Sunday, December 27, 2009

Bidding 'Bye to Bawlmer

I'm blessed on my final day here with a beautiful Bawlmer--it's how locals pronounce the name of this city--sunrise. A peach glow with light yellow fuzz streaks along the horizon and rises up into a marine-blue sky.

The water of the bay outside my window shimmers and shakes lightly as its eastern-most edge fills with light and life. The farther end huddles, still, in the dark shadows of night. At the end closest to me man-made lights--not sunshine--reflect their white columns across the length of the bay already aware that their night of protective illumination will soon be overtaken by dawn.

Oh, this has been a fun--but short--visit with my dear sister and brother. Weather shifted from the 22 inches of snow that preceded our arrival, to two days of rain and fog (yesterday was 48 degrees), to this beautiful clear-skied morning.

Yesterday ... another day of adventure. In the afternoon we visited the National Aquarium, a 15 minute walk from Mel's apartment. We thoroughly enjoyed the 4D theater showing of Polar Express. I suppose that 4D means you experience the movie as if you were in it. Consequently we wore 3D glasses and, at appropriate moments, were sprayed with water, surrounded by floating snowflakes and bubbles, and shaken in our seats as if we, too, were on the train to the North Pole.

We also smelled the hot chocolate that children drank on the train as well as the evergreen smell of the Christmas tree once our child hero returned to his livingroom. Brother Brett even felt the poke of a branch that came straight at us (though Melanie and I, thankfully, missed that experience).

It was fun to see a dolphin show too. It was much too high tech and multi-tasked for my taste (five or six trainers, an audience volunteer plus child volunteers, video screens, environmental messages, and ... dolphins, which is who I truly came to see afterall).

The main aquarium was fabulous, level after level of fish and sea creatures, an area filled with sharks and sting rays, and a wealth of written information. Innumerable children and adults, all of us childlike in our excitement and awe, bumped against each other as we pressed up to glassed displays and hung over bannisters to glimpse an elusive sea creature.

Afterward, we walked back to the pier across from Mel's apartment and stood, each of us under our own umbrella, and looked/listened/sensed the bay as it lay shrouded in fog. Then off ... to dinner at Dockside, a crab place in Canton. Mel and Brett shared a dozen crab--pounding the claws with wooden hammers on a plastic knife--and carefully picking out each tiny, sweet piece of meat. I'd already eaten my Caesar salad and shrimp before the crabs arrived so I watch their mining efforts carefully and was occasionally handed a small piece of flesh for my own edification.

After dinner we drove to a neighborhood about five minutes out of downtown where residents decorate their homes for Christmas. I'm not just talking decorate. I'm talking ... create an entire world of lights, blow-up figures, trains running on tracks, and handmade Christmas trees from hubcaps, bicycles, and tinfoil, forks, and spoons. Fabulous.

One man actually opened his home--the front room at least--to anyone interested in viewing his metal sculpture. He stood inside his open door as people filed through. When we inquired, he admitted that he allows people into his home for 30 days from Thanksgiving to New Year's. Last year, he said, he witnessed more than 27,000 people pass through his gallery.

Ahh, the sun just breached the horizon. Morning has broken, the day is begun....

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Out from Under the Forest Canopy

My forest canopy has expanded into big city lights, an ocean harbor, fog and rain instead of snow.

Brother Brett and I arrived in Baltimore late Wednesday afternoon to spend Christmas with sister Mel. Thus far we've explored the Inner Harbor near my sister's home. The first night we dined at Bertha's Mussels based on a recommendation from a seatmate on the plane. The clientele was small but the food was fabulous.

On Christmas Eve we walked my sister to work, then shopped for groceries at Whole Foods. The variety and quantity of food there is mind-boggling. Still, Brett and I managed to select delectables for Christmas dinner and beyond. We were tempted--and fell victim to--pomegranate seeds (already removed from the skin), fresh-made guacamole, fresh pineapple/mango/blackberries/raspberries, a chicken stuffed with cashews, and other delights. What fun! Hey, when two people with diabetes are sent on a shopping mission, they will provide!!!

Morning was spent on projects in my sister's apartment before we explored the Inner Harbor with my sister's boyfriend, Frank, as guide. We viewed architecture, sculpture, water, people.... A brief stop at Barnes & Noble bookstore (of course!), then off to the Bond Street Wharf to meet my sister post-work at local bar, DuClaw's. That night we ate at Flemings--more fabulous food--courtesy of Frank.

Christmas was a day of rest and rejuvenation. We stayed in, cooked a large breakfast and dinner--set off the apartment fire alarms at least three times--and enjoyed each other's company. My brother shared pictures from his recent journeys to Portland, OR, along with other travel pics still on his camera (Greece, Egypt, Bangkok). 

Our last experience of the day ... watching Small Town Gay Bar, an intimate, heartrending, and insightful exploration of gay culture in small town America (i.e., Mississippi). It was difficult to see the tremendous discrimination that still pervades American culture when it comes to individual's sexual preferences. Still, it was encouraging to see the ways that gays and lesbians create our own families and support systems. The most powerful scene in the movie was at the very end. Here, individuals from the film stood silently in front of Rumors, one of the bars highlighted in the film. They were white, black, man, woman, drag queen, etc. and ... they were proud.

I'm filled with food and experiences and still have one additional day to spend in Baltimore. What lies before me? Only the day ahead will tell....

Sunday, December 20, 2009

The Link between Humanity and the Earth

Wednesday I fly to Baltimore, MD to spend Christmas with two of my three siblings. The East Coast just experienced its worst winter storm in 100 years. My sister, vacationing in Las Vegas, planned to return to D.C. yesterday. She's now scheduled for a Tuesday AM flight. If she makes it home before my brother and I arrive, then all will be fine.

This is, of course, the slowest time of year for money-making here in Bayfield (as I wrote in my previous blog entry). Consequently it's prime time for me to indulge my passion for books and movies. Last week I came home from the library carrying an armful of DVDs and books. A few nights ago Frances and I watched "Ray," the movie about Ray Charles and his musical career. Fabulous! I watched a few of the "extras" last night as I'm yet unable to move beyond the impassioned music or the incredible performance by Jamie Foxx.

I already returned one book to the library because I knew that I wouldn't have time prior to Christmas to dedicate myself to a full, subterranean entrance into its fictional world. It's Barbara Kingsolver's new novel, The Lacuna, which is her first work of fiction in nine years. I read The Poisonwood Bible last winter and loved it. I'll revisit Lacuna later.

The other books I selected last week were, shall I say, eclectic? I quickly grabbed display titles that appealed to me: Anger: Wisdom for Cooling the Flames by Thich Nhat Hanh, Philosophy for Dummies by Tom Morris, Ph.D. (my sister's boyfriend previously taught philosophy), and Deeply Rooted: Unconventional Farmers in the Age of Agribusiness by Lisa Hamilton.

When I read Hamilton's introduction to Deeply Rooted last night, I was hooked. I grew up on a farm, the same farm where my dad was raised. Hamilton ends her introduction with a description of conversations she's had with farmers:
As we sit and talk, the topics are sometimes technical, often political or economic, and always, ultimately, philosophical. And personal. If we start with a discussion of soil microbiology or a comparison of turkey breeds, inevitably we end up in family, history, ecology, faith, beauty, morality, and the fate of the world to come. For them, all those things are linked.
Yes. Aren't they linked for everyone? It's at times like this that I realize how much I am a product of my upbringing. How deeply rooted I am to the land and a way of life that seems to be rapidly fading. Or is it? As Hamilton also writes:
As they [farmers] see it, agriculture is not an industry on the periphery of modern civilzation. It is a fundamental act that determines whether we as a society will live or die. What binds these people is not a particular farming method, but rather the conviction that as humans, the contributions they make are essential.
It's likely that Deeply Rooted will accompany me to Baltimore. I'm traveling there with the brother who lives on our family farm. And I have no doubt that we'll talk about, among other things, our Christmas meal, relatives, and "ecology, faith, beauty, morality, and the fate of the world to come." For--to us--it IS all linked.

Monday, December 14, 2009

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....

Sunday, December 6, 2009

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.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

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.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

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!

Thursday, November 26, 2009

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. Like 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, 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.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

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….

Friday, November 13, 2009

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.]

Saturday, October 24, 2009

It's Golden!

Golden light
Golden leaves
Golden air
Golden earth.

No fairy tale Rumpelstiltskin
Spins gold from straw at this address.
No yellow brick road
Dances toward the Emerald City.
No celluloid print
No well-worn book
Shapeshifts into this golden autumn day.

This precious gold
Has no proprietor.
No author, no director.
No princess. No dwarf.
No whirlwind trip from Kansas
Nor thrice-clicked heels
to get from here—where’s here?—to there.

It surges out of earth
each spring. A stream
of life-filled sap
to dimple buds,
glow into emerald leaves,
Harbor nests of songbirds,
Release oxygen to an azure sky.

And, yes, as
Darkness overtakes day
And temperatures plummet,
Golden shines from sky
Falls to earth
Composts to richness
Readies itself.

Though it feels like forever
Soon enough it will rise
through roots, trunk,
branches, leaves
Pressing skyward
Then floating ...
gently, down....

Each fall a fantasy unfurls
Calling trees to harmonious collusion:
It’s a seasonal dispute. As glossy summer green
Shrinks, shivering, from winter’s wiles
Fall brackets herself between them
Saluting both
With golden flames of brilliance.


Here, Under the Forest Canopy, we’re plunged into a blaze of gold. The forest, characteristically dark and quiet, demands: “See me. Adore my beauty. Breathe it in deeply.”

Fall’s grand display nears its final curtain call. Leaves drift toward Earth more quickly. Their light-infused hue darkens as they fade from brilliant yellow to rose, rust, then trembling brown.... Soon enough they’ll blacken ‘neath a thick down of white.

But next year we re-member this story....

The cast of characters remains the same with some old wood logged off and new, hardy saplings standing straight and true. The costumes, of course, are fully recycled. They’ll look like new—made fresh this season—since no one player dares wear the same dress twice. The colors are astonishing. You’ll swear that you’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful ...

‘til next year.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Living with Diabetes ... in Print and Otherwise

“Reflections on a Life with Diabetes: A Memoir in Many Voices” arrived in the mail last week. I devoured it whole.

The book—which contained one of my contributions—was published in 2004. I missed news of its publication because, in the interim between writing and submitting my piece and its’ eventual printing, I moved to Bayfield, WI. Once I wandered into the woods I became a creature of the forest and, literally, lost track of my previous life—and pursuits—in the city. (See September 21, 2009 post: “Reflections on a Life with Google.”)

Sure enough, reading this book was an affirming, alarming, fear-inducing, reassuring, and ... a power-full and power-filled experience. Of course, I write this sentence immediately after testing my blood sugars for the fourth time today and discovering—after a day of higher-than-normal sugars—that I’m now too low. Don’t worry. I’m chomping on an apple as I write.

The stories contained in this book are reminiscent of stories told in the diabetes support group I formed and co-facilitated in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. Members of my support group—and this book group—share our fears, challenges, hopes, and failures openly with each other because we trust that those of us with this disease understand. We’ve lived life, day-after-day and year-after-year, knowing how unruly and unmanageable, how frustrating and flagrant, how debilitating and rehabilitating diabetes' effects are on our lives and relationships. And—most significantly—on our bodies and souls.

I formed my support group several years after my diagnosis when a relaxing soak in the tub segued into a four-hour plunge into unconsciousness. After several years of living with insulin-dependent diabetes I quickly learned the dangers and disasters of insulin treatment for the disease. But I also discovered from other women in our group that there were untold complications that haunted and plagued us as well.

The most frightening story came from a group member who suffered from autonomic neuropathy. Over a 14 year period her internal organs slowed ... and then shut down one by one. Diagnosed at 21 she too-soon experienced stomach, kidney, and intestinal problems that led to a pancreas transplant. When the transplant failed, her complications continued to mount. She died at age 35.

THIS BOOK is a support group too. It goes beyond the firsthand experiences of people with diabetes to include family and friends. And this collection of stories and poems is filled with emotion: longing, regret, strength, resilience, anger, fear, and reconciliation.

It’s liberating to delve into the subterranean expanse of diabetes, a place that’s typically occupied only by those of us who live with diabetes and those family members and friends who live closely with us. The reader quickly confronts his or her misperceptions about diabetes. Clearly, low-sugar diets and regular exercise are minor players in a complex regimen of self-care.

I’m proud and honored to be included in this collection of stories and poems about life with diabetes. It proves undeniably that anyone who lives with this illness cannot be labeled or categorized by the one-word descriptor: diabetic. We—and those who love us—have learned to incorporate diabetes into our lives but not to become it.

One thing is clear from reading this book: There are still too many misperceptions about this disease ... so much unnecessary shame. Too many fearful and challenging moments when we discover diabetes’ debilitating effects on body and mind, energy, relationships, and so much more.

But this book also proves something I’ve known for many years: We are survivors. As we balance on the tightrope of diabetes self-management we discover that, despite the highs and lows (blood sugar and otherwise), we will continue on ...

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Apple Cider and ... Cheese & Beer & Snow

Yesterday I woke to a winter wonderland—hey, wait a minute, fall’s barely begun—trees, leaves, cars, and earth covered with two inches of heavy, wet, frozen ... snow? I know. Just a few days ago I wrote about leaves gradually transforming from green to scarlet and gold. It WAS shocking. And, no, I wasn’t ready!

The snow motivated me to pick the last two tiny zucchinis off the vine. Later in the afternoon we drove to a friend’s home to press apples for cider. Our host told us that rain would postpone the event but ... snow did not.

A group of 15-20 picked and chopped apples then pressed and strained them through a large wooden cider press. Our reward was a gallon jug each of fresh sweetness. The afternoon brimmed with conversation, laughter, shared labor, and a well-deserved mug of hot cider to warm frosty hands.

On Friday night Frances and I attended Lou and Peter Berryman’s concert. This folk singing duo composes songs that tumble out of their mouths, flip through the air, and somersault into audience member’s heads. What a thrill to discover performers who LOVE words. The intricate word-webs that Lou and Peter create with their accordion, guitar, professional artistry, and wicked wordiness are delicious.

Humor hurtles through the Berrymans’ performance. Many songs are fabricated conversations highlighting the foibles and frailties of the human species. Their facility with language—and Lou’s ability to articulate complex and tangled phrases—is astounding.

Songs spring from common, day-to-day experience and indelicately critique the off-kilter lives we lead. One song about Wisconsin covered the three main themes of life in our Midwestern state: “Cheese & Beer & Snow.” Another asked the listener “Why am I Painting the Living Room?” as the singer/songwriter listed a host of other more enlightened political causes s/he could pursue.

Lou admitted to an inability to yodel. She and Peter then proceeded to impress us with their “Double Yodel” in which Peter sang the lower part and Lou joined in at the top range. Their double yodel was, indeed, a masterful maneuvering of intricate timing.

“Does Your Dog Agonize?” reminded me of our dog, NamastĂ©. “Artiste Interrupted,” a fanciful venture into creativity, revealed how impossible it is to choose one art form when the artiste has limited talent in all potentialities. Again, Lou’s ability to interrupt herself while singing highlighted the inability of artistic types to settle on one—just one—art form.

I particularly loved the Berryman’s song, “Walking with Roget.” Peter blasted us with clichĂ©s then guided us through a world of synonyms for “walk” from Roget’s Thesaurus. Luckily, I strolled and slithered, slunk and traversed right alongside them as they wended their way through a hilarious evening of music and fun. My conclusion? “Winter’s not here yet!”

Friday, October 9, 2009

Live-giving. Breathtaking.

That’s fall in the north woods of Wisconsin.

I have two favorite times of the year ... spring and fall. Spring charms me with its unexpected sightings of green softening the dirt, the smells of earth ripening, the flurry of blossoms opening quietly. It reawakens and restores my spirit following long months of snow, cold, and darkness.

But fall is different. Something special. This morning as I walked out the door into this full-color world I wondered how similar the arrival of fall is to film’s transition from black-and-white to color.

Suddenly the world is seen through a different lens. It is brighter, more alive ... real.

This week my canopy of green erupted into a kaleidoscope of color. And when I look out my window or walk down a path, the intensity of green, gold, and scarlet flashes into my soul.

Summer’s full-bodied, voluptuous, and wild excesses now gradually die down and transition into a quieter, more subdued palette. But first, I’m swept into this drama of season’s change. And, temporary as it is, I glory in its grandeur.

I’m grateful to be witness to these cycles of life ... and death. And I’m reminded of filmmaker Ken Burns’ 12 hour documentary: “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea.” When describing what he most loved about the parks, Burns said: “The original impulse of the national parks is spiritual…. It’s saying that you could find God in nature more easily than through a dogmatic devotion that required you to find God in a cathedral built by the hands of man.” (www.newsweek.com/id/216171)

My thoughts exactly.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Tumbling Temps and Withering Winds ...

Suddenly, unexpectedly, autumn arrived.

Fall equinox came and went a week ago. Nonetheless I always hope that seasonal changes will occur gently and slowly, allowing my blood and bones time to acclimate to colder temps and drier air with ease and, even, affability.

No such luck. Last week’s hot, sunny days segued into rain, wind, and spiraling temperatures. Nature’s tree trimmer—the wind—blew through yesterday loosening and flinging branches over yard and drive. Today I woke to temps near 30 degrees. I’ve already heard tonight’s prediction: frost warning with temperatures dropping into the 20s.

“It’s too early!” my body whines.

“Get used to it,” Mother Nature seems to say, “You are an adult now, aren’t you?”

Ironically, the leaves have barely begun to color. Oaks, maples, poplar, and birch are still luscious green with occasional yellows and splashes of red scattered throughout the forest and along the roadsides. But our wood stove is fired up and blazing. It’s clearly time to switch to flannel sheets on the bed. And I’m back to wearing my fleece jacket, a full-time fashion statement until May or June.

This morning when I opened the door to the goose barn a bird fluttered, frantically, inside. The hay bale walls are roofed with a pickup topper to allow light into Lucy and Ander’s home. I could see the entrapped winged-one before I propped open the door.

After feeding and watering the big birds I returned to the barn and opened the end of the topper. I expect that the bird, who won’t fly out the lower barn door, will easily exit via the open topper. I’ll check later to see if my strategy worked. Who knows? It’s my guess that these withering winds encourage everyone—including the birds—to stay inside.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Reflections on a Life with Google

Last night I Googled “Steph Winter.” I was curious. What pieces of my personal information dangle listlessly and/or skyrocket around the universe on the World Wide Web?

My inspiration to conduct this Google research came after last week’s visit from two friends. We discussed the dangers of identity theft over lunch. One friend then insisted that it was important to regularly monitor our own public information.

I’d also recently listened to a public radio story that profiled a man who’d purposefully tried to stay hidden for a minimum of 30 days but was discovered—via previous public profiles and current fabricated profiles—in less time. This man, I believe he was a journalist, was surprised to discover how easily he could be found and how quickly his ruse could unravel through bits of information posted on the internet.

Well, it didn’t seem likely that this Steph Winter would be found any time soon. I plugged through page after page of listings. Page one indicated that I was signed up with LinkedIn, a professional networking site. I admit, I signed on at the invitation of one of the aforementioned friends but I’d never gone any further than posting my name and business information.

Next came innumerable other Steph Winters—there are a lot of us! We twittered—not me!; facebooked—seldom!; played competitive online games, posted info at MySpace, participated in flixster, and posted videos, poems, pictures—not me!, not me!, not me!, not me!

On page four of the Google listings ... jackpot! I found a link for Frances’ and my business—Same Spirit Healing Arts LLC—published in Travel WI. Next, my name was captured from a copy of the Town of Russell board meeting minutes on May 12, 2009. I’d spoken out against nude dancing at the bar across the road from our house. Then, a link to an article I wrote for the Minnesota Women’s Press many years ago. I’d interviewed the owners and operators of Sacred Sites Tours. The two women tour guides loved my writing and subsequently posted my article on their website.

Okay. So now I was cooking with gas.... On page five of the Google listings I found my blog address. Page six mentioned my appearance at the Bayfield County Board of Supervisor’s meeting on September 30, 2008. Public input about a proposed zoning change to permit an airstrip and 380-acre development in the Town of Russell included Steph Winter reading two short quotes from Moby Dick which had “dramatic meaning.” Yep, that was me.

Finally, on page seven I discovered what I did NOT know about myself.... I’m a published author!

Many years ago—I’m not sure when—I responded to a call for submissions for a book about living with diabetes (in Poets & Writers or another literary magazine). I wrote a piece about walking the tightrope of diabetes self care. In it I included an incident where Minneapolis police found me blacked out in my bathtub with a film crew from the national TV show, “Cops,” conveniently present. I heard that my piece was accepted, later received a letter from the editors notifying contributors that they were still searching for a publisher, and then ... nothing.

In 2002 Frances and I moved to Bayfield. End of story ... or so I thought. In 2004 the book, "Reflections on a Life with Diabetes: A Memoir in Many Voices," was published. Or, at least, that’s what I found out last night.

Huh, I was convinced that I knew everything there was to know about me. Silly. Yet, don’t you think it’s just a tiny bit crazy that we can discover things we don’t know about ourselves while surfing the internet?

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

In Memory of Hiziki ... and Carlos

Last Thursday was the one-year anniversary of my cat Hiziki’s death. My memories of him still comfort and, sometimes, sadden me. I walk by his grave each morning to hang two bird feeders. When I pass the dangling lavender wreath that marks his burial spot, I offer a greeting: “Good morning, Zeker the Sneaker.”

Early morning on September 10, 2008 after a pain-filled, agonizing night, Zeke weaved off the deck on unsteady feet and stumbled through a web of wild grasses, weeds, and flowers to lie beneath the bird feeder. Shortly after, Frances and I drove him to a vet in Ashland for one final injection.

This summer the ravine metamorphosed into a small vegetable garden of zucchini, sugar peas, and green beans. The ferns, sunflowers, thimbleberries, and black-eyed Susans still insinuated themselves into any unclaimed earth. And a hummingbird favorite—jewel weed—grew directly on top of Zeke’s grave, spitting its seeds at all passersby.

Today, during my t’ai chi chih practice on the deck I noted the design printed on one of our ash cans. It pictures a cow lying in a pasture with a cat sitting close, its cheek pressed against the cow’s nose. I doubt Zeke held much affection for a mere cow. But he was incredibly loving, patient, and kind to me, Frances, and our dog, NamastĂ©.

Sometimes ... when I watch NamastĂ© stalking wild creatures (i.e., squirrels and/or chipmunks) I glimpse body postures that resemble Zeke en hunt. When we first moved to the forest, NamastĂ© shadowed Zeke on his stealthy pursuits through lavish underbrush. Often Zeke seemed disgusted by his canine cohort who—in his eagerness to impress or his unwillingness to wait patiently—raced past the cat and ruined the hunt.

The mouse population multiplied in our house after the departure of our notorious great grey hunter. And, although NamastĂ© is cuddly, he doesn’t lie on my chest in the middle of the night massaging me with his claws nor does he purr loudly as he snuggles close beside me in bed.

Several weeks ago brother, Brett, lost his cat, Carlos. Carlos was a big-boned, long-haired black feline, a survivor himself, who comforted Brett through the death of both of our parents, and more. When Carlos didn’t return from an evening outing, Brett stepped outside to call him home. He listened to Carlos fighting with another cat some distance away. Obviously Carlos couldn’t interrupt his fight to heed Brett’s call.

Before Brett returned to the house, though, he heard a car rapidly approaching, then a loud crack—a shotgun firing?—and he idly wondered if he should pursue the car. Did the driver really fire a gun?

The next morning Brett found Carlos dead on the highway. His final cat fight overwhelmed the need for safety. Carlos died the way he lived, clawing and fighting for his life until a speeding car ran him down.

Though we relish the time they are with us, the total acceptance and unwavering devotion we receive from our companion animals goes missing when they leave us. It cannot be replaced by family and friends. When Zeke died, I realized how much he inhabited my life ... and how gently and unexpectedly he tenderized my heart with his gently grasping claws and his pure, complete love.

What wild, verdant undergrowth do you glide through now, Zeke? What prey do you stalk? Carlos, are you still waging battles? What path do you travel as you venture into the Oneness that eludes those of us who remain here on Earth?

Monday, September 14, 2009

Vegetables Galore

I adore the smell of fresh-picked tomatoes, their aroma a heady mix of sweetening juices and green vines. Each morning now, after I hang the bird feeders and release the geese for the day, I pick fresh tomatoes ... zucchini ... green beans. The tomatoes reward me with a brief, fleeting scent of aliveness. I raise the fruit to my nose and suck in the smell. It lingers briefly, staining my fingers with freshness.

Ironically, I seldom eat raw tomatoes (I’m allergic). One or two a season is enough for me. But I love to harvest, clean, pare, and cook the wide variety of fruits and vegetables that hang, plump and lovely, from the vine.

Yesterday’s day-long chef duties produced summer tomato soup, spaghetti sauce, kale-walnut pesto (from Farmer John’s cookbook, “The Real Dirt on Vegetables”), and the beginnings of a vegetable stir-fry. There is a deep sense of accomplishment in picking and preparing vegetables planted with your own hands and harvested through the ache of your own back. And, as we all know, the flavor is exquisite, unlike anything found in the fresh produce department at the local grocery store.

One of my t’ai chi chih students, a substitute teacher in Washburn, WI, told me a story last year about the transformative effects of growing your own food. Many Washburn High School students, she said, regularly left school grounds to head downtown for lunch at local restaurants. Then the school started growing its own garden. Each class was assigned specific vegetables to nurture to maturity. Now students eat lunch in the cafeteria. In no small way—perhaps in a life-changing way—they remain at school to savor the fruits of their labors.

I was reminded of this story when I read “Food for the Soul” in the September 2009 issue of Reader’s Digest. It tells the tale of Liz Neumark, a caterer in New York City, who created the Sylvia Center, a program designed to help city kids experience unprocessed, wholesome food from seedling to simple summer soup.

Neumark invites school children to her organic farm in upstate New York to collect eggs from the chickens, repot seedlings, pick vegetables, and then sample a collaborative cooking effort. The program is named after her youngest daughter who died from a weakened blood vessel in her brain at age six and it’s meant to show kids where real food comes from and how it tastes straight out of the earth.

Her hope is that when children plant, weed, harvest, and cook their own food they will be inspired to make different food choices. And her efforts are being rewarded ... last year a young girl who participated in Silvia Center saw a zucchini at the market and asked her mother to buy it, promising, “I’m going to make you breakfast in bed tomorrow.”

As I sat out on my deck last evening, dusk settling upon me, knife in hand, cutting board in my lap, and a wide circle of vegetables around me, I remembered my mother. I may have been unimpressed watching her sit in her lawn chair snapping beans when I was a child, but I can envision her clearly now. My memories of her pride in her garden and the many hours spent weeding, harvesting, canning, and freezing linger.... These days we share the same chair.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Three Cups of Tea

There are books—and even better, people—that inspire hope in the world. Greg Mortenson is one such person. His 2006 book, Three Cups of Tea, co-authored with David Oliver Relin, flew me from continent to continent and trekked me up and down mountainous terrain as I followed in his footsteps. A New York Times bestseller, Three Cups is the amazing real-life adventure of a modern-day mountaineer cum humanitarian.

In 1993 Mortenson climbed the world’s second highest mountain, K2 in Pakistan. He failed to reach its summit. Sliding down the slopes of that failure, though, he began to build a life of service that scatters schools—rather than bombs—across the remote mountainsides of Pakistan and Afghanistan.

It’s been a decade and a half since Mortenson stumbled into Korphe, a small Pakistani village, on his way down K2. There Korphe’s chief, Haji Ali, his family, and the community welcomed and befriended Mortenson, nursing him back to health.

During his recovery Mortenson witnessed the dedication with which the children of Korphe labored to learn, using sticks to draw in the dirt while kneeling on frosty ground. His new-found friendships elicited a promise: Mortenson would return to Pakistan to build a school for Korphe’s children.

Little did he know that this commitment would set him on a tireless journey to build buildings and establish connections with people and places too-often feared and misunderstood by Americans halfway around the globe. Thankfully, this book draws a more colorful, compassionate, and complete portrait of the people who inhabit this remote region of the world.

Back in California, Mortenson’s follow-up efforts at fundraising were ineffective and inept. But he was committed to his goal. He saved money from his part-time job as an ER nurse and slept in his car or a rented storage space. An old IBM Selectric typewriter at a local copy shop was his first office and, five hundred eighty letters later, Mortenson received one decent-sized check, enough to begin his project.

Mortenson’s initial promise to the people of Korphe soon metamorphosed into a full-bore, full-time effort to build schools in other villages in Pakistan and, later, Afghanistan. As Mortenson became familiar with the cultural terrain he recognized a widespread need for balanced education for all youngsters, especially girls. They were the ones, he believed, who could effect long-lasting, self-sustaining change. His good-spirited, humble, and respectful ways quickly won the allegiance of a majority of the local people even as fatwas (authoritarian rulings by Islamic scholars) were issued against him.

Once Mortenson committed himself to ascend this new peak toward right livelihood nothing could stop him. Initially beset by corrupt local businessmen, he subsequently survived a kidnapping, had tea with members of the Taliban and, later, refused to evacuate the region in spite of insistent recommendations by the American consulate post-9/11.

Mortenson’s kindness and compassion, and his willingness to submerge himself in diverse cultures and languages, sprung out of an early childhood in Africa. His family relocated from Minnesota to Tanzania in 1958—when Greg was just three months old—in order for his father to serve as a Lutheran missionary there.

While his father built a school and hospital on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro Greg attended an international school that included twenty-eight different nationalities. He and his classmates celebrated holidays that ranged from Hanukkah to Christmas, Diwali to the Feast of Id. Quite likely these childhood experiences—played out in the midst of various cultures, languages, and skin colors—helped him to realize early on that we are one people who desire to live in peace with one another.

His solo school-building efforts eventually expanded into a nonprofit organization known as the Central Asia Institute (CAI). CAI’s mission stands in sharp contrast to the work of another American agency identified by the same letters in slightly different order … the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) which conducts its own shadowy business in Central Asia.

In the book’s introduction co-author Relin admits that he was one among many who were drawn to the CAI’s work through its scope and the magnitude of Mortenson’s personality. Relin words are worth quoting here:

"The more time I spent watching Mortenson work, the more convinced I became that I was in the presence of someone extraordinary….

"Though he would never say so himself, he has single-handedly changed the lives of tens of thousands of children, and independently won more hearts and minds than all the official American propaganda flooding the region.

"So this is a confession: Rather than simply reporting on his progress, I want to see Greg Mortenson succeed. I wish him success because he is fighting the war on terror the way I think it should be conducted…. Mortenson goes to war with the root causes of terror every time he offers a student a chance to receive a balanced education, rather than attend an extremist madrassa (school).

"If we Americans are to learn from our mistakes, from the flailing, ineffective way we, as a nation, conducted our war on terror after the attacks of 9/11, and from the way we have failed to make our case to the great moderate mass of peace-loving people at the heart of the Muslim world, we need to listen to Greg Mortenson. I did, and it has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life."

Mortenson and Relin tell an incredible tale that crosses countries and cultures widely divergent from our own. Their book is a testament to the power of one man’s promise to promote peace one school at a time. By its end we believe that a more educated world will create a more loving and accepting one … a better place for all of us.

For more information on the Central Asia Institute visit their website at: http://www.ikat.org/. There you will find a full listing of Mortenson’s speaking schedule throughout the U.S. See, also, http://www.threecupsoftea.com/ to order your personal copy of this well-written, inspiring, and phenomenal real-life adventure story. It will open your soul to the heart-rending challenges and choices faced by the people of Pakistan and Afghanistan whose lives are torn and battered by the harsh reign of the Taliban.

This book is like a titanium bracelet … strong, (filled with) light, and incredibly resilient. I highly recommend it.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

The First Twitter

Before twitter.com there was the first, the truest, the most natural twitter. It was issued by ruby-throated hummingbirds as they soared toward their feeders.

Frances and I are inundated by this twitter-mania everyday. As young’uns ready themselves for their southern migration (they vacate our yard shortly after Labor Day) they engage in nearly continuous battles for food. The ravine on the south side of our house brims with jewel weed, a hummingbird favorite. But it’s the hummingbird feeder outside our patio door that attracts the most rambunctious crowd.

Currently four to six birds share this feeder. It’s dominated by one male. He perches on a dead branch conveniently close to the food source. As other hummers swoop near, he dives toward the feeder with a rush of twittering. Though his “words” are hard to interpret, his intent is not. I imagine his message as follows: “Hey, dude. Get out!” “U move it!” “Ur out of ur area little miss.” “Are U lost? This is mine. Mine! MINE!”

The other bird swoops, chattering, away. Then our dominant male perches on the metal curlicue above the feeder and twitters on: “Stay away!” “Beat it!” “Get a clue, sweet♥s.” “This is MY breakfast,lunch,dinner,snack,snack,snack!” “2 bad for u.”

Of course, he’s not the only one given to self-expression. Other hummingbirds seated on nearby branches, perched atop fragile flowers, or hovering mid-air argue back: “You’ll get yours, buster.” “LOL, man.” “Oh yeah? U wait!”

Not a tweeter or twitterer myself, I listen with interest to the challenges and short bursts of conversation that surround me. Then there’s a brief pause. A welcome silence. Suddenly the dive-bombing reconvenes … along with the twittering. The hummer who stays behind twitters. The hummer who flies away twitters. They both twitter mid-flight as they careen past our observation posts, two lawn chairs positioned on the deck slightly below and to the side of the aforementioned battleground.

You may accuse me of anthropomorphizing the interactions of my tiny friends. It doesn't matter. I enjoy these birdie twitters. These excited bursts of conversation will soon, all too soon, be gone for another year. And, truth be told, human tweets--140 characters or less--don't undo me like the twitters of my feathered friends! I think it's the tone of voice, rather than the words, that makes all the difference!

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Tree Hugger? That's me....

What is a tree hugger?

I am. That’s the short answer.

Of course, in this complicated world “tree hugger” is often uttered with contempt. This beautiful, positive concept has evolved into a derogatory term slung at people concerned about the future of the earth.

For me it’s ancestral. I grew up around trees. In my childhood I climbed the swaying willow in our side yard, opened my book, and sat for hours, reading and swinging lightly in the breeze. On warm summer evenings my family and I played kick the can, hide and seek, and croquet beneath the sheltering branches of huge bur oaks.

During a recent visit to my family farm I slept in a tent under the shade of those same bur oaks. They were guardians of my sleep; their rustling leaves soothed and comforted me. The previous property owners, my grandparents and parents, are gone but the trees remain. They are, in modern eco-friendly terms, storehouses of carbon and producers of oxygen but they also contain something less measurable … a connection to the generations of family who lived—and continue to live—there. Their deep roots held us to the land. Their knarled branches and glossy leaves sheltered us from the sun.

I currently reside in the middle of a forest and I spend my days—and nights—in the midst of these lovely friends. Trees comfort me, shelter me, and sing to me. They give me stability and roots, protection and peace. I live under the forest canopy … and just like the deer, bear, fox, coyotes, wolves, and song birds who live under this canopy with me, the trees are my home.

What would it be like to believe—and act as if—trees had feelings just as we do? I recently uncovered an article I’d clipped in 1984. It was written by novelist/poet/essayist Alice Walker (“When a Tree Falls…”). Walker wrote that she and a friend visited a national forest to listen to what the Earth was saying. Soon after entering the woods Walker lay down on the path under a grove of trees. As she rested on their roots she felt the trees’ anger. They wanted her to move. Walker began to converse with the trees:

"All my life you have meant a lot to me. I love your grace, your dignity, your serenity, your generosity…. Well, said the trees, before I finished this list, we find you without grace, without dignity, without serenity, and there is no generosity in you either—just ask any tree. You butcher us, you burn us, you grow us only to destroy us. Even when we grow ourselves you kill us, or cut off our limbs. That we are alive and have feelings means nothing to you."

A deep sadness fills my body when I see a logging truck stacked with the thick, dead bodies of fresh-cut trees driving down the highway. Can we human beings change our attitudes toward trees—toward all of nature—in order to consider, as the first inhabitants of this land did, that all living things are our relatives?

A friend said today, “One of the reasons I live in northern Wisconsin is because of the trees. The trees are my family.”

I hug my family members. Do you?

(Thanks for the question, Winky.)

Sunday, August 2, 2009

They're Federally Insured ... Aren't They?

Stop at the bank √
farmer’s market √
grocery store √
bakery√

Drop off extra egg cartons √
Etc. √
Etc. √
Etc. √

Despite the mundane errands I checked off on yesterday’s list the day sparkled with fun.

It started at the bank. Saturday banking is drive-through only. I joined the line behind three cars at the window. Two additional cars waited in the adjoining lane. When the car directly in front of me pulled up to window, I watched with interest. The license plate read Mississippi. I was curious, “What type of business did these distant travelers plan to conduct here in beautiful downtown Bayfield, WI?”

I soon found out.

When the cash drawer extended out, the driver said a few words to the person behind the glass and quickly deposited two or three bags of strawberries into the drawer. The drawer closed, disappeared, reemerged, and reopened. Again, the driver dropped in several bags of strawberries. The drawer closed once again. These deposits occurred in quick succession until the drawer stayed closed and the car drove away.

“Wow,” I thought, “That is the most unique bank deposit I have ever seen.”

Pulling up to the window I spoke my thought to the employee on duty who was in juicy-good spirits. The adult daughter of a nearby neighbor, she explained that she didn’t have enough freezer space to store her fresh-picked strawberries. A sister volunteered to keep them frozen for her. Now she’d place them temporarily in the bank freezer until she found time to make strawberry jam.

Later I pulled into the Washburn IGA parking lot. I’d been rushing from point to point, errand to errand. Now I’d settle in for the long haul, probably 45 minutes to an hour of grocery shopping.

As I entered the store and paused to collect my shopping cart I exhaled a long, weary sigh. Another woman stood with her back to me reading a sign. She turned and began to laugh. A former t’ai chi chih student of mine, she reached over and gave me a hug saying, “I’ve been sighing all morning.”

It was a tremendously windy day. I responded, “It feels like the wind just blows it right out of you.” We both laughed.

I told her about the blog I’d published the previous day. I’d written that I feel comfortable talking out loud in the middle of the woods though I’m not willing to do so in the middle of the city. Perhaps my previous day’s writing loosened me up. Maybe I felt that my small town community wouldn’t think less of me for abandoning my polite, introverted, self-contained ways. We laughed our way into the store and sailed with glee down the first grocery aisle.

Now back to those strawberries. Since they were deposited in a bank with FDIC insurance up to $250,000 they’re fully insured now. Aren’t they?

Friday, July 31, 2009

Bounteous Beauty

“It’s beautiful today. Beautiful! Beautiful! Beautiful!” I say these words aloud to myself—and anyone who’ll listen—as I walk out the patio door to hang the bird feeders. It’s 6:45 a.m., 48 degrees. Sunlight dapples the ground and fills the sky. A slight breeze flickers through the leaves and tosses them lightly....

The middle of the woods is a wonderful dwelling place for an introvert. You can do things like that ... talk to yourself and nature in a loud—sometimes screaming loud—voice. I’d never utter a word in the middle of a city neighborhood but here, where I’m safe in the quiet with 25 acres to surround me, I talk aloud to myself.

I tend to think that my woodland neighbors—birds, bears, wolves, coyotes, squirrels, et al.—listen to my spontaneous comments with appreciation. Words of praise are a welcome event in a neighborhood that grows smaller, its backyards, front yards, side yards gradually dissipating through development and logging operations. Humans wonder why bear or other wild creatures occasionally attack us. Hmmm. How would you react if your bedroom, dining room, or backyard was being taken over by an uninvited stranger? Would you gladly give up your home thinking that you could easily find another house further down the road?

I’m often surprised by the number of people—both locals and tourists—who fear the bear who inhabit these forests. Last week Frances heard a rustling in the woods across the driveway from where she quietly worked. She paused, glanced toward the noise, saw nothing, and resumed her occupation. Soon she heard more rustling. Another glance revealed bear feet (yes, I said bear feet, not bare feet) dangling from a tree across the way. A small bear bounced up and down, struggling to reach higher branches. It appeared to be eating ... something. We investigated the next day and found the tree, berries hanging high overhead.

This morning Frances went for an early morning walk. When she returned, she offered another bear story. This small bear--probably the same one from several weeks ago--was eating berries from the wild raspberry bushes that line our drive. Not aware of Frances’ approach, the bear heard her cough and was gone....

Like I said, “It’s beautiful here. Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.”

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Good News Gazette - News at the Speed of Nice!

Another 40 degree start to the day. It’s dark, overcast, shrouded in quiet. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep….” (“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” by Robert Frost) Okay, it's not snowing but it IS cool for July 1.

An idea slammed me like thunder this AM. How about a home page posting news reports based on hopeful, upbeat, uplifting people and events? Since my internet connection always boots up the Google News page I’m well aware that the latest news items are typically framed in a trauma/drama mode. Of course, the biggest news is always the worst. Right? As my brother, Brett, says, "Good news doesn't make any money."

Still, wouldn’t it be fun to turn that whole assumption and modus operandi upside down and sideways?

I’m reminded of the magazine “Hope.” It went out of business several years ago and I truly felt lost, without hope. It seemed that the general public didn’t want to read positive, inspirational stories about people who invested themselves in changing the world for the better. Or did "Hope" simply not find the larger market that it needed?

The internet is a potent tool to connect with our world society. Sure, there are plenty of people who, for whatever reason, like to read about disaster. From my own experience I'd venture a guess that there is an addictive quality to focusing on other people's pain and agony. I'm often horrified by the news I read at the same time that it captivates me. Why do I keep reading it? To convince myself that my life isn't so bad after all? To engage in a game of one-upmanship where I always come out on top? To fool myself into thinking that "I would never do anything like that...."?

Hopefully the human race has some desire--even if it's a secret one--to be uplifted, encouraged, and challenged to think about our society from a different perspective. Instead of expecting the worst from people what would it be like to expect the best? Instead of launching ourselves into a canyon of sorrows, what if we rolled in a wildflower-filled meadow of blessings?

Certainly a Good News home page could fill a niche. It would, if nothing else, provide a polar opposite to the doom/gloom crowd of news pages readily available. Still, can people focus on positivity for long? Does it get too boring? Too disconnected from the real world? If we can’t handle the hope and inspiration, we can always surf to the old standards: Google News, MSN, Yahoo et al.

My just-completed Google search for upbeat news sites yielded a page and a half of listings. Hooray! See www.google.com/Top/News/Alternative/Good_News/ for positive news to create a more positive world. I include one link from that list here: Good News Gazette - News at the Speed of Nice!

There is hope after all!

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Are You an Outlier?

The book "Outliers: The Story of Success" affirms assumptions I’ve long held based on over a half-century of living on the fringes of mainstream culture. At its core it shatters America’s deeply-rooted cultural message that anyone can make it on his or her own as long as they try hard enough.

Thank God for myth busters. How does Outliers shatter these myths? By documenting the ways in which those who succeed are supported by much more than mere intelligence, ingenuity, or intrepidity. Outliers’ author, Malcolm Gladwell, shows us, through a variety of studies and a wealth of philosophical approaches that those who succeed often do so because they are supported by hidden advantages and, in some cases, indescribable timing, no matter how much the status quo would like us to believe otherwise.

It’s a radical concept. For, if those of us without money, access, time, and networks of connection could actually identify the inadvertent and subtle agreements we’ve made to accommodate those in powerful and privileged positions, we might decide to stop supporting the system … a system that is designed to continually provide opportunities for those who already live lives of privilege and affluence.

Yes, America is the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. But the citizens who are free and brave are not those who live in poverty, or those who reside in rural areas, or even those who attend public schools or publicly-funded colleges and universities. No. The Free and Brave are people who inherited money from ancestors, who live close to resources that improve their chances to learn and thrive, or who were born at the right time and under the right circumstances. Or even more fantastical, they were born in the right month or year!

Our Land of Opportunity provides supportive options to those who already live privileged lives. But far less is offered to the rest of the population who require the basics for survival: affordable housing, food, clothing, a living-wage or even, a job. Our American value system continually reminds us that we don’t want to live in a welfare state therefore we should expect every person to support and care for themselves! Of course, we don’t call it socialism or welfare when our monies (i.e., taxes) financially support and encourage big business, banking, the pharmaceutical industry, the Big Three Auto Makers, etc. ad nauseam.

As long as we believe—privileged and underprivileged alike—that what we accomplish in life is totally up to us and has little or nothing to do with our families, communities, financial backing, schooling and free time, then we will continue to perpetuate America’s myth of opportunity for all. And, while the millionaires seek to become the next billionaires—for it seems that human beings are never satisfied, never have enough—the middle class continues to fall further into the bottomless pit of life as it is. My friend, Florence, puts it simply: “The rich get richer and the poor grow in numbers.”

Still, writes Gladwell, we can apply ourselves. If we use what Gladwell calls the 10,000 hour rule, in which we dedicate a minimum of 10,000 hours in our teen years and early 20s to a well-loved vocation or avocation then, perhaps, we can create successful careers and reap financial rewards. (Again, the expectation is that as children and young adults we have the time, money, and resources to pursue personal goals.)

I have yet to finish reading Outliers but I appreciate the opportunity Gladwell offers us to think in larger terms than what is currently accepted. If we look beyond what we read in the newspapers, see on TV, or find on the internet, we may find that our world offers far more support for the success of a few than for the achievements of the many. What does this mean for the future of us all?

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Father's Day and Summer Solstice Share the Day!

Ten years ago last Wednesday (June 17) my dad died. We held his reviewal on Father’s Day which seemed appropriate….

A decade is a long time to not have a Dad. In many ways it seems like he was recently here … and perhaps he was. I think of him often. In the spring when wildflowers start to bloom, I remember trips we took with him down to the woods to pick wildflowers. He placed those delicate, carefully-picked blossoms on his parents’ grave to honor them on Memorial Day.

In the summer—today!—I recall Dad coming into the house after hours outside in the fields. His skin was browned by the sun, his tall, willowy frame rested, briefly, on a kitchen chair or in his recliner as he sipped a quick cup of coffee before heading back outside.

In the fall and winter Dad spent weekend hours in front of the TV watching football games, then basketball. A quiet man, he didn’t hold back when a ball was fumbled or a penalty called. He yelled at the television, shifted in his chair, or slapped his thigh, making his feelings known to all.

During the winter, between bouts of filling the woodstove, Dad read in his chair while listening to his short-wave radio or to his favorite classical music records. I attribute my love for reading to my dad who read to me as a child and who thought it was important to read; important enough that he took time out of his life to keep up on the news, learn new ideas, and expand his political philosophies.

I often think of Dad when I pour myself a cup of coffee. He had a reputation for making and drinking the strongest, blackest coffee in the area. Never a big coffee drinker myself, I now drink copious amounts and, as years go by, brew it stronger. Dad’s mugs sit in my kitchen cupboard and I use one almost daily.

I think of Dad when I sit down to write too. A writer himself, he typed poems and letters on a typewriter or wrote them by hand. I believe Dad’s spirit visits me when I labor over my own writing. Occasionally I wonder: Does Dad help me choose my words or phrases? Does he look through my eyes as I gaze out my office window into the surrounding forest? Does he help to inspire my writing topics?

This year—this 10th anniversary year—I remember Dad with love and appreciation as President Obama pays special homage to fathers by speaking about their roles and responsibilities. He reminds us that fathers are “teachers and coaches. They are mentors and role models. They are examples of success and the men who constantly push us toward it.” And, following his lead, others are honoring their dads in more public ways. At the end of NPR’s Weekend Edition today the programming crew named themselves and then identified themselves as a daughter or son of [their father’s name]. They finished with a group shout-out to their dads: “Happy father’s day.” Their group chorus was a special radio moment.

Today summer returns.… This afternoon I’ll remove plastic film from the inside of our windows. No more need for extra insulation (evening temps aren’t falling lower than upper 40s or low 50s most nights). Besides, after two days in the 90s, we need to open the windows!

This morning as I walked out the door I was surprised by two phoebes flying close in front of me. One flew straight up and tried to land on the house’s metal roof. It didn’t work, obviously, so s/he fluttered for a few moments and moved on. Another flew up and landed on a second story window frame. A third cruised right by me. And suddenly, I knew where they came from. At least two of them—the two fluttering and flying straight up the roof—were our newly-minted fledgling pilots. The third, I’m guessing, was one of the parents protecting their flanks.

The nest is empty! Our phoebes are gone! We missed their initial take off but I’m grateful to know that they made it. What a wonderful Father’s Day event for our feathered family!

Friday, June 19, 2009

I'm Still Thinking about Lori

Why are so many people inspired by Lori’s climb to the top of the world?

Perhaps we lack awesome goals in our own lives. Maybe we’ve settled for a safe life, satisfied that we can pay our bills, feed our children, or buy the newest car or video game. It’s possible that we lack role models or companions to urge us forward as we pursue our dreams. Or …

Do we long for a feeling of hope, a sense that we can accomplish goals beyond our wildest imaginings? Can we dream our dreams and venture toward our goals in the fast-paced, turbulent, topsy-turvy world in which we live?

I listened to reports aired by Wisconsin Public Radio during Lori’s climb up Mt. Everest. I also viewed the video and slide show of the final ascent. And, yes, I had tears in my eyes. How can we not be moved by someone who chooses to venture where so few have gone before?

How can we not be inspired by Lori who offers us hope and encouragement through her own example? In the midst of her climb up Everest Lori stimulated radio listeners with these words: “I wish you all luck climbing [the] mountains in your life.”

I’m beginning to think that I relate to Lori’s journey up the mountains because, in many ways, Lori’s journey is a reflection of my own. Lori’s diagnosis of MS occurred in 1993. I’ve lived with diabetes for 26 years. Some days it’s damn hard and discouraging. Other days—when I have a low sugar blackout—I fear for my life. On still others I realize that, were it not for the invention of insulin, I’d have died at the age of 29.

Most days I am grateful for, and enjoy, my life. I adore my little spot of heaven on earth here “under the forest canopy.” I appreciate opportunities to learn, to adventure and in-venture, growing wiser and more loving (I hope!) with each new challenge I confront.

There are times in my life when I’ve accomplished amazing goals that energized and uplifted me. Frances’ and my trip to Central America this past winter is a prime example. Seven weeks of touring through Mexico, Belize, Honduras, and Guatemala was life-changing. If I could spend two months living out of a backpack, I can surely simplify my day-to-day life. I can also remember to approach each moment as a grand adventure.

My numerous expeditions have included bike trips in Europe, Canada, Minnesota, and Wisconsin: a six-week bicycle tour of six European countries in 1977; a solo one-week bike trip from the Twin Cities to Rochester, east to LaCrosse, and back to the Twin Cities; a three-week bike trip from Duluth to Canada and back; a MS Bike-a-Thon from the Twin Cities to Duluth.

An enormous challenge for me many years ago was a week-long vacation I took by myself to Lake Superior’s North Shore. Why? Because for large portions of that trip I felt inundated by—and was forced to confront—the inner voices that plagued me. Since then, years of teaching t’ai chi chih moving meditation have shown me that my students also must learn to deal with what the Buddhists call “monkey mind.” When we purposefully allow our bodies to relax and slow down, we soon experience the fast and relentless movement of our minds. Clearly, challenges we attempt—and especially those that require physical strength—also depend upon mental training and fortitude.

My greatest journey, of course, is the one I’ve taken with diabetes. And, perhaps, this is where I most closely relate to Lori’s story. Fortunately, diabetes asked me to discover how to live a healthy, well-thy lifestyle. It also offered me a unique opportunity to climb my own mountain or, as I think of it, to balance on my own tightrope walk. Just like Lori, I take one step at a time.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

A Walk with Turtles

Several days ago while Frances and I watered and weeded our flower and vegetable gardens Frances cautioned me to avoid a small hole, “There may be a frog or toad in there.” Sure enough, when I looked down the hole, a small toad peered back up at me.

Late in the day we walked along Emil Road, a nearby dirt road into the wild. There we see daily changes: trees and plants leaf out and blossom, wild flowers bloom, and animal tracks remain, etched into sand and dried mud.

Recently we witnessed two painted turtles laying their eggs in holes they’d dug in the sand by the edge of the road. Their nests were close to a river and both mamas were within three to four feet of each other, one faced into the grass, rear extending out into the road; the other faced toward the road, rear pointing toward the grass.

We watched them for several minutes. Then, feeling like interlopers, we moved to the other side of the road to look closely at some beautiful white Canadian anemones. When we turned back, the turtle who faced toward us was gone; the other remained, resolute, over her hole.

We continued walking. Further along we found numerous sets of bear and deer footprints. Several bear of different sizes inhabited the area; a mama deer, too, with her young fawn. The fawn’s hoof print was less than one inch long from front to back … tiny.

I’ve seen a newborn fawn once. Several years ago a mother deer crossed Hwy. 13 in front of our car and her baby, following close behind, slipped and slid, falling splay-legged in the middle of the pavement. Frances leapt out of the car to encourage the fawn’s quick get-away as I turned on blinkers and pulled into the middle of the road to slow approaching traffic. Terrifying as it was for several minutes, everything turned out fine….

Every time we walk Emil Road … a new adventure. Last night’s walk revealed another painted turtle laying eggs along the other side of the road. This time, I actually saw several eggs beneath mama’s tail and between her rear feet.

Several mornings ago I found a baby Eastern phoebe out of its nest, sprawled on the concrete step outside our front door. It was still alive, its eyes closed, its beak opening and shutting, opening and shutting. I pulled a plastic bag over my hand and deposited the baby back in the nest. I’m not sure whether it survived; I can only see one head or tail at various times of the day. We’ll find out soon when our fledglings take flight.

Saturday, June 13, 2009

A Journey of Spirit

Many of us who live on the Bayfield Pennisula in Wisconsin are heroes in our own right. We survive with creativity and fortitude in a locale that relies on a 90-day summer tourist trade. We harvest firewood to warm ourselves during long winter months. We live lightly on the earth--recycling, conserving, living off the grid--in order to preserve our livelihoods and conserve the beautiful natural resources that surround us.

But for most of us, that's just daily life. When we look for a hero to encourage and inspire us, for someone who's traveled around the world and climbed its highest summits, we need look no farther than down the road. That’s where Lori lives.

Lori Schneider, 52, is an inspiration to many on Lake Superior’s south shores because she’s like us: friendly, modest, soft-spoken, and intimately connected to the natural world around her. But she’s something else too … she’s a mountaineer who’s climbed the seven tallest peaks on the seven continents of the world.

Recently returned from scaling the highest point on earth, Mount Everest, Lori boasts another huge accomplishment. She climbed these mountains—all but one—while living with multiple sclerosis (MS). And that, my friends, is no small feat.

What motivates someone to make such a commitment in her life, to follow through, and to accomplish what no one else with MS has done before? Lori climbed Mt. Everest to complete a long term goal she’d set for herself in 1993. That year she and her father climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro in Africa to celebrate her dad’s 61st birthday.

But Lori’s story goes back further--to age 15--when she raised money to travel to Europe and spend the summer living with a German family. Once she learned to immerse herself in another world, she decided that one day she would walk the seven continents and learn about their people and cultures. Fast forward to 1999. Lori awoke one morning with half of her body numb. Next came a diagnosis of MS, a disease that attacks the central nervous system. It was then that her plan reinvented itself: She would no longer simply walk the seven continents, she would climb their highest peaks.

After Mt. Kilimanjaro, Lori climbed Aconcagua (South America), Mt. Elbrus (Europe), Mt. McKinley in Alaska (North America), Mt. Kosciuszko (Australia), Mt. Vinson (Antarctica), and finally the greatest challenge of all: Mt. Everest (Nepal). Everest is known as the roof of the world. It’s a peak that has taken the lives of nearly 10 percent of those who have climbed it, more than 200 people. The fact that Lori was willing to attempt a climb of this magnitude was the ultimate proof—to herself and to others—that a chronic health condition is not reason enough to stop pursuing your goals, whatever they may be.

Finally, and perhaps most important, Lori carried with her the dreams and longings of family, friends, and community. Life in Bayfield shifted when she left us to travel to Nepal. Tibetan prayer flags appeared everywhere … at the Bayfield Regional Conservancy offices, Big Waters CafĂ©, the Bayfield Carnegie Library, and Pinehurst Inn, to name a few.

Lori’s trip was no longer her trip alone, even though she was the woman who devoted years to prepare herself—body, mind, spirit—for the challenge. She planned to ascend into altitudes that the rest of us will never reach, or even care to. But she also demonstrated to us, by her example, that we have the power to accomplish anything when we want it strongly enough.

Lori is not the first woman to remind us of this fact. Several decades ago polar explorer, Ann Bancroft, became the first known woman to cross the ice to both the North and South Poles (dogsledding to the North Pole in 1986 and skiing to the South Pole in 1993).

But Lori is one of us. She lives in our community, she works out at the local Recreation Center, she hikes up and down Mount Ashwabay, the local ski hill, with her women friends as training partners. In a big way, she’s not just one of us, she is us. And, darn it, Lori, you’ve made us proud.

On Tuesday, June 9, 2009, members of the communities surrounding Bayfield (a small burg of 600+ people) turned out by the hundreds to honor Lori and her achievements. The celebration included a parade, potluck supper, and public proclamations from the Mayor of Bayfield and Governor Jim Doyle. Six of her friends donned costumes to join with her to represent the seven peaks Lori climbed since 1993.

It’s hard to express the significance of Lori’s accomplishment since her journey of the human spirit reaches so much higher than the tallest peaks she scaled. It also reverberates deep within us in a place without words, a place where we feel our connection to all living beings even though we may not understand how or why it is so.

Many years ago singer/songwriter Ann Reed wrote, “Every Long Journey,” in honor of Ann Bancroft’s trip to the North Pole. Her lyrics alluded to the spiritual journey that Bancroft took to the Poles. It's an appropriate tribute, too, to Lori and her quest--now concluded--to climb to the top of the seven tallest mountains on seven continents. Reed sings, in part:

Every long journey is made of small steps,
Is made of the courage, the feeling you get.
You know it is waiting,
Been waiting for you.
The journey’s the only thing you want to do….

Every long journey begins with a dream,
A spirit with courage to make it all real.
The dream has been calling,
Been calling to you.
The dream is the only thing you want to do.

We cannot know what you go through
Or see through you eyes,
But we will surround you,
The pride undisguised.
In any direction,
Whatever you do,
You’re taking our love there with you.

To see a video and slideshow of Lori's climbing team and their ascent to the summit of Mt. Everest on May 23, visit http://www.alpineascents.com/. To learn more about Lori's lifelong journey to the top, visit her website: http://www.empowermentthroughadventure.com/.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Serenity in the Midst of Activity

That’s the theme of spring here in our woodland home … serenity in the midst of activity. Our 2002 move to the northern Wisconsin woods began as an escape into nature. Securely swaddled in 25 acres of trees we thought we were protected from outside intrusions. Still, “The only constant in life is change.” How many times have I heard that refrain?

How do we cope with change? Put simply, we learn to adapt.

The Town of Russell is the most recent location for expansion, development, and construction in the Bayfield area. This spring we start most days with the sound of moving equipment and heavy-machinery operating over a mile away up over the ridge behind our house. First trees were uprooted and removed. Now the gravel crusher has arrived. Pound-pound-pound-pound-pound. Screech-screech-screech. This project is scheduled for completion within four to six weeks assuming that operators can work from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. The next noisy step is yet to be revealed.

Every weekend night—and some weekday nights as well—we listen to bar noise from across the road (about a half-mile away). Summer was already a rowdy time as bar patrons moved outside to enjoy warmer temperatures while they conversed and drank, laughed and yelled. Live music shows entertained the entire area. One neighbor living on the hill behind us said that he could tell when a friend played at the bar because he could hear his instrument…. Our neighbor lives a mile beyond our house.

As of April 2009, we now enjoy occasional weekend evenings filled with loud, provocative music and hoots and hollers as the bar presents exotic dancing. Though we don’t attend these performances they still affect us. Initially there was a change in management. Now I hear that as clientele change, the bar atmosphere gets rougher and sleezier. But most significant, there's a subtle psychic energy shift that accompanies the sex trade business. Does anyone talk about it? No. For as long as no obvious physical changes can be identified (bar fights, wife beatings, public prostitution, etc.), it's not a problem.

How do I ignore the goings-on around me? How do I cope with the noise and continue on with my life, unaffected? How do I remember that someday, once again, I’ll be able to hear the songbirds without interruption and sense the presence of deer and bear by the light shuffle of their feet through the leaves and brush on the forest floor?

These questions bring me face-to-face with Taoist philosophy. I’m reminded that I’ve been practicing and teaching t’ai chi chih moving meditation for over 13 years. What do I do?

I emulate the Eastern Phoebes nesting above our kitchen window. These hardy souls build their nest under the eaves in order to share a protective overhang with their human hosts. In our case, the birds cope with Frances, Namaste, and my frequent exits and entrances through the front door right below their nest. Our kitchen window looks out on their nest as well. We also climb a nearby ladder twice daily to hang a hummingbird feeder over our front step.

Mama Phoebe initially responded to our shenanigans by flying out of the nest whenever we left or entered the house. She soon adapted her behaviors depending upon her level of comfort with our activities, sometimes flying away, sometimes staying put. But, now … Now we have new babies. We saw two fuzzy heads, beaks protruding over the side of the nest, yesterday. (We hope that there are two more huddled somewhere deeper in the nest.)

For the next few weeks Mama and Papa Phoebe will engage in almost-constant insect hunting in order to feed their young. They’ll time their feedings to correspond with the demands of their babies as well as the comings and goings of their human cohabiters.

And, guess what? Their babies will survive … and quite likely, thrive. There’s a lesson in this for me, I know.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Sun, Sun, Sun, Here It Comes ...

"Here comes the sun (du dn du du)
Here comes the sun.
And I say,
It’s alright."
(Thank you, George Harrison and The Beatles.)

After days of clouds, rain, and shivery temps, we’re edging toward summer. This past week—brrrr—chilly. Temps sunk to the low 30s, highs hovered in the low 40s.

Is this typical weather for this time of year? I remember that our first few years here (2004? 2005?) I offered free t’ai chi chih classes at Memorial Park in downtown Bayfield, mid-May through mid-June. The event was part of the Chamber’s “Bayfield in Bloom” promotion.

Hardy folks showed up at some of my practice sessions wearing winter coats, hats, scarves and mittens. So, yeah, this is typical weather. It’s easy to forget from one year to the next how slowly the South Shore of Lake Superior eases into summer.

Vegetable seeds are in the ground. Thanks to much-needed rain we’re soaking in green. A few varieties of lettuce and sugar snap peas peek hopefully out of the earth. As far as swiss chard, red kale, and tomatoes plants go—not much growth—but they haven’t frozen yet!!! One night, nervous about a potential freeze, we hauled out old blankets to cover our babies.

Speaking of babies … We suspect our Eastern Phoebe’s eggs hatched out last weekend. On Saturday we heard a screeching “phoe-be” in the yard right outside our front door. “It sounds like a birth announcement,” said Frances. Was Dad spreading the news to the neighborhood? It certainly felt that way.

Mama bird now sits higher in her nest (above the kitchen window). In these temps I imagine it’s a challenge to keep her scantily-feathered babies warm. I also heard tiny peeps. Did I hear tiny peeps? Though we’ve not seen heads or beaks yet, fledglings have 15 to 16 days to mature before they take off for parts unknown.

We’ll watch closely over the next few weeks. Soon we’ll have a crew of starving, persistent peepers demanding breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snaks. It’s fun to catch glimpses of Mom and Dad as they feed insects to their young. Perhaps this year once again we’ll witness several of the fledglings as they swoop down out of their nest and into the air. They’re great reminders that it’s okay to leave security behind as we wing ourselves into the future … whatever it holds.