Be-ing in a Winter Wonderland

No doubt about it ... it's a cold, snowy winter in the north woods (and I'm not referring to myself). I shoveled almost a foot and a half of the white stuff off the deck today to create a small t'ai chi chih moving meditation practice area. Ran through my first outdoor TCC practice session this afternoon--since late summer or early fall--and it was fine. Shall I call the 12 degree temp invigorating?

I thoroughly enjoy my daily t'ai chi chih practice and blog. Both the moving meditation AND the writing energize me. They also inspire me to move toward something ... still not quite sure what.

Several friends mentioned recently that it seems like Sunday in downtown Bayfield when it's really mid-week. Yep. That's what it's like during the winter season up here. Things s---l---o---w down. It's frightful and delightful! Soon half of Bayfield's 600+ population will head for warmer climes and the number of cars parked on Rittenhouse Avenue (main street) will shrink to one here, another there....

This time of year the post office is The Place to visit. Cars and people come and go in a steady flow. Here you'll get the latest news ... written and otherwise. The Bayfield Carnegie Library is another hot spot. You can never predict what DVD will stand waiting on the "New Releases" shelf. Even better, what literary wonders will land soft as a snowflake on top of the New Releases bookcase?

Yes, it's "the most wonderful time of the year" here in Bayfield. Peaceful. Quiet. Slow mo. A true winter wonderland. With time to sleep. Time to read. Time to think. Time for conversation. Time to shovel. Time to warm up cars. And time to be....

Birth Day ... Start to Finish

My 55th birthday (Thursday, December 3) began in moonlight and ended with chickens. What can I say? … It was fabulous.

The glowing full moon revealed herself to me—briefly—from behind a dark curtain of clouds. As soon as she peered out at me, shining through the bedroom window, I heard a voice in my head. It sang, “Happy Birthday to you….” Ah. Mother. When Mother was alive, her annual birthday ritual was to call me on the telephone early in the morning, awaken me, and sing me said song.

For years this habit was a source of conflict and aggravation. I asked Mother to call later in the day. She didn’t. I tried to feel more grateful and understanding. I couldn’t. Now, of course, four years after her death, I’m delighted to discover that she’s found a way to connect. It occurs to me that perhaps she called so early each year because the memory of my birth was the immediate thought that entered her head when she woke up. I was, after all, her first born. Over all those years why had this thought never occurred to me?

I taught two t’ai chi chih classes in Cornucopia first thing. They were wonderful, as usual. Many of my students shivered through class since it was the first cold spell of the season and our practice space had not yet warmed and would not warm enough throughout the entire three+ hours of class time.

Driving home I was gifted with a close-up view of an eagle. Directly ahead of me on the road I saw a huddle of ravens and I slowed. Drawing closer I saw one of the birds carry away something white. I continued to watch the bird as it rose to circle back over the road. Aha. The white wasn’t carrion. It was the coloring on the bird’s back. And when I looked at the bird’s head it, too, was white. A bald eagle!

After a quick lunch Frances and I drove to the Bayfield Carnegie Library for my favorite birthday ritual: reading time at the library. My sister laughed when I told her how I spent my day. I guess she found my form of entertainment a bit odd even as she recognized it to be “so me.”

This passion for words has to be innate. I grew up loving my time at the library and I continue, to this day, to be enamored with it. My father was a writer. I am a writer. Nothing thrills me more than a vivid image cast in words or a mind-altering phraseology. These days, though, I only manage one afternoon a year to read quietly in the library. My other ventures through its doors are intended to snatch up a few DVDs or an appealing book or two or to make copies for a friend. This day Frances and I spend three entire hours reading newspapers and magazines ... heavenly.

We enjoyed a late dinner at Maggie’s, probably Bayfield’s most popular restaurant. It was obvious that tourist season had ebbed away along with the sunshine and warmth as we sat at one of only three occupied tables.

The grand conclusion to my day was a movie the librarian asked us to watch. She knows Frances and I are animal lovers. Hence, she requested our review of the proffered DVD, The Natural History of the Chicken. It’s an hour-long PBS home video, copyright 2000.

Now Frances is the chicken lover in this family. When I first met her, she had two pet chickens: Little Guy and Sweetheart. Each night during the cold winter she brought her beloved chickens into the house, perched them on the railing at the head of the bed, laid down a few sheets of newspaper beneath them, and bid them goodnight. They, in turn, purred and clucked quietly as they gradually settled into a deep sleep. They turned into unlikely statues but, with the coming light, Little Guy promptly performed his unbidden duty: cock-a-doodle-doo. Our alarm clock was alive and well … our day begun.

The Natural History of the Chicken was sweetly charming. In one brief hour it covered the gamut of attitudes and behaviors surrounding life in these United chicken States. Producers visited and filmed factory farms where chickens were crowded into layer upon layer of small pens with barely room enough to drop one daily egg out of each body into a moving tray below. These farms had one and one goal only: to harvest eggs and/or to fatten chickens to butchering weight as speedily as possible.

A suburban neighborhood was highlighted after a new resident moved in 100 roosters. Surrounding neighbors complained of the constant intolerable sound of crowing along with the equally disturbing assumption that these animals were being raised for cock fighting. Legal action eventually resulted.

In other featured homes chickens were treated as honored members of the family. These locations varied widely: one family farm allowed their chickens to range freely as they provided eggs, relationships, and, ultimately, meat for the dinner table. In another home the pet chicken lived in the house with its owner. In one memorable scene this owner swam in her pool clutching the chicken to her breast. In another she lovingly clasped her chicken to her heart as she detailed the many endearing qualities of her chicken friend.

Still, the film gave a brief glimpse into what Frances believes is the unique way in which chickens communicate with each other and with their humans … through their emotions. One surprisingly sweet story told of a mother chicken who risked everything to save her chicks, rushing across the barnyard to shield their bodies with her own as an approaching hawk dived down to scoop up lunch. Thankfully, everyone survived.

The history of chickens brought my birthday celebration to the perfect conclusion. What better way to end my day than with a warm and grateful heart and an inspiring story of chicken love … a devoted mother willing to sacrifice everything for her children. On my day of birth I came full circle.

Cooking, Writing, then Cooking Some More

Today, the last day of the Thanksgiving holiday weekend, I'm writing... writing... writing.... I finished an earlier draft for a post but, once I read it to Frances, she suggested I save it for a few days and reread it. Then I can decide whether I really want it to merge with traffic on the information superhighway.

I admit. The writing was a bit sarcastic. "Not your typical style," Frances warned, even as she also admitted that it did reflect my Winter family sensibilities, especially those of good old Dad.

I'll give you a clue to the topic: "What $$$ were $$$ those $$$ people $$$ thinking?" That line refers to Tareq and Michaele Salahi, the couple who crashed President Obama's first state dinner at the White House last week. Okay, so maybe it wasn't as witty and charming as I thought.

I think that my writing may be under the influence of the book I'm currently reading: Julie & Julia 365 days, 524 recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen: How One Girl Risked Her Marriage, Her Job, and Her Sanity to Master the Art of Living. Its author, Julie Powell, has a keen mind and an uncanny ability to throw an idea up into the air, catch it in the other hand, then add additional ideas and stories--one by one--until she's juggling a multitude of topics with words and images that are frequently fresh and startling.

Julie doesn't confine her book to the original plan, a.k.a. cook all of the recipes out of Julia Child's masterpiece: Mastering the Art of French Cooking (also known as MtAoFC) in one year's time. No. She adds her own flavorings and spices: tales from her married and family life, sexual exploits of her female friends, illnesses and injuries endured by her husband and herself, trials and tribulations involved in buying obscure ingredients for unfamiliar recipes, and the mundane and mind-numbing effects of working as a secretary for a government organization dealing with the aftermath of 9/11.

Powell describes in delightful and gross detail the method she employed to extract marrow from a cow bone (see pages 73-75). It's purpose? To garnish her rendition of Bifteck Saute Bercy. This segment ends with a promise from her husband:

Someday our ship is going to come in. We are going to move out of New York, and we are going to have our house in the country, like we've always wanted.... When this happens, we need to get ourselves a rescue cow. We will buy it from a slaughterhouse. And then we will treat it very well.

Powell admits in her Author's Note that she's altered identifying details throughout the book and made a lot of stuff up, especially scenes from Paul and Julia Childs' life. Yes, this is far more than a book about Powell cooking her way through a leap of faith.... It is the travelogue of a 20-something woman who writes about her life in a style that makes you hungry for more.

Rooted in Earth, Suspended from Sky

Yes, it's begun. On Thanksgiving Day I created Blog #2. Its title? Rooted in Earth, Suspended from Sky. Its sole intent is to take the reader along on my daily journey with t'ai chi chih moving meditation practice. But you never know. Other things may happen along the way....

I plan to continue writing Under the Forest Canopy with a minimum of four entries per month. Rooted in Earth will, on the other hand, be a daily blog (I hope!). Short and sweet.

Call me a neophyte or Neanderthal, since I don't know how to find blogs other than through their web address the new blog is at: http://taichichihmoments.blogspot.com.

Check it out!

T'ai Chi Chih Thanksgiving

Yup. I’m gonna do it. At least begin. Then what?

For years I’ve imagined creating a bigger space in my life for a daily t’ai chi chih practice followed with a blog entry. Similar to Julie Powell’s one year experiment with Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking as detailed in her book, Julie & Julia: 365 days, 524 recipes, 1 tiny apartment kitchen. Like Powell I want to launch into a regular commitment that requires something more of me … something yet to discover.

Truth be told, it’s been a long time—years!—since I’ve engaged in a daily t’ai chi chih practice. After I moved to the middle of the woods there was always something else to attend to, much of it survival-based: gathering wood, tending the fire, cooking, washing dishes, cleaning and maintaining the house (I’d never been a home owner before!), gardening, paying bills, shoveling snow, to say nothing of work….

But now winter approaches … a quiet(er) time here on the Bayfield peninsula. It’s now or never.

This morning’s t’ai chi chih practice was en-deer-ing. I began in front of the patio door listening to “Circle of Compassion” by Marina Raye, a comforting blend of native flute and acoustic guitar. The sky was overcast, the house dark, the woods grey—brightened only by orangey rust-brown leaves scattered over the ground—and the bird feeders were bird-less. All was quiet, peaceful. One thought floated into my head…. “I wonder whether I’ll spot any deer passing through the woods while I practice.”

Several minutes later I sighted the flash of a white tail flipping up and over. Deer coats blend so completely into their surrounds that it’s hard to spot deer even when they’re standing directly in front of you.

Quickly I noticed another deer … a pair. Soon after, two more deer slipped out of their camouflage and into view. I continued my practice moving softly and slowly. Deer five appeared. Then number six. It reminded me of a card I recently sent to a t’ai chi chih student diagnosed with breast cancer. The card featured a Jim Brandenburg photo of deer lined up in silhouette on a tree-filled hillside. It read, “May peace … and peace … and peace be everywhere.”

That’s the essence of t’ai chi chih practice. Centering, quieting the mind, relaxing into the moment … reaching a stillpoint. Perfection.

And so I submit myself to this commitment: perform a daily t’ai chi chih practice and write about it. Move. Write. Slow down. Write about it. Take note of what I notice within and around me. Detail it on my blog.

Can I do this? It’s hard to know as I’ll be scrabbling for computer time with my partner, a die-hard on-line stock investor. But, for the moment, it’s worth the effort. As Powell writes in Julie & Julia:

A few words strung together, is all. But together, out there, they seemed perhaps to glow, only faintly. Just enough.

Squirreling Around with Santa

Santa Claus slipped down our chimney early this year. He wore fur and a flat tail that he wrapped around his head as he settled in for a long winter’s nap. This Santa is not from the North Pole. He’s a local character: Flying Squirrel Santa.

“And how,” you may ask, “do you encourage Santa Claus Squirrel to continue his journey?”

It takes creativity and patience. For the most part Frances is the person who exhibits these two key traits, especially when it comes to rescuing wild creatures trapped in compromising situations.

With her typical aplomb Frances devised an exit strategy for our little Santa. Not just once, but twice!

One morning several weeks ago Frances mentioned that she’d heard something drop down our chimney the previous evening around 10:30 p.m. As the morning progressed we noticed occasional rustlings and movements inside the stove pipe. Obviously our chimney-drop guest was alive.

Finally Frances opened the stove door and spotted a furry creature sitting in the stove pipe. “What is it?” she asked, as she held it in her flashlight beam, “It looks like a bunny.”

“How could a rabbit get to the top of our chimney?” I replied. “It has to be a flying squirrel.”

I based my response on two factoids: when we toured this property prior to buying it seven years ago, we found two flying squirrels lying in the fireplace, dead. After we moved in, my cat, Hiziki, frequently spent his nights outside. On occasional mornings-after I’d find a small, disembodied, flat tail outside the patio door.

In short order Frances devised an escape strategy for the squirrel. She taped a black garbage bag around the stove door. She slit open the bottom end of the bag and taped that to a 15-inch diameter plastic leaf-blower nozzle. Then she taped the other end of the nozzle to a white plastic sunflower seed bag with its bottom cut out. The path led to and through the nearby patio door. We waited.

Soon we heard shuffling. Next we saw a small nose peek out a hole in the black plastic bag. Frances predicted that the smell of fresh air running through the exit tunnel would draw the squirrel out of the house. Still, he advanced and retreated, advanced … then retreated. Finally we agreed to rip the bag off the stove, throw open the patio door, and carry the exit “router” to the deck. In short order our squirrel appeared. He hopped and dashed frantically across the deck. When he found an appropriate deck edge from which to leap and glide, he was … gone.

Two days later—plunk—the now too-familiar sound of a small body dropping down our chimney! Frances retrieved her hand-fashioned rescue “router” from the basement, taped it to the stove, and patiently waited. Flying Squirrel #2 quickly trotted through the bags, the pipe, and out the door.

For the moment we’re storing Frances’s uniquely designed “exit router” in the basement. In the meantime …

You better watch out.
You better not cry.
Better not pout.
I’m telling you why.
Santa Claus is coming to town….

Sick Daze

Whew. It’s already mid-November. Thanks and Giving are hovering nearby. Frances and I are beginning to resurface after two? three? four? five? weeks of illness.

I have to say … it’s difficult to be so sick that you can’t think. That was us. To cope we checked out DVDs from the library. Then we sat in our chairs and engaged in hour-upon-hour of mind-numbing entertainment. And, amazingly, we WERE temporarily distracted from our illnesses as long as we were in the middle of a heart-pounding segment of “24” or another serial murder in “Dexter.” So now we’re up-to-date on the TV and ShowTime offerings for another year.

My sister-in-law asked me if our nutrition was good while we were sick. It was, I suppose, the best nutrition you can get when you’re both ill, you can’t visit the grocery store, and you don’t have the energy to cook. I floated my body in glasses of water. I quit drinking coffee. I ate most of the fresh fruit we had available from a local orchard, i.e., one bag of apples and one bag of pears (“An apple a day.…”). I made a huge pot of chicken soup then ate a bowl a day until I thought I’d turn into a noodle or a chicken … or both.

Now I have more understanding for people who don’t want to stay home when they’re sick. It takes a lot of patience to see the same walls, the same person, the same Kleenex box, and the same messy rooms for days on end. It takes tremendous fortitude to eat the same food and go through the same routine (lying down, coughing, sitting up, sneezing, walking around, coughing, lying down again, drinking, eating, coughing, napping, sneezing, ad nauseam).

I hope that everyone who gets sick this fall/winter stays home. Stay-at-home zombies are a lot easier to take that the kind that circulate around the community spreading their viruses to others.

Be kind. Take time to heal yourself before you infect others.

[This is a public service announcement from your local health care provider, Same Spirit Healing Arts LLC.]