Shaky Ground

Day 2. Seattle to Atlanta to Buenos Aires to Ushuaia. 

I awoke in the worn out hotel room in Seattle to "I will wait" by Mumford and Sons, my alarm clock song. In this case, Joe seems like the one waiting, some might say he is stuck back home with kids. He would say differently. This is what he wanted, to be the stay at home parent, to rid our life of nanny and child care stress, to take care of the home.  I stink at housekeeping. I envy the skill of organization, systems, and routine. My creative bursts rule the roost when I am in charge, so quilts are half made, kitchen table turns into painting studio, and meals are forgotten until too late in the day. I love my messy self, I love my children, and I hate housekeeping.  

I love work, even on days like today.

I arrived at the airport feeling flustered. I tried taking deep breaths, tried to find my zen. After attempting the self serve check in and failing an overly chipper agent pointed me towards 'Special Services.' This rarely bodes well in my experience. I stepped up to the counter whilst trying to balance my overstuffed backpack on top of the smart cart. My coat fell and I forgot what pocket my passport was in. Flustered wasn't going anywhere. The agent at the counter didn't share his coworkers happy demeanor. He grabbed my passport from my hand, typed in the information, looked up and said, "You are not in the system." I had been, in it, just moments ago, but now I was gone. I pulled my phone from my pocket and found the email with more information to prove I existed. Once he found me, he looked up and said, "You don't have the proper fees paid, you must pay the government of Argentina and then check in."

This sort of moment does not feel foreign. Often for work, I jump into these situations. I cram all the education on an area that I can into a week or so. I focus on penguin biology, currency, packing, how many vitamins needed for 55 days. And usually, it works. Sometimes, there is a snafu like a "reciprocity" fee when I  have 45 minutes to get on a flight.  

I felt my body lunge from flustered to problem solving mode. There was no time to fail.

I stepped away from the grumpster and called our emergency travel line and Valerie (always kind and patient) held my hand (over the phone) while I read through a website in Spanish. After some guessing and trying different credit cards,  I think I am set. I paid my fees, but can not print the document. Hopefully, Argentine customs accept digital proof of purchase.

After checking in, shuffling through security, I found my gate. I boarded and am here now, using the internet on my flight to Atlanta. I look online and can see that last night an earthquake shook my children while they slept, a 7.1 earthquake hit somewhere in Alaska, the largest since the 1964 quake that bent and twisted the whole peninsula.  My husband rarely checks email and he isn't on Facebook. 

As I think of them shaking in the dark, possibly waking scared and confused. I worry about the Dutch Delft ceramic houses that sit on a shelf above my Bella's head. I wonder about the bunk-bed over my middle child and where my son slept. He shares my creative approach and often camps out. Sometimes he sleeps in his blue/green hammock and I wonder if he swayed a little more without feeling a thing from mother earth. 

I wonder, as I always do, if I am irresponsible for leaving them. Hudson had a fever when I left, who leaves a kid with a fever?  Is it wrong for a mom to work in the field? Gone so long? Obviously, I settle on no. Still, the question nags. 

Rising up at the same time as the nagging question are the voices of my friends. Fellow guides, friends and family, coworkers like Holly and Valerie, but mostly writers. I have a tribe of women writers and they rise like a chorus of angels with support. They fill my page with "You got this," and "We love you," and "You are giving your kids a gift." This support makes all the difference in this and any adventure a woman faces. Because when the earthquake hit, Shell messaged me on Facebook, "I checked Homer and your family is fine." My tribe checked on my family as I continued south. When I shared my first blog, Kelly shared it even bigger and better. Others did too. We all met at a workshop with Jennifer Pastiloff and Lydia Yuknavitch. Jen soaked us in this idea: How bold one becomes when they know they are loved. The tribe took that love lesson from the workshop and put it into action. What if we all loved, as an action, each other? What if we all became that bold, with tribe at our back? I could fill so many posts with examples of the love we have given each other since September. My tribe is coming with me on this journey and so are you, if you are reading this. 

I am giving my kids a gift and I got this, but not alone. Gratitude has replaced flustered. Gratitude for my husband, an adventurer who chooses to chop wood, put up fish, fold laundry, shuttle kids, and wait for me. Gratitude for my friends, who will inevitably help my dear family. Gratitude for my mom and dad, my brothers who pushed me to keep up, never accepting that I couldn't, and for my tribe. I am praying that the ceramic little blue houses stayed in there spot, that my kids wondered in awe instead of wept in fear, that all of you check out a map and see how freaking far it is from Alaska to Antarctica, and that penguins are as cute as this flight is long. 

God willing, the next time I post will be from Ushuaia.