A Quiet Church in Manhattan

We were fifteen minutes late to Tim's funeral. I had gotten there as quickly as possible. Elsa wanted an Icee after school, Julien didn't want to wear a button up shirt, and Anouk's hair needed braiding. We sprinted from classroom to schoolyard over sidewalks to bedroom wardrobes into the subway under the river and up into Chelsea. I had never been to a church service in Manhattan. Neither had the kids. We talked about staying quiet and calm during the service.

"Why?" they asked.

"Because there are going to be a lot of people there who are sad, and taking this time to remember your mommy and daddy's friend Tim."

"Why?" they asked.

"Because he passed away, and they are thinking about him and want to share stories about him and use this time together to do that."

There is a surrealness to entering a quiet, dark, spired building in the middle of a bright and boisterous New York City afternoon. Once you walk in the doors, the honking horns and the rushing crowds and the pretzel vendors and the graffiti walls immediately fade away behind you. We were fifteen minutes late, and Jamie, Emmanuelle and Landon were in the fifth row. I carried Elsa and held Julien's hand, and Anouk pursed her mouth shut and we walked quickly up towards the front of the church.

Their parents smiled at them as they sat down, their eyes wet but their confidence drawn. Never have I met two more intelligent, strong, or noble people than these two. Never would I have imagined becoming part of such a unique family when I moved to Brooklyn. Never will they be able to be replaced.

Journalists and friends of Tim spoke at the podium to the jam-packed, humid church. Sebastian Junger talked about how he was always the word guy and Tim was always the picture guy. They spoke about how Tim lived and how he died. They spoke mostly about war, about how Tim took every detail of it and found ways to show it to the world. They spoke about how the last decade, ever since 9/11, had been incredibly violent and devastating for journalists. Soldiers spoke of their relationships with him, how he became a brother to anyone he met, instantly. His girlfriend spoke about how Tim had taught her not only how to live, but how to love - fully and openly and without hesitation. His sister spoke with an elegant British accent about Christmas' in the past with her brother, how he always had a joke to tell and how friendly he was with everyone he met. She also mentioned the children sitting on either side of me and on my lap, how Tim adored them. Their eyes widened at the mention of their name. They were so quiet and wonderful throughout the entire service.

The more people spoke about him, the more it sank in how incredible this person really was. It felt strange being at the memorial service of someone I had never met. Through Emmanuelle and Jamie's stories I had put pieces together about him, but this solidified the man. As we stood in the church yard afterwards, Julien and Elsa chased a squirrel and Anouk held my hand. They hugged many friends, introduced me to their people, whose names I will forget but whose faces have left a mark... tearful and worn, but hopeful. These people have influence on the media, positive influence. And Tim's death will inspire them to continue on, to live with passion, and to love fully. How tragically beautiful it was to be there with them.

Two Songs for a Friday

All My Days // Alexi Murdoch

This song reminds me of a number of scattered chapters of my life. Days when I had nothing to worry about except what to wear to the Union for a concert, or whether I was going to be late to work to blend smoothies, or whether love would last. Every time I listen to Alexi, I am reminded that each chapter, each day has influence on the next, and that I should go about them calmly, one step at a time.

Calgary // Bon Iver

The first single to be released on YouTube from Bon Iver's new eponymous album, set to release in June. It's what we've all been waiting for since For Emma, Forever Ago. This time, he has climbed out of his cabin in the Northern Woods of Wisconsin, and bucked up a bit. This time, there are more smiles than tears heard in the lyrics. One of the comments under this video says "Porn, for the blind." I couldn't agree more. Get excited. Get very excited.

Showering Off the Fjords

After day 4 of our fjord hike through the northwestern curve of Norway, I finally took a hot shower. Never had I felt so relieved, so grateful for the invention of water falling slowly down our backs in cleansing. The water came from a spout on a hose in the basement of a red barn that sat on top of a hill overlooking a dark green forest that ran along the base of a towering black mountain dusted with snow. We had walked to that barn, up that hill, through that forest and over that mountain. Before the mountain was a lake, clear as glass, and on that lake was the cabin we had stayed at last night. This was the way of it. This was what we had done. We'd wake up each morning and eat bland oatmeal decorated in raisins, crystallized pineapple, nuts, granola, and cinnamon, and dark coffee. We'd stretch our legs and backs and pack our packs full to the brim with our food and clothes and hats and books and we'd set out onto the trail to walk our day away to the next place we would sleep.

I thought about these days, these trails, these hikes, the bright green moss and the trickling rivers, the crisp skies and the snow as I washed the four days off my skin. I thought of the way the sun had slanted its never-setting rays on the four of us - Seb first usually, then Robbi, then myself and then Weston. The order of our Lord of the Rings-style walking established itself a few days in, after we encountered our first snake. That way, Seb could spot them, Rob and I could scream bloody murder and run off the trail and then Weston could get excited and take a picture. We wound ourselves around copses of black alder and beech trees, enormous rock faces, enormous blue fingers of the fjord, and our conversation wound around through the delicious Norwegian air as well. I laughed in the shower as I realized how many topics you can cover when there are four intelligent, like-minded people spending minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day together, discussing - literally - everything. From the farms and people that Robbi and Seb have worked with this past year to each member of each of our families in detail to global warming to South Park to the Rally to Restore Sanity to Maine accents to Wisconsin Accents to Northern Norwegian accents...

I thought about our ability to withhold a conversation for four days straight, about the ease of the transitions, the lengthiness and the breathiness and the silences in between. I thought about each of our thoughts during the pauses - four individual bubbles above four heads, following the landscape, loving the beauty, contemplating what's next on the trail and what's next in our lives, remembering the trails that brought us here.

My Landscaper

It is still so new & all we see is the possibility of empty space, but that is not how it is in the landscape of the heart. There, there is no empty space & he still laughs & grapples with ideas & plans & nods wisely with each of us in turn. We are proud to know him. We are proud to call him dad.

*Compliments of Story People

Two Songs for a Friday

Carousel // Iron & Wine

This one goes out to Robbi Strandemo and Sebastian Corby, two Nordic-skiing, strawberry-farming, wood-chopping, utter-milking fjord-walkers who are returning to the United States of America tomorrow, after a year in Norway. Because, while going away is the most incredible thing to do with oneself, coming home trumps all. Cheers to skiing, farming, chopping and milking - and cheers to flying across the Atlantic Ocean, chasing the sun.

Teach Your Children // CSNY

For my daddio, who turned 60 today. He always says he's "approaching middle age." So true, so true. Thank you dad for teaching me so well. I love you.

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!

*An adaptation of the Footnote to HOWL by Allen Ginsberg*

The fjord is holy! The sky is holy! The feet are holy! The air is holy! The Kemps and rain and snow and whiskey holy!

Everything is holy! We are all four holy! The map is holy! Every day was an eternity! We were all angels!

The snake's as holy as the muckox!

The bearded smoking man is holy as we our souls are holy!

The backpack is holy the sleeping bag holy the voice is holy the conversations holy the podcast is holy!

Holy Weston Holy Sebastian Holy Robbi Holy Lisa Holy busdriver holy high schoolers holy the unknown souls written in logbooks and suffering animals beneath our feet holy the wizards and witches we spoke of!

Holy my father in the hospital! Holy the wombs of the women who bore us!

Holy the loud yodeling! Holy the trompings of ear-popping silence! Holy the like-minded air breathing hikers energy & muscle & thumbs!

Holy the solitudes of mountain tops and sea shores and white snow! Holy the cabins filled with comforts! Holy the raging rivers of clear cold water under moss!

Holy the lone thought! Holy the broad basis of friendship! Holy the ice cold bathings and pot bellied fires! Who walks Norway IS Norway!

Holy Oslo Holy Oppdal Holy Kristiansund & Aure Holy Tronheim Holy Eidsvoll Holy Boston Holy Milwaukee!

Holy shoes in motion holy motion in shoes the bringers of place the places they bring us north in love north in love north!

Holy the trees holy the swamps holy the blessed red screaming "T"'s holy the hard dreaming holy the never setting sun holy the toilet!

Holy laughter! Adventure! Innocence! Growth! Holy! Ours! Bodies! Suffering! Hot dogs!

Holy the neverending extra breathtaking mysterious wonder of the fjord!