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?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
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!
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.
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.
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 Café, 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/.
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 Café, 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.
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.
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.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Enlightenment Guaranteed
“Intriguing, humorous, inspiring, delightful.” These are my comments about this 2001 German film (with English subtitles) by Doris Dörrie that we watched several nights ago. Of course we checked it out from our favorite video/DVD store … the Bayfield Library.
Though billed as a comedy the film reveals the value of meditation as well as the benefits of self-discovery. At the same time, the film portrays our all-too-human failings and self-doubts with humor and compassion.
Plot: Brothers Uwe and Gustav are adrift in mid-life crisis. Uwe’s wife leaves, taking their three sons and infant daughter with her. Gustav, a Feng Shui consultant, longs for greater fulfillment in his life. He plans a trip to Japan to deepen his meditation practice. Uwe, lost and alone after his family’s departure, insists on accompanying him.
What results is a tumultuous journey for them both. After checking into their Tokyo hotel Uwe and Gustav accidentally exit out a different restaurant door than the one they entered. Suddenly they’re homeless. Without passports, directions, money, or Japanese language skills they’re forced to rapidly confront their fears and anxieties.
A scene at an ATM machine in Tokyo was priceless (and extremely reminiscent of Frances’ and my early travel experiences in Central America). Uwe inserts his credit card in the ATM to withdraw money, then Gustav follows suit when no money or card is forthcoming. They both lose their cards, of course, and then they’re truly on their own. The first night the brothers sleep in cardboard boxes, side by the side. The next day they visit a department store where they steal a tent to ensure that future nights will be spent in greater comfort.
Ultimately, these men realize that there is a freedom in not understanding what’s happening around them and in not living by the rules. It’s certainly not easy for them to come to this conclusion but it seems to be a necessary step in order to shed their fears of the unknown before they submerge themselves in the daily rituals of Buddhist life.
Much of the first section of this movie was intimately familiar. When Frances and I traveled in Central America last winter, we didn’t speak the language well and we soon recognized our vulnerability. It was also true that as outsiders we weren’t expected to know or follow all the cultural rules or mores. What freedom!
Eventually Gustav and Uwe find their way to Sojiji Monastery where they confront a new set of challenges. Each morning they rise at 4:30, bathe in cold water, join the monks in early morning meditation, eat breakfast, and devote themselves to hours of cleaning, scrubbing, washing, sweeping. They—and the viewers—quickly discover that their perseverance is exhausting. Cleaning floors and toilets is difficult and physically challenging. Sitting in meditation is painful. Sweeping leaves from one spot to another in the outdoor garden is mindless…. Or is it?
“Buddhism requires us to be truly present, to live in the moment,” said director Doris Dörrie about her intentions in making this movie, “It’s very difficult, but that’s part of the attraction.”
And, soon enough, the brothers reap the benefits of their seated meditation practice. They become witnesses to the thoughts that stream through their minds, they allow emotions to surface, and, eventually, they reach a place of greater serenity.
By movie’s end, Gustav and Uwe leave their monastery retreat and return to Tokyo, slipping easily and comfortably back into their tent that is set up at the edge of a tennis court and next to a train track. The first night back one of them suggests that they chant the heart sutra they learned at the monastery. The other agrees, and you then hear their chant emanating from the tent walls.
Somehow through days and hours of seated meditation and repetitive chores these brothers have allowed themselves—as director Dörrie explains—to give up hate and envy and the aggression that results from these disquieting states and to achieve a much-needed state of serenity. They’ve learned nothing and everything in a few short weeks.
Gustav and Uwe’s meditation practice reminded me of what I’ve often experienced during years of teaching t’ai chi chih moving meditation. Over and over, I witness students arriving at class rushed, hurried, uncentered, out of sorts. Soon after we begin to move, though, a hush settles over the room. And, after a 40-minute group practice, I look around the room and feel the incredible change in energy that’s occurred. Our group practice has welcomed each of us into this moment—now—where we stand quietly, relishing the peace and serenity. Often these moments of peace can be fleeting. But the more regularly we practice, the more quickly and easily we can get to that elusive state of tranquility.
In “Enlightenment Guaranteed” both Gustav and Uwe experience positive change. It takes the extreme situation of foreign travel to begin that change. But, by the end, you’re convinced that they’ve changed forever.
Some people believe that lasting change is impossible to achieve. But, instead of viewing change as a simple route from one way of being to another, it’s helpful for us to view our path toward peace and enlightenment as a spiral rather than a straight line.
We’re always circling back toward where we began but, with each cycle, each circle, we move forward. Now, in this moment, we have more information and more experience to inform us than we had in the past. We need to trust in ourselves enough to believe that with each day and with each experience, we gain greater wisdom and expand our ability to love and accept ourselves and others.
That’s why we call meditation a practice. It’s never perfect. The best we can do is devote ourselves to it. That, believe it or not, is enough.
Though billed as a comedy the film reveals the value of meditation as well as the benefits of self-discovery. At the same time, the film portrays our all-too-human failings and self-doubts with humor and compassion.
Plot: Brothers Uwe and Gustav are adrift in mid-life crisis. Uwe’s wife leaves, taking their three sons and infant daughter with her. Gustav, a Feng Shui consultant, longs for greater fulfillment in his life. He plans a trip to Japan to deepen his meditation practice. Uwe, lost and alone after his family’s departure, insists on accompanying him.
What results is a tumultuous journey for them both. After checking into their Tokyo hotel Uwe and Gustav accidentally exit out a different restaurant door than the one they entered. Suddenly they’re homeless. Without passports, directions, money, or Japanese language skills they’re forced to rapidly confront their fears and anxieties.
A scene at an ATM machine in Tokyo was priceless (and extremely reminiscent of Frances’ and my early travel experiences in Central America). Uwe inserts his credit card in the ATM to withdraw money, then Gustav follows suit when no money or card is forthcoming. They both lose their cards, of course, and then they’re truly on their own. The first night the brothers sleep in cardboard boxes, side by the side. The next day they visit a department store where they steal a tent to ensure that future nights will be spent in greater comfort.
Ultimately, these men realize that there is a freedom in not understanding what’s happening around them and in not living by the rules. It’s certainly not easy for them to come to this conclusion but it seems to be a necessary step in order to shed their fears of the unknown before they submerge themselves in the daily rituals of Buddhist life.
Much of the first section of this movie was intimately familiar. When Frances and I traveled in Central America last winter, we didn’t speak the language well and we soon recognized our vulnerability. It was also true that as outsiders we weren’t expected to know or follow all the cultural rules or mores. What freedom!
Eventually Gustav and Uwe find their way to Sojiji Monastery where they confront a new set of challenges. Each morning they rise at 4:30, bathe in cold water, join the monks in early morning meditation, eat breakfast, and devote themselves to hours of cleaning, scrubbing, washing, sweeping. They—and the viewers—quickly discover that their perseverance is exhausting. Cleaning floors and toilets is difficult and physically challenging. Sitting in meditation is painful. Sweeping leaves from one spot to another in the outdoor garden is mindless…. Or is it?
“Buddhism requires us to be truly present, to live in the moment,” said director Doris Dörrie about her intentions in making this movie, “It’s very difficult, but that’s part of the attraction.”
And, soon enough, the brothers reap the benefits of their seated meditation practice. They become witnesses to the thoughts that stream through their minds, they allow emotions to surface, and, eventually, they reach a place of greater serenity.
By movie’s end, Gustav and Uwe leave their monastery retreat and return to Tokyo, slipping easily and comfortably back into their tent that is set up at the edge of a tennis court and next to a train track. The first night back one of them suggests that they chant the heart sutra they learned at the monastery. The other agrees, and you then hear their chant emanating from the tent walls.
Somehow through days and hours of seated meditation and repetitive chores these brothers have allowed themselves—as director Dörrie explains—to give up hate and envy and the aggression that results from these disquieting states and to achieve a much-needed state of serenity. They’ve learned nothing and everything in a few short weeks.
Gustav and Uwe’s meditation practice reminded me of what I’ve often experienced during years of teaching t’ai chi chih moving meditation. Over and over, I witness students arriving at class rushed, hurried, uncentered, out of sorts. Soon after we begin to move, though, a hush settles over the room. And, after a 40-minute group practice, I look around the room and feel the incredible change in energy that’s occurred. Our group practice has welcomed each of us into this moment—now—where we stand quietly, relishing the peace and serenity. Often these moments of peace can be fleeting. But the more regularly we practice, the more quickly and easily we can get to that elusive state of tranquility.
In “Enlightenment Guaranteed” both Gustav and Uwe experience positive change. It takes the extreme situation of foreign travel to begin that change. But, by the end, you’re convinced that they’ve changed forever.
Some people believe that lasting change is impossible to achieve. But, instead of viewing change as a simple route from one way of being to another, it’s helpful for us to view our path toward peace and enlightenment as a spiral rather than a straight line.
We’re always circling back toward where we began but, with each cycle, each circle, we move forward. Now, in this moment, we have more information and more experience to inform us than we had in the past. We need to trust in ourselves enough to believe that with each day and with each experience, we gain greater wisdom and expand our ability to love and accept ourselves and others.
That’s why we call meditation a practice. It’s never perfect. The best we can do is devote ourselves to it. That, believe it or not, is enough.
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