This endeavor of early parenthood is at once both sorely trying and utterly fulfilling. The mind runs through the full gamut of emotions in the blink of an eye, as this new life we have created, who was only moments earlier screaming questioningly to the gods about her very existence on this cold and dreary slab of rock, now slips off the breast into a sleepy revelry; one punctuated by small squeaks and twitches emanating from an otherwise unconscious and completely lifeless little rag-doll body. It is at this point, when the belly of my daughter is full and her meager appetite is satiated, that I find the whole of who I am to be complete in a way in which I have never experienced before. As I lift her delicate body and glimpse the slight scowl replacing the previously contented countenance and place that warm head against my chest, her arms hanging loosely at her side, when I feel her relax completely and melt into my skin, it is at this point that my whole world shifts and things that I once deemed important, or at the least worthwhile, drift away in the wind like the tiny motes of dust they are.
Time no longer has its characteristic continuity, the standard flow of cause and effect that I’ve grown accustomed to through long years of labored consciousness. A new baby is a mountain of potential wrapped in an untrained and flimsy body whose sole purpose in this early life is that of digestion and a means of alerting the caretakers to one of several potential discomforts. The baby knows nothing of time. She knows only that she is hungry and has but one way of communicating this fact to those ghastly large beings who supply her with food and torture her with frequent disrobing and diaper changes, who have the audacity to strip her naked and wipe her down with cold and damp cloths splashed with a slight floral fragrance that offers no apologies to this breach of her personal privacy.
Varying degrees of crying alert us to the amount of discomfort she may be feeling at any point in the day or night. We try to make sense of it, to commit it to a schedule or to understand its nature, but as the days and nights progress and bleed into each other, the only thing that comes close to describing this feeling of permanent and ragged wakefulness is the idea that life in its current incarnation exists and is maintained in something akin to a series of disjointed blinks of the eye. Those brief times when we are able to lay down in bed only to be awoken just prior to the onset of the much sought after state of REM sleep, when we suddenly find ourselves already hovering around the house with baby in hand, or fully coming to consciousness in the middle of a nearly completed diaper change, these are merely moments of fractured visions, of slightly diluted clarity, both after one blink and before the next, when time once again becomes unhinged and shifts and the experience of reality is shoved forward violently into the next moment of drowsy, eye-smacking delirium. This is parenthood in its early stages.
The alarm goes off again and I am jolted awake. No, that is no alarm. That’s a baby. That’s my baby. Her cries signify the onslaught of changing time once again, followed by the hand-off to mom for a light snack and a snooze.
I’m still awake? But it’s night-time and both mom and baby have long since drifted off after the most recent feeding. The transition between the alertness brought on by a baby’s cry and the attempt at one more dollop of slumber does not seem to be in the cards for now. This, I presume, I hope, will change as exhaustion becomes unbearable and I find myself jolted awake in some other facet of the day or night without any recollection as to how I arrived.
Some weeks ago, I happened upon a crochet pattern for a stuffed Hobbes tiger, the toy version of Calvin’s sidekick when viewed by adults. I make the audacious assumption that my daughter will absolutely love a stuffed Hobbes tiger and cherish it forever, though in reality, I understand that I may only be fulfilling a long dormant desire from my own childhood. Maybe I’m making it for myself. In the times between sleepings and feedings when I am unable to sleep yet confined to the house, I set out to learn how to crochet.
I hug my daughter close to my chest and pat her back to elicit a burp. Her second breakfast appears to have been quite substantial and she has taken on the air of one drunk on breast-milk. Her tiny body melts against my chest and I repudiate the notion of sleep so I can take advantage of the multitude of recently awakened feelings overwhelming my core being. We lay for hours in the reclining chair with her on my chest as a few streaks of tears dry against my cheek.
It’s diaper changing time once again and I am only milliseconds too slow. In the time between the wiping of the bottom and the application of the new diaper, I hear a faint and brief whooshing sound and, as my reflexes have been dulled by the lack of anything reminiscent of sleep, the sudden stream of fecal matter takes me by surprise. It sprays in a jet at least eighteen inches in length, nearly as long as the beloved baby girl from which it emanated. This changing time takes a little longer than usual as I sanitize several baby garments and the changing table/dresser combination. But eighteen inches? I’m not even mad. In fact, I’m impressed.
The dog is a tightly wound spring of potential energy, ready to burst at the seams in a frenzy of canine enthusiasm. She hasn’t been walked or let outside to frolic in days. I take her with me for a run on a warm winter morning. Afterward it becomes obvious that the run did nothing to degrade her exuberance. When we get back, she runs in tight, concentric circles in the backyard, reminding me of her continual need for release and lack thereof.
The sun is out and my daughter is awake and fully alert. Her eyes are wide and inquisitive, dark blue sapphires full of a searching curiosity, haunting orbs that I find overwhelmingly captivating and immersive. I lose myself in those wandering eyes, drowning in the life and potential they exhibit. Nora Jones sings a ballad on the radio and I take my daughter in my arms and dance slowly around the living room. I can’t remember a time in my life when the onset of my own tears so completely took away my ability to speak or to form even a single cogent syllable, whereby at any attempt of uttering just a single word, my body convulsed uncontrollably and unintelligibly. I now know such a thing is possible.
I find myself walking towards my wife as she nurses in the early hours of the morning carrying, in one hand, a glass of water and in another, a mini-sledgehammer. I give her the water as we both stare perplexedly at the hammer.
What better way to pass the unsleeping hours of the dark and early morning but to remove a door in the basement and use some power tools in the garage to install a cat flap so that the litterbox is removed to one of our underutilized storage rooms? At least now I know what the mini-sledgehammer was for.
I take a few minutes to swing by the library to find a book on beginner crochet techniques. The librarian tells me that I have a fifteen cent balance on my account from an overdue book. Only later, when I see the receipt left in between the pages of the crochet book, do I realize what had been overdue. It turns out to be Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf. The librarian didn’t even blink at this odd juxtaposition of crochet and National Socialism. What can I say? My interests are varied and know no bounds.
I’m out on the road again, running alongside several miles of dreary and cold farmland tainted with the sweet odor of recently thawed manure and less recently deceased roadkill, listening to the soothing voice of David Rakoff read through partially-autobiographical and whimsical essays in his book, Half Empty. If this blog entry seems overly drawn out or perhaps a bit dramatic, it is only because I am leaning on David as a crutch and cannot help but hear his voice as I type the words. Whether I have captured his wispy and meandering style is yet to be seen, but as I am barren of sleep and ultimately incapable of finding sleep when offered, I am only able to translate these feelings to the written word by imagining them in his voice.
Something of a routine has been developing for a few days, or for a short while we imagined so. We’ve heard the term cluster-feeding before and our daughter has decided that now is the time to introduce us to its cruel reality. A cluster feeding is defined as a series of nearly sequential nursing times initiated by a baby’s cry at that precise moment when the parents’ consciousness slips from wakefulness to slumber, thereby ensuring that the parents’ promise of sleep is never fully realized but only ever seen as an attainable goal one short feeding away. The beginning of a cluster feeding doesn’t necessarily have to happen during the night so long as it robs the parents of a cluster of naps.
And so on. These past two weeks of sleep deprivation have been heavenly. I was able to take a few weeks off of work so that I could spend the time with my burgeoning family and frankly, it’s not enough time. In the latter part of the pregnancy, some people were making it seem like two weeks would be overkill, that I would become overly bored and frustrated and would be wishing I was back at the office so that I could be out of earshot of a screaming baby and once again productive, at least in a business sense. My experience hasn’t played out like that. If anything, I wish I could spend more time here with my daughter. But alas, duty calls and in a few days, I will head back to the office, back to building websites that sell shoes, and building more things so that they can sell even more shoes, then fixing problems because shoes aren’t selling as quickly as shoes are expected to be sold, then trying to think of new and innovative ways to write software to sell even more shoes. So it goes. But now, in addition to coming home to my amazing wife, I have an equally amazing little girl to come home to who will make it all worthwhile.
PS – The crochet is coming along nicely. I now have two Hobbes’ legs. She is going to love the completed project, but until then, she has offered to model a few of these feline appendages.
Today marks the third anniversary of my marriage to the most wonderful girl anyone could ask for. I love you, Jen!
Three years ago today, the reception was winding down and we were weaving our way through the maze of guests, thanking them for being there and talking of our upcoming plans. I was soon to carry Jen over the threshold of our Kentwood apartment, hoping to avoid notice by our neighbors, me in my penguin suit and she in her bride’s dress. The next day we would be whisked off to Mexico to bask in the sunshine for a few weeks as the American economy crashed, while we sipped on Margaritas and relished each others’ company.
My life with Jen has since been amazing. I’ve become more attached and dependent on her, more in love with and devoted to her, than I could ever have imagined. That she could return such love to a nerdy introvert hiding behind a bravado facade is beyond me. As each day passes, it becomes harder to remember life as it was before she was part of me. Our honeymoon continues to this day.
In honor of today, I’ve reposted an old article I wrote back after I engaged her back in 2008. Enjoy!
We were in San Francisco the day of the Pride Parade but I’m sorry to say we missed the main events. With New York finally coming on board with their adoption of a same sex marriage bill, there was plenty to celebrate and it was supposed to have been awesome. California is still suffering the setback caused by some overzealous Mormons with deep pockets, but Proposition 8 is bound to come down. It’s only a matter of time.
I’m looking forward to a time when this sort of thing is as mundane, when loving couples aren’t singled out and discriminated against because they happen to have the same toolset downstairs. Perhaps that’s too hopeful. There are always going to be douchebags who would do anything to sever the rights of any group of people they frown upon. We’re hoping for a governmental policy change and as much societal change as is possible.
I’m sorry to say that I used to be in the camp of those who loved to hate. Of course, we fundies called it, hate the sin, love the sinner. Ugh. What a crock of shit. When I was in high school and a devout Baptist, we had a pastor who loved to talk about the evils of anal sex. He had reams of Christian-biased “studies” that went into explicit details regarding all sorts of things that apparently every gay person did with the ol’ turd cutter and how angry it made baby Jesus.
I know this because in my creative writing class, we had to write a paper in which we took a side on something controversial. I hate to admit this, but I wrote a paper on all the evils of homosexuality and used a bunch of bullshit studies provided by my pastor as research. My controversial paper’s subject was nothing more than a denouncement of butt-sex in a feigned scientific tone. And I got a fucking A. I feel dirty, and it‘s not because my pastor’s literature introduced me to such terms as rimming. It’s because in my ignorance and conceit, I accepted and parroted that nonsense without giving it a second thought. Being an anti-gay Christian is all about accentuating the ewwwww factor, and that absurd indoctrination the most disgusting thing of all.
Most of my life was lived as a devout Christian fundamentalist. I know that when the subject of homosexuality comes up, most fundies can’t get past their mental picture of a two dudes going at it. I’m pretty sure that straight Christian men think more about gays having sex than do homosexuals. They are obsessed. It’s all they see.
Fundies often refuse to see people as people when it comes to gay tolerance. It doesn’t matter how skewed their frightful image of what physical love between same-sex couples may be, they can’t separate their picture of what might be happening behind closed doors from the people involved. I find this sadder and sadder every day. Why the consensual sex acts of any adults are the business of holier-than-thou, complete strangers is beyond me. It’s unnerving that their obsession with other people’s sex lives has such a stranglehold on public policy.
A few months after my wife and I were married, I made a comment about how the whole push for gay marriage made so much more sense to me. I was greeted with a confused and distrustful gaze until I assured her that, indeed I was straight, but that I understood things much better. Relationships and marriage aren’t defined by the hanky-panky that goes on behind closed doors between consenting adults. It’s so much more than that. I love my wife completely. I can’t imagine being without her or even away from her for an extended period. To think that some selfish twats want to ruin that kind of relationship for people with matching bits just sickens me.
I applaud the gay community for the pride they carry and for the strength which they’ve gained. It’s a movement which can’t be stopped; only stalled. Equality will come. I disdain the type of person I was when I focused on all the wrong things. I look forward to the day when this is just another surprising period in our history books: one in which a bunch of douchebags wanted to deny equal rights to all but were eventually overcome.
A lot has happened since the last post. I’m now wearing a wedding ring. So is my wife.
Things are finally starting to get back to normal. The chaos of planning for a wedding has subsided. Now we’ve got a few handfuls of tasks to complete, but there is no deadline to worry about. I’m liking this relaxation.
And I’m loving my wife. Married life has been great. The only weird thing is that she started third shift as soon as we got back from the honeymoon. Overall, it doesn’t seem to have had a major negative impact on her, and she seems to adjust back and forth with relative ease. I don’t think I’d be able to shift my schedule so drastically every day, but somehow Jen is ok with it.
We’re slowly working through the piles of wedding gifts, and it almost feels like we just moved into this place with the amount of new stuff. I think Jen has her mind set on utilizing every new piece of kitchen equipment before the month is up.
I’m really glad that we don’t spend all our time together having to discuss details of an upcoming wedding. That gets to be a bit tiresome. Life is back on track, we’re learning how to live with each other, making some mediocre meals, and loving every minute of it.
Only months earlier, the thought of such a declaration had sent me squirming uncomfortably and avoiding conversations. I used to have what I considered a healthy fear of commitment. My fiancé would disagree as to exactly how healthy or normal that fear was, but that’s beside the point.
Even still, the thought and even the word fiancé, gives me goose bumps. No longer are they shivers of fear, but of excitement. I can’t wait to marry this girl. She has weathered my doubts, fears, and my ultimate procrastination to this point.
We have been together for two years now. It was only a few months into the relationship that I knew she was the one. We became very close, very quickly, and we were often mistake for having been together for much longer than we actually were.
It took some time, but I finally came to my senses. Each day I was with her, a few more dents in my armor appeared. Over time, without even knowing it, she was able to chip away the wall I had erected around my innermost being. All the fears of commitment were gone. All the anxiety about spending my life with someone else somehow vanished. Marriage no longer looked like a cage. I began to realize it is but a doorway, opening onto a life of possibility with the woman I love.
Deceit (the good kind)
As this realization dawned on me, I still guarded my intentions. She had always wanted the engagement to be a surprise, so I played along with that. We still talked about our future and marriage as much as we used to. She could tell I was warming to the thought, but I kept hidden the full extent of my excitement and feigned an attitude of grudging reluctance.
Others would jokingly prod about our relationship and whether we would get married, and I would shrug off the question with the same shy smile and a “sometime in the future” answer. On the inside, my mind was churning about the details of how and when.
I began to tell some inner friends that it would be soon, and began questioning others about how they planned their engagement and wedding. We were approaching the two year anniversary of our first date, and I was trying to think about how to propose around that time. The trouble is, I knew she would probably be expecting the same thing.
I went over a bunch of possible engagement scenarios, but none of them felt right. Around this time, we were both extremely busy. She was always studying for her nursing boards, and I was swamped days, nights, and weekends on several projects at work. We had talked about wanting to get away for a few days’ vacation but her work schedule didn’t allot enough time.
On the day we found out she passed her nursing boards, we looked at her work schedule, and found that if she could trade a day with a coworker, we’d be able to get away for five days. Springing at the opportunity, we settled on going out to San Francisco for a few days.
If she was able to get off work, we would have to fly out in a week. As we were driving to have dinner with her parents that very night, a plan started emerging in my head. In an instant, I had everything planned out for a perfect surprise engagement.
Right away, I began telling her that, if we were going to fly out of town next week, I was going to need to put in a ton of extra, uninterrupted hours of work. She understood, and I did my best to keep her away from me for the majority of the following days.
As we were at her parents that night, scarcely an hour after agreeing on the possibility of a long weekend in San Francisco, I managed to briefly corner her dad to tell him I’d be coming by their house the next day without his daughter. I made a few quick phone calls to family members telling them I’d be by to tell them something, and called some friends for advice on a ring.
The following day, I left work early and went to a half dozen jewelry shops. I went from zero knowledge about diamonds to being able to identify carat weight by sight and being able to discard diamonds by color and blemishes by sight alone. I learned a lot that day and told the jewelers that I’d be back with my mother and my future sister-in-law for some womanly advice.
I then trekked over to my future in-laws to ask her mom and dad for their daughter’s hand in marriage. I’ll never forget her father’s immediate response of, “Sounds fine to me!” I then voyaged to my father’s house and told him and my step-mother and step-brothers. My mother I would surprise the following night and drag her ring shopping with me.
As I was on the phone with my girlfriend that night, I feigned fatigue from a long day’s work and told her I’d be even busier the next couple days, and encouraged her to make plans with friends. The next day, I found the ring that spoke to me.
I never realized how picky I would be when it came to shopping for a ring. I sensed the agitation of many salesmen as I rejected one after another, but I came to understand how much character can go into each piece of jewelry. I wanted something that was uniquely her. I didn’t want this ring to be a mere centerpiece, but to accompany the inner and outer beauty of this woman.
She is not flashy or trendy. We often joke about the fact that our choice of clothing usually consists of a drab sweatshirt and the same old ragged jeans. Many times we arrive at an occasion realizing we’re both underdressed. No gaudy piece of jewelry would suffice. One recommendation from a friend was to get the biggest ring possible. While this sounds fun, it just isn’t her.
She is very athletic and competitive, yet prefers to downplay her accomplishments and is often uncomfortable in the spotlight. I find this inner humbleness to be one of her greatest beauties. Likewise, she is often found to be shy and quiet within larger groups or with people she doesn’t know. Yet, with me, the shyness melts away and I experience the fullness of her inner self. The fact that I alone am able to see this side of her is something I treasure very deeply.
There is a subtlety in her demeanor that betrays the woman within. At first glance she may seem introverted and quiet, yet there is a depth to her character hidden beneath the surface that she doesn’t give away lightly. As I draw closer to her, I realize more and more of her beauty. The subtlety that exists upon first glance is gone as she opens her life to me.
She is at once strong and delicate, tough and tender, rugged with a hint of fragility. She embraces the values of endurance and hard work to meet challenges head-on without backing down. As a nurse I see the joy she takes in her work and the heartache that comes with sharing the pain of others.
She is not an idealist. She does not dream of how it all could be and leave it at that. Hers is a plan of action. Her dreams are real, and are continually accomplished through her purposeful approach and perseverance.
I revel in her complexities, and adore her outlook on life. She has softened my soul by opening up her own. Her perspectives have helped round out some rather rough edges of my existence, and all this has happened just by knowing her on increasingly deeper levels.
All this and more swirled in my mind as I rejected ring after ring. Nothing was suited to portray the breadth and depth of her character. It was as I began to lose hope for the perfect representation, when I stumbled across a rather plain ring in a jewelry store I nearly forgot about.
At first glance, I had almost rejected the ring because of an off-color diamond in the center that looked out of place between the two smaller and clearer diamonds on either side. After a second glance, I began to feel a connection.
It had a subtlety I thought impossible for a ring its style and size. Every other three stone ring went the route of having too much elevation. I dismissed the possibility of tall rings because to my eyes, they portrayed an inflated sense of self-worth and a shallow attempt at compensation. I was told that three stone rings cannot, by definition, be placed too low due to their size, but this one traversed seamlessly over the curvature of the finger without any offensive peaks.
The thickness of the white gold was just right and the setting for each square diamond was simple. The band wasn’t too thin to be dainty, nor was it too large to be meaty. It was not adorned by other intricacies or fabrications that would belie her character. Rather, its beauty laid in the subtleness and simplistic approach to real beauty; a beauty that doesn’t require any false adorning.
The color of the current center diamond made it somewhat difficult to picture it as it would be, were it fully alive. The jeweler assured me that he could find a matching diamond to replace the existing one in the center. Color aside, the setting of the diamonds spoke volumes. The sizes of the three stones were matched perfectly. The presence of the side diamonds gave a smooth transition to the larger center stone in a way that downplayed the flashiness of the larger diamond while focusing more on the integrity of the whole.
Each side stone was slanted with the slope of the finger in a way to downplay the required height, which made it stand out a little less because of the lower profile. The combined angles ensured that it would reflect light from each angle rather than a single location, promising to sparkle equally well from every angle, but without an obscene intensity.
I had all but settled on this ring, and I was soon to bring my mother and future sister-in-law in through several stores to get some input on what women actually look for. I shopped with them at separate times, yet both seemed to agree on this ring as the one.
The jeweler was fantastic and called several days later when he met with his supplier to obtain diamonds of better color. I raced to meet him and inspected several stones alongside the side diamonds until finding one that matched perfectly. By this time I was a little nervous that he wouldn’t be able to get it completed before our plane left in three days, but he assured me it was possible.
In my frantic life hidden from my future fiancé, things were starting to come together, yet I had to stay calm and appear overworked. This, I managed with ease.
At one point after I had picked out the ring, I was hanging out with her and she mentioned that she had recently had a conversation about rings with her friends. When she made a comment about carat weight, I played dumb and asked what a carat was and whether it had anything to do with gold. She mentioned something about the fact that people often by an engagement and wedding ring pair together, and I asked how you’d know which is which. The whole time, I was laughing on the inside because I was now able to tell the carat weight of a diamond just by looking at it and I could explain in depth about the four C’s and what types of bands matched with what types of engagement rings. It sure was fun to lead her on like that. Later she would tell me that after this conversation, she thought to herself that it was a hopeless thing to be talking to me about, and that she might have to do it all on her own.
Two days before our plane was to leave, I got the call from the jewelry store that the ring was ready. Racing down to pick it up, I was amazed at what he put into my hand. The colors matched perfectly and the center diamond was richer and sparkled more than I thought possible. The deeper I looked into its facets, the more color and complexity I saw. Yet, it retained that subtle brilliance and beauty which hid the true depth of its character from those not willing to look deeper. The more I looked and appreciated it, the more it rewarded me with its intricacies. This ring was perfect for her.
I kept it by my side and constantly held and looked at it while at work the next day and when she wasn’t around. I couldn’t wait to see it on her finger, and to see the tears accompanying the moment.
Since we were travelling, I had to keep it well hidden yet by my side the entire time without her knowing. In the metal detector section of the airport, I was pushy in trying to get her to go farther ahead of me, as I feared that the TSA may need me to empty my bag and pockets. Thankfully, we went through without incident, and I was able to carry the ring in my pocket for the next several days until the time was right.
And actually, there were several times that were right. But they just weren’t right enough. I wanted to make her wait a little, in case she was suspicious at all.
The first night we were in San Francisco, we drove up the mountain overlooking the city just north of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was windy and cold, but we were nearly the only people on the hillside overlooking the multitude of lights on the other side of the channel. The bridge loomed overhead, and we stood silently, with my arms wrapped around her to keep warm. We kissed. The moment was right, but I had other plans. I fidgeted with the ring in my pocket and struggled to keep it there, but I had resolved to see my plan through to the end. We left the overlook that night still as boyfriend and girlfriend.
I kept up the appearance of just some normal vacation without any special indication towards romance by suggesting we do some rather bland, touristy things. I suggested going to Alcatraz or some of the other tourist attractions downtown in order to keep her guessing, and maybe a little disappointed. I’m sure she’d appreciate it in the end.
The second day called for rain so we drove south to escape it on Highway One. On the way, we stopped to take pictures near a lake and talked to a biker who recommended a certain state park a few miles away. Always one to enjoy the randomness in our vacationing freedom, we drove through the winding countryside past beautiful homes and palm trees mixed with deciduous. As we made our way driving up the snakelike hills of King’s Mountain, we stopped and walked for a bit as we saw a gorgeous overlook.
This time, too, felt like the right moment. We were alone in the woods on an infrequently traversed road, high up the side of a mountain overlooking South San Francisco, the bay, and the ocean. Tall buildings graced the skyline beneath tall and billowing, yet nonthreatening clouds. It was a beautiful moment, and yet when the time could have been right, I sadistically beckoned to continue up the mountain.
Throughout the day, we drove down the knife’s edge of Highway One, treacherously balancing between cliff face and the ravaging surf below. We made it to Monterey, where I saw a sign for Pebble Beach Golf Course, and on a whim, we drove the seventeen mile scenic loop. We spent a few hours driving the loop and stopping often to bask in the Mediterranean beauty of it all.
We then made our way back north with the anticipation of watching the sunset from one of the many scattered beaches. While waiting for the sun to dip lower, we stopped and walked for a while in a rather inconspicuous location, but were greeted with a large square section of cliff face falling to a small beach below. The massive strength of the waves crashing tall upon the rocks was an impressive site. We were lost in time exploring the area and snapping photos of the crashing waves.
After a short drive north, we stopped at a beach as the sun hung just above the horizon. Sitting on a large stone, we talked for a while and enjoyed the moment. The distant ocean began swallowing up the sun and I held her close. Again, I was tempted to pop the question right then and there, but I still had a better plan in mind. The sun disappeared, and so did we.
Top of the Mountain
By this time, as she later told me, she had lost all hope of a marriage proposal on this trip. She didn’t know I had a ring and plan, but she figured that if I hadn’t taken any of the previous opportunities, then hope was a lost cause. She resolved herself to wish for some other day.
Little did she know it, but that day had come. After convincing her that it would be worth it to get up early in the morning for the day’s adventure, we awoke and drove north. We stopped again on the northern edge of the Golden Gate Bridge and witnessed the early morning splendor of a city waking up. The wind was brisk but fresh.
Our journey was to lead slightly farther north, through treacherous mountain roads snaking down into the valley housing the entrance to Muir Woods, where the massive redwoods reach skywards to touch the clouds.
I carried a backpack containing a large jug of water, a sub from Safeway, and a bottle of wine that I had bought in Monterey. In case you were wondering what type of wine compliments a ham and cheese sandwich from Safeway, it was a 2003 Chardonnay from Carmel Vineyards in western California. The pack was heavy, but my mind was only on the ring in my pocket and the woman at my side.
We climbed. Our hike first took us up to 1400 feet through groves of redwoods stretching as tall as the eye could see. Due to the overpowering nature of the trees, there was little other plant life adorning the forest floor. The area in the Muir Woods section had an overpowering color of brown-red, with the floor taking on the same color as the bark of the trees.
The first part of this hike wasn’t too difficult. We rose about 1000 feet from our starting point. We then came upon the divide between Muir Woods and Mt. Tamalpais State Park. Where the eastward facing side of the mountain contained nothing but redwoods, the west side contained few redwoods and more undergrowth and deciduous life. The immediate change in landscape was drastic. Rather than the red and browns of Muir Woods, this side of the mountain was a flurry of green.
Our path took us on a long downward hike next to a bubbling stream. It wound around and around, never becoming too steep, and at several points crossing over the stream. The mountains rose on either side of us and were covered in the green canopy that only grows in the Pacific Northwest. At several locations, large prehistoric boulders had crashed down the slopes and rested in the middle of the stream to form delicate gurgling waterfalls. This side of the mountain teemed with green life sustained by the crisp, clean, and slightly dewy air.
We had been hiking for hours and nearly four miles, when the fork ahead in the road told us that it was time to turn and climb again. The immediate incline was pocked with a wall of wooden steps that seemed to never end. Whereas the first climb in the redwood forest was a slight gradient, this climb got right to the point and shot straight up into the stratosphere.
We made several sweaty stops to catch our breath and take a drink of water. The hike was hard and beautiful, and we loved it. When the path started leveling out again, the air had changed and the slight tinge of the ocean was barely discernable. I twirled the ring in my pocket. It was nearly time.
We continued up the curves of the mountain, which now shifted back and forth between the majestic reds of the sequoias and the lush greens of the undergrowth. To our right up the hill, I could see a line on the ridge where the trees seemed to end. The path led up and took a sharp left at a point where we could make out a small valley in between the slopes which looked over the water. The sight of sun and ocean was invigorating.
As we walked slightly further, the world startlingly opened up. For hours we had been climbing through dense forests with only glimpses of the sun. As we rounded this last corner, the forest relinquished its grip and led us into a meadow of rolling green hills. To the west, the ocean spread out 1400 feet below in a swooping arc that nipped the edge of the cloudless horizon. To the east, the hills rolled up and over each other to meet a large grove of trees in the distance. The view to the south showed soft flowing mountains reaching to the boundary of San Francisco, which was barely discernable on the very edge of sight. The sun shown overhead, undisturbed by the cloudless expanse of azure sky.
We climbed one of the rolling hills to the left of the trail and just on the edge of its view. Here, we rested. With our legs aching and our backs sweaty, we sat in silence for a few moments, absorbing in the picturesque view.
We then talked about our two years together. Retracing our steps from the first time we had seen each other, through our days as friends, jogging around the block and nervously asking her if she’d ever want to hang out sometime, then waiting a few weeks before actually going out on date with her. We talked about how quickly we had become close, about the late nights spent talking into the early hours of the morning, and about how I took up drinking high doses of caffeine in the morning the next day at work. Memories of our first weekend together on Mackinac Island for a wedding came back in clear detail, followed by a barrage of summer weekend road trips and into her final year of school and diving. We joked about our first trip down to Miami and the Keys where she originally had wondered whether I was planning on proposing, only to continue on as just boyfriend and girlfriend.
We remembered our journey as she went to the diving nationals, and how I came to know her dad quite well after a six hour drive between the two of us as we crossed Canada to watch her dive in Buffalo. Summer had come and she humored me as I entered a suicidal training mode for my kickboxing fights in San Jose, and we spent nights riding together on my motorcycle to watch the sunsets at Holland State Park. At the end of the summer, we heeded the call of the north and travelled to the upper peninsula of Michigan to the northernmost point visiting places common to both our youths and relishing the company of each other. Fall had come and with it a few more classes for her and a lot of work for me.
Throughout our time together, we had often discussed the topic of marriage, of which I had always been afraid of. I turned the conversation now to our future together, as we overlooked the ocean and absorbed the rays of the sun. I told her how I had been thinking more realistically about marriage and how it was now becoming exciting for me. As we sat on the hillside, I slowly moved in front of her, face to face, on my knees, with the ring still hidden in my hand.
I reminded her of a statement I had made in one of our past discussions when I was struggling with the thought of commitment, and how I had assured her that when I was ready, I would know it with all of my being. I now slowly brought the ring in front of her, and told her that I had never been as sure about anything in my life as I was about spending the rest of my life with her in marriage.
Hidden behind sunglasses as she was about to say something, she glanced down and time slowed to a crawl as she slowly fell forward into my arms, tears flowing freely. I held her close, my own tears welling up, for what seemed like an eternity.
I was about to put the ring on her finger, when I realized that I hadn’t even gotten to the point of asking the question. Choked up, I asked her to marry me. With a single, “Yes,” I slipped the ring on her finger and held onto the love of my life, cherishing the moment.
The next three hours were spent on the top of that hillside, staring out over the vast ocean, having both our faces seared by the sun and cooled by the crisp breeze, and explaining what I had been up to in the last week and our plans for the future. We were lost in time, forever on that knoll, holding onto each other, drinking wine straight from the bottle, and splitting a cheap ham and cheese sandwich from Safeway. No other meal had ever tasted so good.