibling dialogue that every mother of multiples knows so well:
ANDY: You’ll never guess what Olivia did.
OLIVIA: Shut up!
38 and 24.
I think that we always need to be aware of who is still in our lives. Who is always there, who greets us with hugs, who can say things that you know they’re going to say. Who makes you gasp. Even when, and maybe especially when, you know through every layer of yourself that someone is missing.
That pain can make you gasp too. I am often feeling breathless.
But this other gasp, this gasp for the ocean, and the gasp for my kids, is filled with a joy that allows me to exhale and then just keep on breathing.
I have the ocean there. I have my human ocean here.
Gasp!
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.






