Under the Forest Canopy

A Blessed Compulsion

2011-02-06T11:33:00.002-06:00

It's Packer Bowl Sunday. Whoops. I mean Super Bowl Sunday. I imagine I'm one of a mere handful of people in the state of Wisconsin and most likely around the entire United States who won't be tuning into the Big Game this afternoon.

I was a huge football follower in my teens and early 20s. It offered a way to connect with my father, a loyal Minnesota Vikings' fan. He never missed an opportunity on a fall or winter weekend to watch--and cheer on--his favorite team as well as every other professional and collegiate ball toss aired on television.

Today I'm more interested in engaging in the sport of words. Since I'm the coach, receiver, and quarterback--the whole team really--in this game, I ask myself when I begin a writing project: What game plan should I use? If I toss these words into the air, is there anyone down field to catch them? How might it feel to carry one pigskin-wrapped metaphor into the end zone?

I debate whether to fall back and lob a pass or grasp the ball tightly under one arm and run for it. Is it possible for me to make a touchdown? A field goal? Or should I simply settle for first and ten? Then do it again.

I've thought about the power--and entertainment value--of words a lot lately. I spent the past two evenings, along with 28 other writers, reading my piece from Love Stories of the Bay at Stagenorth. It was a fascinating, terrifying, and exhilarating experience. These intense, captivating, and highly personal evenings caused me to wonder what causes each of us to write. And also, what draws over 250 people to a theater over the course of two cold winter evenings to hear what we have to say? Moreover, what motivates writers to write even if every single one of those theater seats remained empty?

I realize that, for me, just as well-prepared food nourishes my body, a well-written story feeds my heart and expands and lightens my spirit. Language, words, and metaphors have the power to ignite a fire in the soul. But, just like football, the written and spoken word is not for everyone. It pains me a bit to recognize this fact. I'd like to think that because I'm captivated by turns of phrase and word pictures others would be too.

In my January 24, 2011 blog entry under Rooted in Earth, Suspended from Sky ("The Soul that hears loving words becomes more loving") I wrote:

Yes, I have a passion for words. Why? Because words have the power to express feelings, unravel confusion, draw people into a web of community and connection, and bring deeper meaning to our lives.

I just turned the page in my journal and discovered this quote, 'The soul that beholds beauty becomes more beautiful.' I believe, in a similar vein, that the soul that hears loving words becomes more loving.

I continue on in that blog to quote Wisconsin Public Radio Here on Earth host, Jean Feraca. In her book, I Hear Voices, Feraca recalls a creative writing teacher who told Feraca's class that there were only two subjects worth writing about: love and death. (p. 122). Perhaps that's why our Love Stories of the Bay seem so potent. These stories of love--and death--describe our passionate connection to our dogs, wild animals, spouses, lovers, friends, parents, land, water, and our shared home here on the Chequamegon Bay.

After the past two nights on stage I feel freshly inspired to continue along my path as a writer. It's not easy. Writing is a lonely, solitary, and seemingly thankless business. And, possibly because this is so, writers long for loving support and encouraging words from their family and friends, audience, and readers.

Thankfully, I was blessed with a father who not only watched football, basketball, and baseball most weekends. He read ... and also wrote. Perhaps because he so enjoyed the power and potency of language he passed some of his passion for words on to me where it lodged itself deep in my bones and DNA.

Perhaps, as Jean Feraca writes in her book, I write simply because I have no choice. Maybe I, too, suffer from what, per Feraca, "Denise Levertov once called the blessed compulsion of art." It's true that I can't not write. How's that for a double negative?

Whatever the inspiration for putting pen to paper or fingertips to computer keyboard, I believe Feraca illustrated one significant benefit to the writer's life with this quote from poet Louise Bogan: You cannot change your language without changing your life. (p. 133)

It's Wonderful! It's Frantastic! It's Animalistic!

2011-01-17T12:22:00.003-06:00

OMG! Today marks three full months since I last posted an entry on this blog. What happened? Life. Work. Travel. An unyielding commitment to Rooted in Earth, Suspended from Sky and innumerable hours spent writing posts to that blog instead of this one.

Today I'm breaking my silence. I absolutely, positively have no choice. I must rave about Stagenorth's production of Animal Farm that Frances and I attended yesterday afternoon. Wonderful! 'Smarvelous! And I'll use another recently coined term here (created by my sister's partner, Frank, but also equally applicable to my partner, Frances) ... Frantastic!

Animal Farm is a visual spectacle indeed. Its directors and producers call it "a dark comedy ... a REVOLUTION." It is all that and so much more.... Written by George Orwell, the well-known author of 1984, this "dystopian allegorical novella" (per Wikipedia) was published in England in 1945. Time magazine later chose it as one of the 100 best English language novels (1923-2005).

Orwell intended to critique the Russian Revolution and its leader, Joseph Stalin, who was corrupted by greed, ignorance, indifference and wickedness. Orwell's vehicle for this fantasy tale was a barnyard of animals who grow tired of the abuses and neglect of their farmer-owner. They unite, rebel, and drive the farmer off Manor Farm. Renamed Animal Farm the barnyard begins to function under an entirely new set of rules, the seven commandments of Animalism, not the least of which is Commandment #7: All animals are equal.

All too quickly the pigs (Stalin and associates) begin their takeover of farm operations using the labor of the other animals to increase their wealth and privilege and advance their political agenda. By play's end we see that there's no difference, really, between the political maneuverings of men and the barnyard machinations of pigs. Ultimately, the audience's hope lies in the words of one character who reminds us that there are other farms ... and other revolutions.

The directors of this production, Kellie Pederson and Scott Griffiths, write in their director's note that they were drawn to Orwell's tale because of "its timelessness and poignancy that supercedes any specific political climate." Or simply put, once a human, always a human or, perhaps more accurately, once an animal, always an animal. Aren't we all?

Pederson and Griffiths created a cast of humans, puppets, and musicians that was a wonder to behold. Costumes/puppets were intricately detailed to the point that actors could move their puppets' mouths as they spoke and tap their own feet along with the two additional feet of their puppets as they walked, pranced, and circled around the stage.

The three musicians offstage helped ease audience members through the between-scene setups and an excellent wooden flutist (Michael "Scooter" Charette who played the Fox) wowed us from the stage. Though the entire cast joined in one Animalistic song there were several songsters who stood out from the herd: 17-year-old Grant Hasse who played the role of Boxer, the workhorse, had a fabulous voice and Kelsey Rothe as Mollie, the horse who longed for sugar treats and ribbons in her mane, was also entertaining. During intermission Mollie crooned to audience members in the lobby which ultimately foreshadowed her departure from the animal barnyard.

Frances and I knew one of the chickens and and one of the pigs which allowed us to view the performance with even more interest and awe. Sarah Garner, a massage therapist in the area and a former(?) member of Bedlam Theatre in Minneapolis, cawed and clucked, bobbed her head, and magically transformed her face into chickenesque expressions throughout the performance.

During curtain call, Sarah and her fellow hen, Leslie Wilson, received the loudest audience response. At the grocery store following the performance an acquaintance from Madeline Island who'd just seen the show said, "Oh, the chickens were the best part of the show."

Kristen Sandstrom, in her acting debut at Stagenorth, played Squealer, Napolean, the pig's (Stalin's) minister of propaganda. I know Kristen from my previous role as assistant innkeeper at Pinehurst Inn in Bayfield. Her parents, Nancy and Steve, own the Inn and Kristen assists in its operation. She played a powerful and convincing role as the marketeer (similar to her real-life job as marketing consultant?) for Napolean/Stalin. There were other shining moments when director Scott Griffiths mounted the stage to play roles as Napoleon's dog and Whymper, a man hired by Napolean as the go-between to trade with human society.

I could go on and on but I'll conclude with these famous last words: Don't miss the production of Animal Farm at Stagenorth (four remaining shows this weekend, Jan. 20-23). My hope? That it will claw, cluck, honk, moo, baa, and oink its way into your life and, ultimately, alter your world view.

Let 'em Roll....

2010-10-17T10:32:00.001-05:00

The Bay Area Film Society's (BAFS) movie season is begun! Thus far we've seen two interesting, entertaining, and thought-provoking films that, left to our own devices, we would never have viewed or, for that matter, even heard about.

The BAFS was formed in winter 1997 by a group of dedicated film lovers. It continues due to the efforts of volunteers committed to bringing alternative and foreign films to the Chequamegon Bay area. Films show fall through early spring because summer in the Northland is too beautiful, busy, and short for potential viewers to take time out from hiking, kayaking, boating, picnicing, farming, gardening, wood gathering, and tourist-serving to sit inside.

Several years ago BAFS initiated the annual Big Water Film Festival which shows popular and unknown films alongside presentation and discussion sessions with writers and directors. This year's Big Water runs November 5-7 and highlights Airplane! (30 years after its initial release), Into Temptation (sold out shows in Minneapolis) and Feed the Fish (sold out shows at Milwaukee's Film Fest), and much more....

This year's season began with documentaries: No Impact Man and last night's The Parking Lot Movie. No Impact Man follows the sustainable, low carbon adventures of Colin Beavan and his wife and young daughter. Beavan decided to produce no trash for one year and adopted a "green" lifestyle: no TV, no cars, buses or subway travel, no eating out, no coffee, no meat, no food from more than 150 miles away, no using the elevator, no electricity, no toilet paper.

Here in the North Woods of Wisconsin these endeavors are commonplace. Nearby neighbors live: 1) in a tent in the middle of the woods, 2) in a yurt in the middle of the woods, 3) in a straw bale house with a cistern to collect rain water, 4) in a log house with a solar panel for electricity, a pump outside for water, a wood stove for heat, and an outhouse for a bathroom, and 5) in a house without running water (which the owners determined they don't need).

But Beavan did it the hard(er) way ... while living in a ninth floor apartment in Manhattan! See his website (http://www.noimpactproject.org/) and blog (http://noimpactman.typepad.com/) for more information.

It's clear from the movie that 43-year-old Beavan had a core group of supportive friends and that he and his family learned a tremendous amount about living sustainably and sharing a closer connection with each other and their environment. Still, Beavan received many derogatory, critical comments on his blog as he detailed his efforts and the film showed the frustration and desperation of his wife as she tried to adopt her husband's temporary choice of lifestyle.

By the end of the film the question on the jacket of the DVD remains: Can you save the planet without driving your family crazy? Which raises yet another question ... Are we--the American public as well as the citizens of the world--willing to change our lifestyles in order to put less stress upon our Earth and her limited resources? Obviously, as demonstrated by Beavan and his family, it will not be easy but it may also be incredibly satisfying and rewarding.

Last night's Parking Lot Movie (http://www.theparkinglotmovie.com/) was yet another insightful commentary on our society. It dives deeply into the attitudes and beliefs of a group of men employed as parking lot attendants at a surface lot in Charlottesville, Virginia. Filled with interviews of current and former employees and the parking lot owner as well as footage of the day-to-day antics and conundrums of this interesting and eclectic group of men, the viewers soon witness evidence of the underlying theme of this film as articulated in its subtitle: It's not just a parking lot. It's a battle with humanity.

The most blatent and appalling aspect of this film was the inherent classism that underlies American society. As one parking lot attendant acknowledged, We're lower than taxidermists (an interesting comment as I'm currently reading a book about taxidermists, Still Life: Adventures in Taxidermy by Melissa Milgrom which challenges the attitude that taxidermy is a reviled and freakish profession).

Other insights and philosophies are readily expressed by these men who have all the time in the world to think about and consider their lot while they wait for cars and the people who drive them to exit and pay their fee. The attendants soon discover that they can easily peg (though hopefully, not always correctly) the personality and behaviors of the drivers of particular models of cars. All attendants seem to hold disdain for SUVs and their inhabitants and agree (I'm using literary license here), The bigger the car, the bigger the asshole.

Again and again, we see drivers who abuse their gatekeepers. Either the drivers refuse to pay out right, drive away without paying, decide they should pay less than required, or simply ignore or disregard the person who stands at their window waiting for money. The attendants are the first to say that the overwhelming attitude of people using parking lots is this: These guys are ignorant; they don't deserve any respect. Sadly, that's often the manner in which they are treated.

Thankfully, this film provides a more holistic view of parking lot attendants and many of these men freely admit that their time working as an attendant was an important part of their growth and human development. They begin to realize that no matter how disrespectfully they're treated it does no good to respond in like manner. Eventually attendants either leave the job or determine that they have to be the bigger man and take the abuse while responding with kindness, humor, and the recognition that it isn't up to them to mete out punishment for bad behavior ... their disrespectful patrons will earn their just desserts in the Universe's own good time.

The final scene of this film is priceless. The attendants dress in costume and perform a rap music video-style conclusion that illustrates the importance of humor, creativity, play, and plain old fun when one lives on the edge of a money and appearance is everything mainstream culture. The humanness and humaneness of these documentary stars is extraordinary, inspiring, and affirming.

That you, BAFS, for your charming, eclectic, and life-affirming selection of movies that inspire me to be a better, more thoughtful human being. That's what I'd call great art!

Persistence Extraordinaire

2010-09-26T15:49:00.000-05:00

Stubbornly persist, and you will find that the limits of your stubbornness go well beyond the stubbornness of your limits. -- Robert Brault

These inspirational words arrived in my morning email from DailyGood. Good went on to highlight the story of Brian Smith, a California college student majoring in music. Smith lost financial aid and student loans then subsequently became homeless. The committed songster (he performs opera, gospel, and jazz, among other genres) didn't give up. He slept in the practice rooms of his music department while he maintained a 3.65 GPA!

Remember that old saw "life is hard and then you die"? Too often too many of us get caught up in our own seeming struggles and hardships. I say seeming here because our minds can convince us of limitations and build imaginary barriers even where none exist. Rick Hanson and Richard Mendius discuss this phenomenon in their book, Buddha's Brain (p. 41):

Negative events generally have more impact that positive ones. For example, it's easy to acquire feelings of learned helplessness from a few failures, but hard to undo those feelings, even with many successes (Seligman, 2006).

I can easily identify innumerable examples of personal persistence and perseverance by others. In the 2006 movie, The Pursuit of Happyness, Chris Gardner, a San Francisco salesman dreamed of becoming a stockbroker on Wall Street. As he moved toward--and achieved!--career success he and his young son often lived on the edge and were sometimes homeless. (This movie was based on a true story.)

Several nights back Frances and I watched another real life story set to film: Temple Grandin. This 2010 HBO movie highlights Grandin's commitment to make a difference in the world even though she herself struggles with autism. Thanks to the support of her mother who refused to institutionalize her despite a doctor's recommendation, and an aunt, science teacher, and college roommate who appreciated and encouraged her unusual talents, Grandin singlehandedly changed the institutionalized norms of the cattle industry.

Grandin's unique sensitivities and skills prompted her to earn bachelor, master, and Ph.D. degrees. She turned her understanding of animal behavior (which was amazingly similar to her own) into the design for a more compassionate and efficient system of corrals that reduced the stress of cattle being led to slaughter. Significantly, she pursued these accomplishments despite suffering incredible discrimination and harassment due to this mental condition that reduced her ability to respond to or communicate with the world of humans around her.

Here on the Bayfield Pennisula I am surrounded by neighbors who challenge the status quo and live in close communion with the earth. They live off the electric grid in log cabins with solar panels, straw bale houses with cisterns, and even yurts and tents with wood stoves. Some people, I suppose, would call them crazy for surviving long, cold, and snowy northern Wisconsin winters with one sheet of canvas between their bodies and the elements. But, to me, they are members of a unique breed: those who subbornly persist. As a result, they bestow upon our community a richness and diversity that is a rare and precious gift.

Over the past ten months I've learned tremendous lessons about the advantages of persistence because of a demanding task I took upon myself: Practice T'ai Chi Chih moving meditation daily and write a daily blog about my experiences (see Rooted in Earth, Suspended from Sky at http://www.taichichihmoments.blogspot.com/). Here's what I discovered: I'm happier and more joyful, better able to shift my moods and thoughts to a positive vein, more cognizant of decisions I make day to day, and finely tuned to the changing phases of the woods that surround me.

Sometimes my partner asks me why I practice TCC when I'm exhausted or why I choose to write my blog when I could join her to watch a movie or engage in some other project or adventure. I persist because I feel better but that isn't the only reason. I feel an obligation to my readers and, beyond that, I sense that this TCC practice/blogging experiment is what I need to do even though I do not yet fully understand why.

Stubborn persistence. Yep, I guess I have some of that special character trait running through my blood and calcifying in my bones too. It's a highly prized quality here in Wisconsin's northern woods that keeps us brightly burning through the darkest days and cozily warm during the longest nights.

The Healing Power of Stories

2010-09-12T10:21:00.002-05:00

Why does telling stories, listening to stories, and sharing stories bring hope and meaning to human experience? I ask that question after falling under the spell of storytelling several times over the past few weeks.

On August 20th Frances and I attended a reading at Big Waters Cafe in Bayfield that featured writers published in the Love Stories of the Bay collection. About eight or ten of us--out of the 43 writers included in the book--read that night. And, though I'd previously read the stories in the book, this opportunity to hear each author read their own story using their personal vocabulary, intonation, and nonverbal cues made each story come alive in a new and exciting way.

I wasn't the only person who enjoyed the evening. Plans are now in the works for Love Stories' authors to appear at Stage North this winter. Not only will we read our stories, but our tales will be enhanced with lights, music, action.... More on that event later when details are finalized.

Several Saturdays back during my weekly cooking extravaganza I listened to one of my favorite weekend radio shows, This American Life. I heard the re-broadcast of "American Limbo" (originally aired 2/9/01), a segment about people who felt separated from the world, as if they were living on the outside of American culture looking in. I was captivated by a story about a family of eight that spent seven years evading police and the FBI. Entitled "The Family that Flees Together Trees Together," it described their experiences living in a treehouse and a leaky boat.

Ira Glass, the host, emphasized that, although the family was pursued by authorities because the father grew marijuana, both parents knew the importance of keeping their family together rather than submitting their kids to the foster care system while they served a jail term. And, said Ira, these kids seemed to turn out great.

The perspectives of the youngest son, now 21, were a sad commentary on the effects of TV and radio on the American psyche. He described people as "beasts" and "primitive thinkers" and went on to say that many people didn't understand the difference between right and wrong. He described how mean people can be to one another and explained further: They don't mind eatin' meat, smokin' cigarettes, spillin' motor oil in the water....

I heard and understood this young man's concerns because I, like him, don't watch network television. Being ignorant of the current state of broadcast news and entertainment I'm usually taken aback when I travel to where I have access to television programming. The evening news, for instance, is no longer news but entertainment. And the mainstream fare that fills the evening airwaves teaches, inculcates, and programs its viewers into a false sense of what's normal and acceptable. What's interesting is that these cultural teachings flood the subconscious ... no thought required.

And then ... I heard Kevin Kling tell stories on Minnesota Public Radio. Kevin, a playwright, humorist, author, and storyteller, is a favorite annual performer in Washburn, WI. I feel that I know Kevin even though I've only seen him perform twice at Stage North. Many years ago I attended Kevin's one-man show, 21A, based on his experiences riding the bus between Minneapolis and St. Paul. It was a hilarious portrait of eight or so idiosyncractic characters who shared the same bus ride.

I know Kevin's mother, Dora, who attends my t'ai chi chih classes. Let's just say that Kevin's storytelling abilities have a genetic component because, as Dora tells me when I comment on the similarities between mother and son, This nut does not lie far from the tree. Dora is a funny and entertaining storyteller in her own right and it's obvious that Kevin's skills have been developed and honed over many, many years of writing and performing, performing and writing.

Kevin's stories are autobiographical and describe situations from child- and adulthood that are both humorous and poignant. Anything can serve as subject matter for Kevin's performances from his experience running Grandma's Marathon in Duluth, to the time he and his brother helped Dad paint the house black and orange, to the night he and brother, Steve, stood on the rooftop in the midst of severe weather in search of tornadoes touching down.

Kling ascribes his profession to a conversation with an Ojibway medicine man who told him, You can survive anything if you have a sense of humor and a sense of self. That, my friends, says it all. When we tell each other our stories, we claim our place in this life. And when we hear the stories of others, we discover that our trials and tribulations, our successes, and our frailties are part of a shared human experience. Once again we reclaim our humanity and rediscover that we are all one....

Birthday Wishes

2010-08-31T22:24:00.000-05:00

August 31, 2010. Today would have been my mother's 84th birthday. Though she's been dead for over five years I continue to celebrate her day of birth each year because finally, belatedly, I realize the vast impact she had--and continues to have--upon my life. With each passing year I become more like my mother or, at least, I'm more willing to acknowledge our similarities.

In honor of Mother's birthday I spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen making a huge batch of spaghetti sauce. I couldn't let those freshly harvested tomatoes go to waste. Those words, I'm sure, came from Mother because she spent hours-days-months-years in the kitchen cooking, baking, canning, and preserving food for her beloved husband and children. I, too, relish my time in the kitchen because--just as she did--I enjoy preparing and eating healthy, delicious, love-infused food.

Tonight, in honor of Mother's birthday and Frances's father's birthday on August 21st, we decided we'll drive to Maggie's restaurant in downtown Bayfield and order dessert. We are our mothers' and our fathers' daughters, after all, and coffee (Frances's and my dad's favorite) and fresh-baked goodies (favorites, perhaps, of both of our parents) will provide the perfect setting with which to honor the memories that linger.

Several nights ago, Frances and I watched The Last Station, a movie about Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy. Prior to his death Tolstoy's wife waged a one-woman battle with her husband, his trusted pupil Chertkov, and their children to prevent Tolstoy from donating royalties from his books to the Russian people. She had no choice, she felt, but to challenge her husband's outrageous act of idealism.

Mrs. Tolstoy, as played by Helen Mirren, expressed herself with words and behaviors that reminded me of another outraged woman in my life ... Mother. Though my mother was never nominated for an academy award, her performances were equally dramatic and memorable.

I'm sure Mother thought that my father's idealistic notions were so far removed from reality that she had no choice but to challenge him. Still, it wasn't until I watched Tolstoy's wife struggle for what she believed was right that I began to wonder whether these two very different women could have been motivated by a similar underlying passion and love.

Happy birthday, Mother ... wherever you are.

Arbor Day Year 'Round

2010-08-21T10:35:00.000-05:00

The month of August drips through my fingertips like an endless, steady rain. Now, three weeks into the month I'm aware that my tales of life in the woods are rushing down the ridges and ravines along with the flow of water. It's time to stanch the flow and tell a story, maybe two....

In mid-August I attended the 25th annual T'ai Chi Chih Teachers' Conference in Nebraska City, Nebraska. The conference was held at Lied Lodge & Conference Center, just a brief walk through the woods to Arbor Day Farm. My travel companions and I arrived a day early in order to explore Arbor Day Farm. It was a marvelous adventure.

I won't lie: my trip to Nebraska overflowed with information, stimulation, and excitation (there was an excess of food, conversation, TCC refinements, and continual energy flow). But our half-day exploration of Arbor Day Farm was a highlight of the trip. For here, in the middle of a hot, muggy day, I found a spot that reminded me of my home in the North Woods of Wisconsin. At Arbor Day Farm trees are a vital part of the landscape and economy. Tourists and visitors travel to this destination to learn more about the key role trees play as they preserve our atmosphere, our natural world, and our daily lives.

Lied Lodge is intimately tied to the mission and principles of Arbor Day Farm. When guests enter the Lodge reception area, they are greeted with a large banner that recites in 12 different languages: Plant trees. Trees are, in fact, an integral part of the architecture and design of this lodge. Tree trunks are planted in guest rooms and hallways; their presence brings the hotel to life and infuses it with an energy that sets it apart from more traditional lodgings.

The walls in the lodge entryway are inscribed with quotes and sayings about trees that travel along the ceiling and down the hallway. These quotes sing the praises of trees and acknowledge the vital role they play in the health and sustainability of our natural world.

Arbor Day Farm continued this theme in a kid-friendly, playful, educational, and instructional way. We climbed a five-story treehouse that placed us high in the canopy of trees and gave us a beyond-human view of our surroundings. This treehouse also contained a pavilion filled with kids' projects that explored the bounty and beauty of nature: a segment of bee hive, skeletons from woodland creatures, and much more.

We walked the woodland trails and joined in explorations that lined the paths: identifying animal prints, ID'ing smells, learning how to recognize a variety of trees, and playing a wooden xylophone in the kids' area. When we returned to our starting point, we enjoyed a fabulous film, "Trees in the Movies," that included visual excerpts from major motion pictures such as Shawshank Redemption, Lord of the Rings and Forest Gump, in which trees played a starring role. Another conference participant told us later that the movie, Avatar, would have greatly expanded this forest feast.

Before leaving Arbor Day Farm we stopped at the greenhouse to pick up our free Colorado Blue Spruce to plant in our own yards. What better way to share the message of Arbor Day Farm than through a tiny seedling that, as it grows, offers shade and oxygen, life, and beauty to our own small piece of the planet?

For the Love of ... Silence

2010-07-31T22:37:00.003-05:00

I wrote the following essay in April 2010 for inclusion in the book, Love Stories of the Bay. Local artist and graphic designer, Ros Nelson, conceptualized this project back in 1994; the book quickly coalesced after Ros invited local residents to join her in this 2010 collaboration.

Over 40 authors contributed to this collection that covers the gamut of life here on the Bayfield Pennisula in Lake Superior: discoveries made during walks in the woods, a 1,700 mile canoe adventure, butterflies, a great blue heron, a first love, a full-moon boat ride, and much, much more.

A portion of the proceeds from Love Stories benefits the Bayfield Regional Conservancy (http://www.brcland.org/), a not-for-profit regional land trust serving Ashland, Bayfield, Douglas, and Sawyer Counties in northwest Wisconsin. Please visit http://www.blurb.com/ to order your copy and to help us preserve the beauty and the spirit of this lovely bit of heaven on earth....

November 2002. From the moment we unloaded our possessions after hauling them up our quarter-mile driveway into deep woods in the Town of Russell near Little Sand Bay National Lakeshore, my partner and I knew that we would call this place home.

While we settled into our house we embraced the silence of our oak-maple-poplar-birch-cedar-hemlock property. After too many years of city living it soothed and comforted us. Aware of our magical surroundings we declined to hook up a television set and gratefully snuggled into the quiet. Soon, however, we grew irritated with the subtle white noise of our modern-day household: hot water heater, propane furnace, wood stove fan, ceiling fan, and refrigerator motor all sounded louder and more distracting than we’d ever realized.

Eventually our hours, days, and weeks quieted. The temperatures dipped below freezing, daylight disappeared, snow blanketed the landscape, and most living creatures—ourselves included—were invited into hibernation, quiet sleep, and peace.

In the midst of this silence I found space for thoughts and feelings, conversations, long hours of reading, for writing and contemplation -- for me. I didn’t take this gift for granted since virtually everyone I knew rush-rush-rushed through their lives at a hectic pace. No time for family. No time for meals together. No time for sleep. No time to breathe.

I continue to live wrapped in the protective cocoon of these woodlands because, true to my introverted nature, I enjoy the quiet, the changing weather patterns, the hidden sprouts that pop through leaf-covered earth in spring, the brilliant hugeness of green that surrounds me during summer, the peaceful drift of color that floats onto my front step as trees shed their leaves in fall, and the pure winter whiteness that drapes itself over house, trees, and driveway during long stretches of winter. Not only do I enjoy the beauty and quiet of nature, I thrive on it.

In this silence I’ve become better acquainted with the neighbors who inhabit this forest with me. I hear the leaf-crunch footsteps of deer as they graze their way close to the south deck of my house. I recognize the thud of a bird hurtling itself unwittingly into one of our glass windows and I rush to comfort it.

One spring before trees were fully leafed out my partner’s and my work-at-home day sparkled with excitement as we watched a wolf and then a black bear saunter along a path that circled our house. Later, during an afternoon break from my computer work, I walked outside and gazed up to view an eagle gliding overhead.

A common spring sound, the putt-putt-putt of male ruffed grouse flapping their wings in courtship, reminds me of my farm girl beginnings; the sound is reminiscent of a tractor starting. If it weren’t for the prevailing silence, I likely wouldn’t notice these sounds that quietly arise from my wooded yard morning ‘til night.

I feel pleased and honored to observe the lives of my nonhuman neighbors. During daily walks my partner and I search a nearby dirt road for tracks left behind the previous evening or during an early morning outing by a variety of winged and four-footed creatures that use this road as their pathway too.

Several years ago we glimpsed an ermine, still dressed in winter white, racing along a downed tree trunk. During a recent spring walk we spied a porcupine at the top of a tree near the marsh chewing its way through a branch it had snapped off.

In late spring 2009 we encountered painted turtles crouched along the dirt roadway near a small stream and wetlands. They laid their eggs next to the road, covered them, and retreated. We never saw the babies that emerged from these eggs but in some small way we felt like doulas urging these mothers on as they birthed a future generation.

Of course, these silent ventures into nature inspire an even greater appreciation for this beautiful natural world that surrounds me. Each spring I welcome the return of ruby-throated hummingbirds. Their miniature bodies and territorial battles provide hours of entertainment as my partner and I eat our breakfast on the deck beneath them and watch and listen as they race, swoop, and buzz around us. Spring also heralds the return of our beloved Eastern phoebes. We’ve come to know them intimately because of the nest they build over our kitchen window where they hatch two broods each summer.

Even though my partner and I pay the monthly mortgage we feel as if this 25-acre plot of earth, sky, and trees here on the Bayfield Peninsula has been gifted to us. Could it be that some special grace placed us here so that we may live each day drenched in peace and silence while we listen to the wind rush through trees, hear the howls of coyotes at dusk, and wake to a precious chorus of birdsong each morning?

Author Deng Ming-Dao captures the essence of silence—and my experience with it here in my woodland home—with these words from his book, 365 Tao, entry 261:

Seek silence.
Gladden in silence.
Adore silence….

Once you find deep solitude and calm, there will be a great gladness in your heart. Here finally is the place where you need neither defense nor offense—the place where you can truly be open. There will be bliss, wonder, the awe of attaining something pure and sacred.

Hmm. Yes. Shhh.

What I Learned from My Goose ...

2010-07-09T21:31:00.001-05:00

Two weeks ago our goose, Lucy, was forceably taken from us. She and her companion, Ander, were swimming in a small pond near the house when a fox (we think) grabbed her, wrestled her to the ground, and began to drag her deep into the forest.

Luckily, I heard Ander's cry of alarm, saw him run hurriedly past the house, and immediately knew that something serious had happened to Lucy. I raced out of the house, ran to the edge of the pond, and glimpsed a portion of Lucy's body as she struggled with her captor in the tall grasses, weeds, and ferns. Instantly I began to clap my hands and yell Lucy's name. As she disappeared I continued into the forest, yelling and clapping as I ran.

Finally, Frances, who had been upstairs, dashed out of the house and joined me in the pursuit. By this point I was frantic. I felt shock and disbelief that this sweet, lovely goose friend who I'd known and lived with for 15 years was headed toward an untimely and painful end. Soon she would be dinner for a creature of the wild. Yet somehow my noise and activism did make a difference.

Frances followed Lucy's trail of feathers into the undergrowth and eventually found Lucy about 50 feet away from the pond, sitting quietly, bleeding, and struggling to breathe. After Frances carried her back to the house we began the difficult job of locating an emergency vet on a Sunday afternoon. After numerous calls we succeeded.

Frances held Lucy on her lap as I drove. After our arrival the vet quickly evaluated Lucy's wounds and suggested that we immediately start injectable antibiotics, anti-inflammatories/pain meds, and fluids under the skin. She also gave Lucy a steroid to help her deal with shock from the episode. Lucy had two major puncture wounds: one under her wing on the left side of her body and the other in her neck had pierced the larnyx. It was unclear whether Lucy would be able to swallow but it seemed that it was worth a try.

For the next week Frances and I served as primary caregivers for Lucy the Goose. We moved her into our porch and slept with her at the foot of our bed. I gave her Reiki energy work to speed her healing process and Frances was the head nurse who bravely injected the drugs and held open the beak as we delivered food and medicines. We started by injecting medications twice daily, then began to syringe baby food and blended vegetables down Lucy's throat. Eventually we gave Lucy oral meds by syringe. Throughout it all Lucy was gentle, uncomplaining, and immensely patient.

As Lucy began to show improvements and gain energy she started to participate more actively in her own self-care. After a follow-up trip to the vet we stopped at Lake Superior hoping to entice her into the lake in order for her to wet her wings and remove the blood that remainded on her body. The lake was too rough and the waves too forceful but the next day Frances constructed a homemade wading pool for Ander and Lucy. After their swim both geese groomed for hours and, as a result, no blood remained.

By Day Four Lucy tried to eat a bit of romaine lettuce. On Day Five she nibbled a bit of cracked corn. When she ate the corn, she honked out a loud, disturbing sound that seemed to indicate that something was stuck in her throat. But she persisted. The next day the honk was less frequent. The day after that there was no sound at all.

Through it all Ander was a patient and supportive partner. It seemed that just by spending time together his actions inspired Lucy to join in eating and grooming activities that she may have shunned if alone. Ander stopped eating much food himself after Lucy's capture and it wasn't until Lucy's appetite and eating increased that Ander's did as well.

Lucy gently groomed her puncture wounds and, after carefully fluffing and arranging her feathers, held her wings slightly puffed out away from her body in order to allow air to circulate into the area of the wound in order to aid in healing. She slept and rested frequently and gradually increased her intake of both food and water.

Today when you look at Ander and Lucy you would have no clue as to the dramatic life and death struggle that occurred a mere two weeks ago. And so it goes....

This is what I need to remember when I have my own major health episode in the days? years? to come: 1) trust others to help with the healing process; 2) be patient with the sometimes aggressive strategies that may be useful as a first step to recovered health; 3) rely on my partner and friends to inspire/encourage/model behaviors that are healthy and healing for me; and 4) prioritize my own needs for rest and my abilities to offer myself nurturing and self-care.

For, as Lucy reminded me, though medicines and health care providers may be key ingredients in my recovery, I am my own healer.

Bite by Byte

2010-06-26T17:46:00.000-05:00

Hmmm. I just reread the past four or five entries in Under the Forest Canopy to revisit topics I've addressed over the past several months. I'm surprised--and self-conscious--to discover the length of these entries.

Why? I ask myself. In this era of email, texting, and instant messaging why do I devote hours to my blogging when many people are perfectly happy to pound out a quick entry or text message and then move on with their lives? Why write out full, complete sentences when others are content to employ abbreviations and shorthand?

Since I don't own a Blackberry, cell phone, or other electronic device I'm not privy to the communication style of the day. R u? :-) The previous letters and symbol constitute the extent of my knowledge and understanding of texting terminology. And, I have to admit, it took me months to translate :-) or the more commonly used :) (Did I guess correctly? Are these a sideways version of the old smiley face from my youth?)

I'm beginning to wonder: Is the current mainstream culture too far removed from that of my childhood? Am I growing too old and cynical? Have I joined the generation that clings to the habits and behaviors of the past instead of encouraging myself to expand and grow into the cultural norms of the future?

Perhaps this is who I am: a person who enjoys taking time to think things through, who reads often and extensively, and who plumbs the depths of my thoughts, feelings, and spiritual aspirations. Perhaps it's okay to write long dissertations on the importance of sparks, freedom and exploration, or the need for a deep, abiding connection to the Earth.

Perhaps my blog offers me the opportunity to think and feel things deeply when the world around me ratchets up its speed to an inhuman and inhumane pace. Perhaps no one actually reads this blogging journey. And perhaps it doesn't matter because--just perhaps--this writing is for an audience of one: me.

I had two good, long, in-depth conversations with friends today via phone. Consequently I know there are others in the world who are interested in delving into the depths of the soul. Unfortunately the pace of the world is accelerating so rapidly that it's hard to imagine that many people have space in their lives for anything other than a wild rush to work, appointments, family gatherings, exercise classes, and even, vacations.

Since moving here Under the Forest Canopy time has become my friend. Without a myriad of friends and activities to distract me I prioritize my life around making sure to allow plenty of time for sleep, good food, exercise, and meditation. My life has distilled itself down into a simple formula made popular by various spiritual gurus: Be Here Now (Ram Dass) and The Power of Now (Eckhart Tolle), for starters. I've lived enough years and lived through enough experiences to realize that what really matters is being happy right now in the present moment.

Of course, in some moments coming soon (I hope!) I'll be happy to indulge myself in eating some Stuffed Grape Leaves (Greek Dolmades) that Frances and I made earlier this afternoon. I'll happily live in the moment, bite by bite....

Lean toward the Light

2010-06-20T21:49:00.001-05:00

Speaking of sparks (see previous blog entry dated June 14, 2010) ... I just encountered another one while looking through a book that Frances checked out yesterday from the Bayfield library.

Roberta, the librarian, suggested Frances bring The Flavor Bible home because she thought Steph would enjoy it. She was right, of course. The subtitle reads: The Essential Guide to Culinary Creativity, Based on the Wisdom of America's Most Imaginative Chefs by Karen Page and Andrew Dornenburg.

The first page of this book contains a wonderful quote by Albert Schweitzer, printed just below a picture of suspended kitchen utensils: tongs, a slotted spoon, a ladle, and another unknown item dangle above these words as if to say, Words may come first but it is the art of cooking good food that deeply satisfies the hunger of the soul. Said Schweitzer:

At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.

Too true! Often these creative sparks flash like lightening bugs all around me. If I'm not looking for them, or if I hesitate to instantly capture them for safekeeping, they inevitably float into the darkness and disappear. I've learned this lesson all too well as I've cast about for writing topics and then allowed life events or fear and uncertainty to paralyze my agile mind and its free flow of words or otherwise tame the burning glow of my writing.

A later quote in The Flavor Bible (p. viii) reads:

When we no longer have good cooking in the world, we will have no literature, nor high and sharp intelligence, nor friendly gatherings, nor social harmony.
--Marie-Antoine Careme, Chef (1784-1833)

As I've known for years, and as Chef Jehane Benoit (1904-1987) concurs, Good cooking is an art, as well as a form of intense pleasure.... (p. viii)

Back to Phyllis Theroux's book, The Journal Keeper, which I mentioned in my previous blog. I found Theroux's account of her life interesting, compelling, and deeply satisfying. This led to my later query as an on-again, off-again journal-keeper: If Theroux can publish a journal that inspires and motivates her readers, why can't I?

Actually, I am already publishing my virtual journal through a daily T'ai Chi Chih (TCC) blog, Rooted in Earth, Suspended from Sky. I originally intended for this blog to be like a circular New Year's Resolution: I'll write a daily blog if I perform a daily T'ai Chi Chih practice, and I'll commit myself to a regular TCC practice if I write about my practice every day. Amazingly, it works.

Both my T'ai Chi Chih practice and my writing energize and inspire me. Yet I soon discovered that these interlocking commitments accomplish something more: they provide me with a public obligation and commitment that I cannot ignore, I'm encouraged to read inspirational, thought-provoking writing in order to stimulate deeper thoughts and realizations about my practice, and--most days--I look forward to both my TCC practice and my writing!

Theroux's book has been enormously inspiring to me and part of that inspiration is due to the fact that she reveals a writing process and thought process that is similar to my own. In her final chapter she outlines her guidelines for how to keep a journal (pp. 274-75):

.... I am not a fan of those who urge you to dump whatever comes to mind upon the page. No, no, no. Your journal should be a wise friend who helps you create your own enlightenment. Choose what you think has some merit or lasting value, so that when you reread your journal in years to come it continues to nourish you.

Some days I can think of nothing worth writing down. Fortunately, I am not alone. By my chair, I keep a small, revolving collection of essays, spiritual autobiographies, poetry, and other writers' journals to inspire me. When I'm out of fuel, they pull me out of the creek and into a broader, deeper river.... if you want your journal to have any lasting value, for yourself or others, I can only think of one rule to follow: Lean toward the light.

I'm leaning, Phyllis, I'm leaning....

I'm Just Walkin'...

2010-06-14T18:34:00.003-05:00

Oh, life is an amazing journey! And I’m encouraged to discover that often all it takes is a good book, film, or personal story to spark my excitement and sense of adventure. There’s no doubt that one person’s travelogue can be the take-off point for another person’s leap of faith. And me? I’d happily slip into the shoes of either of those people.

I started a new book several days ago—The Journal Keeper, A Memoir, by Phyllis Theroux—and by page 21 I was at the computer with fingers to the keyboard. This book follows Theroux through six years of her life, 2000-2005. I knew that I’d be intrigued and interested in her story because it’s the story of a writer and details how she frames her life in the context of her thoughts, experiences, words, and inner wisdom.

After I read the following paragraph I closed Theroux's book and scurried into my office:

We are driven to deliver the truth inside us, no matter what we do to avoid or bury it. How to deliver it is the challenge. It is not just about using our reason although, like a diving board, we must use it to its limit, running to its very end. But then we must leap—like a spark—into the air. It is that spark that illuminates the understanding, makes the heat and the difference. (p. 20)

How could I resist Theroux’s argument and invitation to dive into my own writing, my own story, my own truth?

Today I read an article about Matt Green, a 30-year-old who is walking across the United States from Rockaway Beach, NY to Rockaway Beach, OR. Green quit his job as a civil engineer in NYC and set off across the United States in March with no agenda, no goal (other than to reach the west coast), and one overwhelming desire: to experience the landscape and people along his path with openness and appreciation.

Many curious onlookers have asked Green why? Is he raising money for a favorite cause? Does he hope to win a race or set a new record for the fastest crossing of the U.S. by foot? Either of those reasons they could understand. But Matt’s desires are simpler, less driven by the pursuit of tangible goals and more focused on an inner desire to experience life at its truest, most basic level.

Similar to William Least Heat Moon’s written record of his travels in his book, Blue Highways or John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley, Green is recording his life through the photographs he snaps during his daily adventures on the road. Interestingly, Green provides two reasons for this undertaking on his website, one short, the other long. His long explanation includes a quote from John Steinbeck’s book, Cannery Row, in which Steinbeck describes a character who loses a love and then sets off on a long walking journey across a number of states. When onlookers ask this lonely traveler why he’s walking he truthfully responds that he wanted to:

… see the country, smell the ground and look at grass and birds and trees, to savor the country, and there was no other way to do it save on foot. And people didn’t like him for telling the truth. They scowled, or shook and tapped their heads, they laughed as though they knew it was a lie and they appreciated a liar. And some, afraid for their daughters or their pigs, told him to move on, to get going, just not to stop near their place if he knew what was good for him.

And so he stopped trying to tell the truth. He said he was doing it on a bet—that he stood to win a hundred dollars. Everyone liked him then and believed him.

Green doesn’t require a reason for undertaking his cross-country walking tour, his motivation is a desire to experience life as it unfolds by watching the landscape as it flows around him at three miles per hour, footstep-by-footstep. Each evening Green stops at a farmhouse along his path and asks if he can pitch his tent in the homeowners’ yard. This request elevates his experience even more because, by relying on the goodness and generosity of others, Green creates community, builds understanding, and links the united states together in one long chain of communication and connection.

Though acquaintances have expressed their trepidation about Green putting himself at risk by traveling solo across our broad, diverse nation, he’s not willing to let their doubts and fears stop him. "Playing it safe isn't really that safe," Green concludes. "If you do that, you miss out on a lot of the great things life has to offer.” By quitting his job and leaving friends and relatives behind Green is learning how it feels to be truly free.

For a newspaper article and film clip detailing Green's travels, visit: www.dailygood.org/more.php?n=4137 Better yet, visit Matt's website to view his photographs and track his progress: http://www.imjustwalkin.com/

Deeply Rooted ... Again

2010-05-07T13:10:00.001-05:00

So much for Cinco de Mayo. It's Siete de Mayo and right now, at this very moment, a combination of rain and snow are falling upon our roof and into our yard. It makes sense, then, that today I revisit a post I made on December 20 of 2009. In "The Link between Humanity and the Earth" I wrote about several books I was reading at the time, one of which, Deeply Rooted: Unconventional Farmers in the Age of Agribusiness, I quoted.

I mentioned that I would likely carry that book along with me to Baltimore while I visited my sister over Christmas. I didn't. There were just too many items to haul on my back and tote in my hands. I opted for thin, lightweight magazines as carry-ons instead.

I didn't finish reading Deeply Rooted until early March. It wasn't that I didn't like it but, rather, that it touched me deeply and I needed time to soak in the words, thoughts, and feelings of these farmers that Lisa Hamilton profiled. I keep a journal in which I record my thoughts and impressions about books I've read. Here's what I wrote about Hamilton's book:

     What a wonderful, encouraging, inspirational, educational, salutational read! Hamilton excels in telling the stories and highlighting the trials and triumphs of three very different farmers from three very different parts of the US: African-American Harry Lewis, a dairyman in Texas; Virgil Trujillo, a tenth-generation rancher in New Mexico; and the Podolls, two white brothers in North Dakota who are breeding new varieties of plants.
     I loved this book! though it took stamina to read. Truly, it is the story of my father and my father's father. It is the tale of farm families who are so rooted to the Earth, so spiritually sustained by the land that grew them, that they continue to search for ways to stay on that land and outlast--or outwit--the culture of corporate farms that seeks to plow them under.
     Hamilton is an excellent writer. She skillfully weaves together these diverse--yet similar--people of the Earth who speak up for a cause greater than money and no less vital than the survival of our Earth, her resources, and the survival of humanity.

I felt such gratitude that Lisa Hamilton was willing to take on such an enormous task that I sent her an email of thanks. I visited her website, http://www.lisamhamilton.com/, and wrote, in part:

Thank you for being a voice for the people in the world who go about their work quietly as they raise our food and tend to the land. Thank you for reminding us that there are still farmers who do their jobs with a strong--dare I say, spiritual--awareness of the Earth that nourishes them (and all of us).
Thank YOU for the work you do in the world, too, for without your words and pictures, your hours of listening and learning, following and questioning, and coming to know the ethics and values of these brave souls, agribusiness and the media might thoroughly convince us that there are no other options left in the world of farming....

I was startled, and yes, surprised to receive an email in response from Lisa Hamilton some five weeks later which made me feel glad that I had taken the time and made the effort to convey my thanks. She concluded her email with these words:

I must also tell you that your timing was wonderful--uncanny, even. I received this during a period of muddy thinking, when I had become unclear or unsure of what I was writing about and why. Your words helped remind me that I already knew the answer--I already knew what really mattered to me--I just had to believe in it. So thank you for that!

I've read hundreds and hundreds of books over the years and enjoyed and cherished many of them. This was the first time I actually followed through and wrote an author. Lisa's response reminded me that we can all use a good word now and then as we offer our work to the world. I'm happy that my words made a difference to someone whose words made a difference to me! How's that for a "what goes around comes around" moment?

Mea Culpa

2010-05-06T21:41:00.002-05:00

This blog entry has been a long time coming. Yes, my daily T'ai Chi Chih practice and blog have continued unabated but this blog--my initial courageous entry into the world of blogging--has suffered the consequences of my other writing obligations (even when I said I hoped/expected/anticipated that it wouldn't).

I think of Under the Forest Canopy often (in fact, every time I enter blogger.com to post my entry to "Rooted in Earth, Suspended from Sky"). Unfortunately, thoughts don't necessarily mesh with actions and, thus, I'm in the particular spot that I'm in ... acknowledging my lapse in entries here and now, hereunto, and herewith.

Much has happened in the almost-two months of absence from these posts. First and foremost among them, I was diagnosed with heart disease in late March and am currently spending much of my available time focusing on my health first and foremost. In addition to my regular daily T'ai Chi Chih moving meditation practice I now walk daily for one-half to one hour.

I've also extensively modified my diet due to high cholesterol counts and now eat mainly vegetarian foods (i.e., beans and rice) with occasional ventures into chicken and fish territory. As one of my long-time friends who has lived most of his life as a vegetarian counseled me: "Steph, become one with your bowl of rice." (Thanks, Doug.) I'm also trying a variety of new supplements to help regulate cholesterol levels as I am highly adverse to taking pharmaceuticals.

I recently wrote an article entitled "For the Love of ... Silence" that is scheduled to appear in a new book due out near the end of May as a fundraiser for the Bayfield Regional Conservancy. Its tentative title is "Love Stories of the Bay" and it should be available through blurb.com in short order.

Per the editor/coordinator of this effort, Ros Nelson, there are 40 authors and 115 pages of stories that range from love stories about people, Lake Superior, animals, a sense of place, the loss of love, children, friends, and more. I'm anxious to hold this precious little gem in my hands as Frances took the photo that accompanies my story and I know there are many talented writers and artists in this area who likely took part in this wonderful venture....

So, yes, I'm back ... in the saddle, at the wheel, on the keyboard, and here, under the forest canopy. It's spring and, sure enough, May is bustin' out all over. Birds are returning to our woodland yard, bear are bending over our bird feeder post and vacuuming the sunflower seeds from the ground lying beneath the feeder, the Eastern phoebes have changed the location of their nest from over our kitchen window to the south side of our house over the patio door, and yes ... my friends the ruby-throated hummingbirds should be appearing soon, perhaps even as early as this weekend just in time for Mother's Day.

It is a wonderful time of year because each and every day offers something new: a new bud or blossom, a different migrating bird returning to the feeder, tiny footprints in the dirt, or a vibrant shade of green bursting into view. Spring ... what a blessing to be born anew each and every year.

Art's Almanac

2010-03-13T19:24:00.000-06:00

I admit: When I coulda' shoulda' woulda' been writing my own blog under the forest canopy, I was reading someone else's. That person also lives in Bayfield and writes daily entries at http://artsbayfieldalmanac.blogspot.com/. His most-recent entry appeared March 1 and he admitted then that he didn't know whether there would be additional entries until he and his wife, who are visiting family and warmer climes, return to Bayfield near the end of March.

The Art in question is Art Ode, a 73-year-old semi-retired botanical garden and arboretum manager. He now lives in Bayfield, is a volunteer forester for the City, served on the Chamber of Commerce Board of Directors, and helped orchestrate the planting of innumerable daffodils (I'm sure he could tell you the exact number!) for the annual Bayfield in Bloom celebration from mid-May to mid-June.

Art evidentally started his initial blog as a link to the Chamber website. It gave out-of-towners an insiders' view of the local goings-on and included a daily report of the weather as read from various gauges and experienced during his morning dog walks. He also detailed the condition of the lake (as viewed from his home, I guess) and included information from various town events and outings as well as wonderful photos and stories about the condition of regional flora and fauna. Though simple--since life up here is relatively simple--it's brimming with descriptions of daily life in this lakeshore community.

From what I gathered reading through months of entries Art's blog ceased abruptly after his entry (entries?) were edited without any consultation with Art, the blog's author. Perhaps he took offense. I imagine I would have. Our words are, after all, an expression of who we are and what we believe. Art's Bayfield Almanac was birthed around the beginning of this year and, as I realized from reading it, blogs express the unique character of the person who spends time day-after-day before a keyboard laboring over them.... That personality and character doesn't always mesh with or represent our own which is why, in my opinion, it is all the more precious.

It's clear that Art and I have different political views and ideologies. But one thing we do share is a love of the land and its beauty and bounty. The South Shore of Lake Superior is a special place and Art succeeds in capturing its beauty through his words and photos and his willingness to venture into and onto the woods and waters that surround him.

Here are a few tidbits I gleaned from Art's blog: the fog that I described hovering over the lake in my February 21, 2010 entry "Smoke on the Water" from my Rooted in Earth, Suspended from Sky blog is known as "lake smoke." He wrote that this is caused by moisture rising into the frigid atmosphere from warmer water; it later returns to us as lake effect snow.

Since I don't read the local newspapers I also discovered via Art's blog that Ashland, WI now has a Border Patrol office. It's a bit bizarre since this Great Lake Superior provides a tremendously wild, wet, and dangerous buffer between our area and the nearest foreign country, Canada. But now, at least, I can consider myself an informed citizen.

Art describes several curmudgeons who inhabit the area and expresses delight in the fact that they have no fear of being themselves and, as a result, the City of Bayfield and the entire area are all the better for it. I have a feeling that Art would be proud to include himself among their number and I'd venture a guess that he's well on his way to joining their ranks. Take a gander at http://artsbayfieldalmanac.blogspot.com/. I highly recommend it.

Smoke on the Water and Fire in the Sky

2010-02-21T08:12:00.000-06:00

I watch a double sunrise this morning. First, a pink ball of light rises over the horizon and ascends into a narrow strand of clouds and then a circle of shining white light emerges from the clouds that hover just above the edges of the Earth.

After the initial pink sunrise a stream of light lays itself down across Lake Superior's water and ice (it looks as though there may be both from my view out the living room window) and gleams straight toward me. I'm reminded of Frances's and my trip to Central America last winter when we watched sun risings over a warm water Caribbean Sea.

I continue to move through TCC practice as the sun rises ... a pure white circle of light with a rose pink aura around it. Near the end of practice I glimpse the lake again. This time there is no ice, no water. It looks like a thick fog or smoke covers its surface; clouds in the sky, clouds in the water. (Did the heat of the sun meeting the coolness of the lake's surface cause this reaction?) It reminds me of Deep Purple's song released in 1972 (am I dating myself?), Smoke on the Water.

My movements are less carefree today, more stiff and crinkled. But it feels good to emerge from sleep into wakefulness with the sun brightening the way....

I'm watching my t'an t'ien more these days ... literally. Since I tell my students to lead with their t'an t'ien and Sr. Antonia reiterated this command over and over again at the TCC retreat, I'm noticing how t'an t'ien leads me forward and back, up and down.

Justin Stone teaches that you can tell how relaxed a TCC practitioner is in their practice by how relaxed they are in their wrists and waist. I'm struck by how much waist/t'an t'ien motion there is even in the simplest of movements, Bird Flaps its Wings, for example.

How does your t'an t'ien move? How much does your t'an t'ien move? Watch it ... and be surprised.

Ahh, the Great Big (Scary) Outdoors....

2010-02-20T17:14:00.004-06:00

Bright unadulterated sunshine suffused our woodland home this week. Neither Frances and I, nor Chiripa and Namaste could stay hidden away indoors. We went out walking every day, first to the mailbox with the dog leading and the cat huddling tentatively in Frances's arms. After we retrieved the mail and turned back up the driveway Frances lightly dropped little three-month-old Chiripa to the ground and then ... they were off.

The cat and dog raced furiously up the drive. Namaste, excited to have a tiny companion that could almost keep up with him, sped forward with a smile on his face. Chiripa--butt bouncing up and down--raced the dog more from fear and uncertainty than because she wanted to participate in the thrill of a chase. Namaste circled back when it was clear that he had the lead and the cat hovered near us, unsure and insecure. Where was she anyway?

After we reached the house and returned Chiripa to her safe spot on the porch and Namaste to the house's inner sanctums Frances and I retrieved our snowshoes for a walk through the woods. Finally, abandoned several days in a row, Namaste refused to re-enter the house and insisted that he be included in our snowshoe adventure. He took the lead along our well-tromped path past the goose barn and into the woods.

The first day Namaste followed his nose--and probably his good sense--and led us along the shortest route, a nice circle into the woods to a nearby clearing and then back to the driveway and our house. The next day he began from the same starting point but decided to take a left when the path forked. That day we ventured further into the woods until Namaste indicated that it was time to backtrack. Did the smell of coyotes or other creatures convince him that his decision was the wisest choice?

The following day we snowshoed even further into the woods with Namaste dashing far ahead until--again--he suddenly and unaccountably decided that it was time to reverse direction. Each day when we returned to the house, Chiripa waited patiently for us in the porch or, occasionally, zipped back out the door to join us in the driveway for a brief round of exploration.

Though the great outdoors is a fascinating and marvelous place for a sweet young thing it is also fraught with danger. Frances carries Chiripa outside almost daily now as she invites the kitten to experience, and become familiar with, the abundant sights, sounds, and smells that emanate from the woods. Chiripa isn't buying Frances's on-the-shoulder sales job. Often she heads straight for the underside of one of our cars where she waits and watches in semi-safety.

Each day, though, Chiripa quakes a little less, looks a little farther, and explores a little more. Ahh, the exciting life and daily learnings of a three-month old (according to Hill's Guide for Lifelong Health, in kitten years that's equivalent to a nine year old human). Frances and I find ourselves repeating a common refrain: Oh, she's growing up so fast....

Que Sera, Sera ...

2010-02-14T15:20:00.003-06:00

Today contains two holidays rolled into one: Valentine's Day and the Chinese New Year (Year of the Tiger). Still, I began my day thinking about Mother. National Public Radio aired an interview on Weekend Edition Sunday with screenwriter and director, Doug McGrath, who recently wrote a New York Times article about Doris Day. Of course, Day’s name brought Mother to mind.

I certainly remember watching Doris Day movies back in the ‘60s. Surprisingly, when I looked Day up on the internet I found that she starred in 39 films, performed 650 songs, received one Academy Award nomination, received Golden Globe and Grammy awards and, as of 2009, was the top-ranking female box office star of all time (Wikipedia).

Today, for the first time in my life, I realized that Mother and Dad likely exerted equal influence over me when it came to my love of music, dance, literature, films, and art. Until now, though, I’d attributed my love of the arts to Dad. Dad read us stories, played classical music on the record player on Sunday afternoons, and read plenty of books himself.

But it was Mom who talked to me about movies and popular film stars; Mom who sang me snippets from some of her best-loved songs; Mom who picked me up from choir, duet, trio, small group, and orchestra practices; and Mom who signed me up for dance classes and who drove me to those lessons week after week for seven uninterrupted years. Mother couldn't hide how deeply moved she was by song lyrics and movie storylines ... nor did she try.

When I asked Mother some question about the future, she’d look at me and sing one of Doris Day’s most well-loved songs:

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, ‘What will I be?
Will I be pretty, will I be rich?’
Here’s what she said to me

‘Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours to see
Que sera, sera
What will be, will be.’

It wasn’t what I wanted to hear from Mother but now, years later it’s what I remember. (I wonder whether she asked her own mother questions about an unknown future too.)

The fact that Mother sang her answer to me was a great un- and underappreciated gift. Today I sing these same lines over and over to myself as I hold memories of Mother in my mind. The combined wisdom and showmanship of songwriter, Ray Evans; singer, Doris Day; and one of my first unheralded teachers and philosophers--Mother--still sings true: Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be.

Going Deeper ... into T'ai Chi Chih Practice

2010-02-05T09:43:00.002-06:00

I attended a T’ai Chi Chih Practice and Retreat at the Benedictine Center in St. Paul, Sewing the Seeds of T’ai Chi Chih: *Compassion *Loving Kindness *Grounding *Letting Go, with Sr. Antonia, TCC guide, on January 28-31, 2010. It was--in a word--fabulous!

I traveled to the Twin Cities to refine my movements, to meet Sr. Antonia, to deepen my practice, and to learn how to follow t’an t’ien (my center) more completely as it leads me through my movements (and my life). Thankfully I’ve begun to accomplish these goals and much more….

Sr. Antonia, Justin Stone’s appointed guide, is a lovely addition to the T’ai Chi Chih community. It’s obvious that she lives what she teaches; participants experienced first-hand the ways in which the depth of Sr. Antonia’s own practice (along with her prayer life, scriptural healing, Dances of Universal Peace, and other practices) allows her to maintain a loving, accepting, compassionate, and playful presence with those she meets.

I emerged from the middle of the woods to travel to the big city for this event and, I admit, I was overwhelmed and over-stimulated by the abundance of activities and the numbers of new people I met. By Friday night my head throbbed ... I was exhausted. The next day I asked fellow teachers and students for aspirin and received much more; Ibuprofin and a qigong healing session yielded immediate benefits.

Due to my headache and tiredness I’d missed Sr. Antonia’s Chinese brush painting session Friday night. When I mentioned my absence the next day, Sister volunteered to teach me one-on-one after lunch.

Chinese brush painting is similar to t’ai chi chih and, I imagine, the reverse is true also. Both practices require practitioners to soften and let go. I focused on relaxing and breathing deeply as I moved the brush along the paper and … it helped! I completed enough bamboo paintings to attend Saturday night’s session and make two of my paintings into cards and one painting into a framed piece of art! That’s a huge accomplishment for me as my artistic abilities are severely limited when it comes to brush and paint, pencil and paper, clay, or other art mediums.

There was much to embrace and experience; finding a new friend in my roommate, rediscovering an old student, reconnecting with other teachers, meeting new students filled with energy and excitement about this wonderful t’ai chi chih practice that we share, watching an incredible movie—twice!—that included an excerpt with Sr. Antonia (On the Road Home: A Spiritual Journey Guided by Remarkable Women), eating healthy food, engaging in wonderful conversations, revisiting old memories….

Another teacher and I—both accredited in October 1996—recounted our final presentations during our 1996 teacher training. These presentations are a personal mix of movement and words that complete the final requirements of the accreditation process. The night before my presentation one of Frances’s and my goats died. I was devastated. When I stepped in front of the group and began to talk about t’ai chi chih, I started to cry.

Afterward our teacher/trainer congratulated me on how well I’d done. It was a perfect demonstration of the power of t’ai chi chih practice, he said, because once I started to move it was obvious how quickly and easily the form brought me back to my center.

The other teacher recalled his own final presentation. His preparation—and the 3x5 index cards he held—helped him begin but, suddenly and unexpectedly, he froze. Total silence. He simply couldn’t go on. A previously accredited teacher stood up, handed him a glass of water and asked, “Honey, do you want a drink?” After several sips he continued his talk without incident.

One of the highlights of this retreat: our final morning practice of the Healing Sounds. Afterwards we positioned five chairs in the center of our circle and offered each other energy as the remaining 24 of us practiced the Healing Sounds repeatedly in order to permit every individual to sit in the center of the circle and draw in the energy of the Chi.

What an incredible experience! Near the end of my “sit” time I felt myself sinking, sinking, sinking. My breath flowed out of my body until I had no desire left to inhale. Then I sensed a cord extending down from my tailbone and into the Earth. It felt as if my fellow practitioners were helping me root more deeply. Subsequently no pain remained in my body; I was clear, calm, at peace.

I feel tremendous gratitude to those in the t'ai chi chih teachers' community who keep this practice alive and who invite the rest of us to continually go deeper. As t'ai chi chih's creator, Justin Stone, reminds us:

T'ai Chi Chih becomes a way of life. It is true that the gentle movements of T'ai Chi Chih form a moving meditation and an exercise of great efficiency--exercising the inner organs and promoting healing--but eventually it goes beyond these and permeates the life-style of the practitioner. We do not all see the same world, which is a reflection of ourselves. With the accumulation of Chi (Vital Force) through T'ai Chi Chih practice, permanent changes in the metabolism and the thinking process take place and renewed energy conditions the whole way of life. Just as the thought conditions the Vital Force, so does the flow of this Chi, this Intrinsic Energy, condition the way of thinking. As these changes occur we get in touch with ourselves and the world we see begins to change....

From: Spiritual Odyssey by Justin Stone, p. 23

Mi Chica Chiripa

2010-01-20T22:07:00.005-06:00

She lies on my lap as I write. Asleep. Now she stretches backward … falling from chair towards earth. I catch her one-handed and pull her back onto my lap where she wakes and begins to paw the sky, bite her tail, and then … my arm. Ears flatten onto her head and I lower her to the floor. Enough.

Chiripa, a/k/a Stroke of Good Luck, came into our lives unexpectedly. But, then again, maybe she didn’t. Not really. The week before her appearance on January 5, 2010, I’d talked to my sister and a friend about whether I was ready to add a new cat to the household. Was I finished grieving the death of my previous cat, Hiziki?

The weekend prior to Chiripa’s arrival we experienced a fire in our oven due to hardworking mice that carried dog food across the kitchen from dog bowl to inner stove. (See post-fire extinguisher evidence below.) We needed a mouser!

Also, weirdly, the day before we met Chiripa at the Vet Hospital I checked out a book from the library, Mew is for Murder. I wasn’t sure why I chose it. I scanned it first then walked away. Later I returned and carried the book to the check-out desk.

The mystery featured a woman writer who still mourned the death of her cat companion. At an opportune moment, though, she rescued a young kitten…. The plot seemed vaguely familiar.

During Chiripa’s first few days with us I read the book and resonated with the author’s descriptions of kitten behavior. I observed our own little six-week-old displaying strangely familiar behaviors to those of the kitten in the book. And, just like Theda Krakow and her little charge, Musetta, I could feel myself falling under the spell of Chiripa.

Frances and Chiripa:

This little kitten is unbridled joy. She leaps, dashes, and dances across floors and carpeting and climbs, stretches, and scratches her way up chairs, couch, and bed. In extreme play mode she hurdles herself sideways across the floor; her butt end insists on leading the way.

Chiripa's teeny white body is splashed with dramatically positioned black spots on nose, chin, over each eye, on the top of her head extending into each ear, on the back of her rear legs, on her bottom, and along her entire tail. Long white hairs grow out from the black tail and a tiny white tip—reminiscent of a piece of fuzz—graces the very end.

Do I sound like a new mom? I don’t carry photos in my wallet but I do have a few digital shots handy….

We couldn’t be happier with our new little babe who is—once again—sleeping in my lap as I type at my keyboard…. Sorry, folks, our camera skills are still developing (we don't think the flash is working). We'll try again later.

Give me one wild word* ...

2010-01-20T11:07:00.001-06:00

Have a Little Faith, Mitch Albom
Anger: Wisdom for Cooling the Flames, Thich Nhat Hanh
Finding Beauty in a Broken World, Terry Tempest Williams

Recently I’ve engaged myself in a book free-for-all. I read whenever I can squeeze in a moment, an hour, a day …

I’m reminded of my childhood when—after carrying armloads of books out of the library—I realized that there were so many good books in the world there was absolutely no way I could read them all. A literary variation on the theme: “So many women, so little time….”

Last week I finished Mitch Albom’s Have a Little Faith. Albom’s earlier book, Tuesdays with Morrie, was the bestselling memoir of all time. I loved Morrie. And … I have to say that I loved this book too. Albom is an inspiring writer. He chooses topics—people—that he comes to know in an intimate and endearing way. He then renders his conversations and interactions with these people in words that create lasting, poignant, and powerful pictures.

Faith is the story of Albom’s journey to learn more about the Jewish faith of his boyhood as he comes to understand the faith of two men of God: Albert Lewis and Henry Covington. Lewis, the rabbi of the synagogue Albom attended in his youth, asks Albom to give the eulogy at his funeral. Thus begins an eight year friendship between the two men though, at first, Albom thought that he was merely getting to know his rabbi better in order to write his eulogy.

Albom juxtaposes this friendship with his growing connection with Covington, an African-American pastor in Detroit. Covington formed I am My Brother’s Keeper Ministry following his personal struggles with drug dealing, drug addiction, and, finally, prison.

Initially Albom distrusted Covington’s morals and motivations. As he wrote articles about Covington’s work feeding and housing the homeless and spent more time at Covington’s church, Albom discovered that Covington was as faithful and faith-filled as his own rabbi. Both men were immensely generous and compassionate. Both men built their lives based on trust and faith in a higher power beyond their comprehension.

Miraculously—and perhaps because Albom is also forthcoming about his own struggles with religion and faith—Albom’s book builds a community of readers on their own individual journeys of faith. Albom’s personal faith in the power of good in the world grows as his own heart opens and his preconceptions and misapprehensions fade.

Albom's book shows that faith dwells in all of us regardless of our religion, race, background, or experience. Have a Little Faith is a small book with a large message about the importance of faith, hope, love, and compassion. Albom's profiles of Lewis and Covington—along with Albom’s honest portrayal of his own struggles with faith—teach us about the power of compassion, acceptance, and loving service to others.

I’m currently reading Thich Nhat Hanh’s book, Anger. This Buddhist monk and Vietnamese refugee writes with amazing simplicity about Buddhist principles and practices designed to bring more compassion into our lives. Hanh believes we can all become kinder, gentler, more compassionate people using a few simple tools such as slowing down, breathing, mindfully walking and eating, deep listening, and loving communication.

Hanh’s teachings on how to handle anger are simple and—perhaps for some—simply weird. Still, I find his words comforting and encouraging. We can become kinder, more open human beings if we’re willing to examine some of the most fundamental aspects of our lives: the food we eat, the liquids we drink, the breath we breathe, and the time we take to chew our food and contemplate our inner suffering.

Our anger, Hanh writes, is like our own baby who we must care for with compassion and love. When we become better acquainted with our suffering, we are more able to heal it.

Just begun … Terry Tempest Williams’ book, Finding Beauty in a Broken World. This book is composed of three essay-topics: learning how to create mosaics in Ravenna, Italy; observing prairie dogs on the brink of extinction; and building a war memorial in a small village in Rwanda. Though different in theme and intent, in each essay and the book as a whole, Williams works to create a better, more beautiful world out of the broken pieces she finds.

*From Terry Tempest Williams' introduction to her book, Finding Beauty in a Broken World

Living Simply ... Simply Living

2010-01-09T19:28:00.000-06:00

I thoroughly enjoyed Christmas in Baltimore and my subsequent visit with friends in Minneapolis. It was great fun to visit the National Aquarium, the Minneapolis Institute of Arts (MIA), Whole Foods, Half Price Books, a variety of restaurants, and more. Still, by the time I returned home to the woods I was overwhelmed by the too-muchness of it all....

Now that I've lived in the woods for seven years I've adopted a simpler lifestyle out of necessity and choice. I love that simplicity. Here I live frugally. I find my entertainment and nurturance in the woods and waters that surround me. I visit the library frequently. I spend my money locally when possible.

I discovered--or remembered--when I ventured out from under my forest canopy that cities are typically filled with endless stimulation, unending noise, constant marketing/advertising, and a multitude of opportunities to buy-buy-buy. In Minneapolis, for example, I filled my days with a trip to a movie theater to see Invictus, an afternoon at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts to view their exhibit from the Louvre in Paris, and a breakfast, lunch and dinner with three different friends. In addition I watched TV (my home television is only used to view DVDs and videos) and shopped at a coop, bookstore, and bread store.

By the end of my travels I longed for the peace and quiet of my woodland home. While visiting over this holiday season I often thought about Frances's and my trip to Central America last winter. We spent our Christmas at Cerros Beach Resort in northern Belize just across the border from Mexico. On Christmas Day we traveled with one of our hosts to several local families' homes to deliver toys to their children. Three of the children lived with a chronic, undiagnosed health condition that crippled their bodies and left their parents filled with despair.

Frances and I then celebrated the beginning of 2009 in Placencia, Belize. There we were surrounded by local people who lived simple lives out of necessity. People rode bikes or travelled by bus. Some bikers balanced ladders on their shoulders as they rode. Others carried children or groceries.

My observations from two consecutive years of traveling over the Christmas/New Year holiday?

Our world is desperately out of balance. All of us--Americans first and foremost--must learn to live more sustainably in order to cope with climate change, famines, energy and water shortages, economic downturns, job loss, and more. I'm reminded of a comment about the movie Avatar. The writer said that we must stop blaming corporations for despoiling our natural world. First, this person suggested, we need to look at ourselves and accept responsibility for our own insatiable appetites for more things at cheaper prices.

Duane Elgin led the way toward a simpler life over 30 years ago with his book, Voluntary Simplicity. Today he continues to encourage: Live a life in which you determine what's important and "enough" for you and discard the rest. He challenges us to choose to live "in a way that is outwardly simple and inwardly rich."

There are many resources available for those of us who wish to create balance in our lives. Unfortunately, American advertising is a well-oiled machine ... and an efficient and effective one at that. We often don't realize when we're being directed to spend money on unnecessary items (one example, the circuitous route we followed through the National Aquarium in Baltimore required us to navigate through food areas in order to move from exhibit to exhibit).

Like me, you may have to step back from life as it is to realize the extent to which media outlets bombard you with must-haves and ultimately determine the cultural norms by which you live. To learn how to do more with less go to Elgin's website at http://www.simpleliving.net/ or visit http://www.choosingvoluntarysimplicity.com/. (Thanks to my friend, Doug, for modeling this lifestyle many long years ago.)

Bidding 'Bye to Bawlmer

2009-12-27T07:01:00.001-06:00

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....

Out from Under the Forest Canopy

2009-12-26T08:06:00.000-06:00

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....

The Link between Humanity and the Earth

2009-12-20T11:18:00.001-06:00

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.

Be-ing in a Winter Wonderland

2009-12-14T18:03:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Birth Day ... Start to Finish

2009-12-06T11:19:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cooking, Writing, then Cooking Some More

2009-11-29T17:22:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rooted in Earth, Suspended from Sky

2009-11-28T09:04:00.003-06:00

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

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

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

Check it out!

T'ai Chi Chih Thanksgiving

2009-11-26T11:05:00.003-06:00

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.

Squirreling Around with Santa

2009-11-18T09:21:00.003-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sick Daze

2009-11-13T19:27:00.001-06:00

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.]

It's Golden!

2009-10-24T16:19:00.003-05:00

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.

Living with Diabetes ... in Print and Otherwise

2009-10-12T09:49:00.004-05:00

“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 ...

Apple Cider and ... Cheese & Beer & Snow

2009-10-11T23:48:00.004-05:00

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, Namasté. “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 clichés 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!”

Live-giving. Breathtaking.

2009-10-09T09:36:00.005-05:00

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.

Tumbling Temps and Withering Winds ...

2009-09-29T09:18:00.003-05:00

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.

Reflections on a Life with Google

2009-09-21T08:07:00.004-05:00

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?

In Memory of Hiziki ... and Carlos

2009-09-15T15:18:00.003-05:00

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, Namasté.

Sometimes ... when I watch Namasté 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, Namasté 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 Namasté 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?

Vegetables Galore

2009-09-14T09:35:00.003-05:00

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.

Three Cups of Tea

2009-08-30T12:08:00.004-05:00

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.

The First Twitter

2009-08-26T08:49:00.004-05:00

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!

Tree Hugger? That's me....

2009-08-11T08:07:00.006-05:00

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.)

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

2009-08-02T10:52:00.003-05:00

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?

Bounteous Beauty

2009-07-31T08:30:00.005-05:00

“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.”

Good News Gazette - News at the Speed of Nice!

2009-07-01T09:01:00.002-05:00

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!

Are You an Outlier?

2009-06-30T12:46:00.002-05:00

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?

Father's Day and Summer Solstice Share the Day!

2009-06-21T16:22:00.002-05:00

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!

I'm Still Thinking about Lori

2009-06-19T20:06:00.002-05:00

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.

A Walk with Turtles

2009-06-18T13:49:00.001-05:00

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.

A Journey of Spirit

2009-06-13T21:07:00.007-05:00

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/.

Serenity in the Midst of Activity

2009-06-11T10:43:00.003-05:00

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.

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

2009-06-10T10:06:00.003-05:00

"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.

Enlightenment Guaranteed

2009-06-04T12:33:00.004-05:00

“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.

Just Another Rock in the Road or ... ?

2009-05-31T09:49:00.005-05:00

A rock protrudes from our dirt driveway. We’ve driven around it—avoiding it—for many months. It threatens our tires and the undercarriage of our vehicles. It reminds us of an exceedingly large nose. And, as I discovered over Memorial Day weekend, it’s large, very large. It’s also hard … very, very hard.

Last weekend I confronted the large proboscis. First, I dug and I dug and I dug. Then I hammered, and hammered, and hammered. Yesterday Frances bought a new blacksmith hammer and a mason chisel at the local Ace Hardware. After the first 15 to 20 smacks, she broke the handle off the hammer. Next she tried hammering with the back end of the ax, with some success. Let’s just say the rock doesn’t look much like a nose anymore.

Still, we’re debating a further course of action. Should we continue to chip-chip-chip away at the point of the “nose” until it becomes rounder, less invasive? Should we dig deeper and wider, reach to the rock’s base, upend it, and roll it out of the sand and clay and down the driveway into the ditch? Could we handle such tremendous weight?

Should we use a hose or power washer to flood the surrounding hole with water in hopes that sand will be displaced and the rock will sink deeper into the earth … deep enough to re-cover and forget about? Or should we construct a homemade bomb, position it beneath the stone, and blow it out of its resting place?

Perhaps we could reroute the driveway—build up the ditch—so that the nose can remain, a well-anchored monument to stability. Or maybe we could refill the hole and order truckloads of additional dirt and gravel to ensure its proper burial.

I’ve realized—thanks to a friend—that this rock is an apt metaphor for our struggles with the bar across the road. Earlier this month Frances and I tried to halt exotic dancing performances at the bar. We quickly discovered that we have a very large, very heavy, very immoveable obstacle in our path. It seems intractable because it is rooted in the culture, in the local politics, and in the relative disinterest of a community struggling to survive by whatever means possible.

I’m dumbfounded. My research on exotic dancing exposed a tremendous lack of information, misinformation, and widespread misconceptions about the adult entertainment industry. Several weeks ago (see May 18th blog, “Springing into Dangerous Territory”) I wrote on the topic expressing my anger and dismay.

We live in a world where woman-hating is buried so completely that we ourselves don’t recognize it when it surfaces. Though people laugh and joke about exotic dancing, it is not humorous. It’s a seriously offensive and extremely destructive influence on the lives of the women who work in this business and, quite likely, the women who live with men who frequent such a place.

Since writing that blog I’ve read testimony by a 14-year veteran manager of strip clubs who testified before the Michigan House Committee on Ethics and Constitutional Law in 2000. He described the strategies used by managers to convince young women to strip relying on peer pressure, “programming,” and praise to build self image. Later, he acknowledged, self esteem is gradually destroyed and these same women often realize that the only way they can stand to perform is if they are drunk, drugged, or often, both.

Kelly Holsopple, co-founder of the Metropolitan Coalition Against Prostitution in Minneapolis, Minn. conducted research on women’s experiences in strip clubs in 1998. Having worked as a stripper for 13 years, she was uniquely qualified to examine stripper-customer interactions, to explore women’s thoughts on stripping, and to survey the extent of sexual violence that occurs in strip clubs. Reading her research and her detailed descriptions of private “dances” that strippers are expected to perform was—for me as a woman—physically, psychically, and spiritually offensive.

I admit, the more information I uncover—no pun intended—the angrier I become. But I also know that my body cannot tolerate extreme anger over an extended period. I do NOT want a bar that offers exotic dancing directly across the road from me. Nor do I want to move. But if the local community does not object to this business, how likely is it that Frances and I can succeed in banishing it ourselves?

It seems that we’re back to the same questions that Frances and I confront with our rock in the driveway: Dig it out? Cover it over? Drive around it? Blow it up? Reroute the road?

When Frances hammered on the rock several days ago, she realized that the small chips she broke off looked like black granite. Then she came up with a new solution for the rock in our driveway: make it into floor tiles for our living room floor. Now if we could only come up with a unique solution for the bar across the road …

Creative options anyone?

We were There!

2009-05-29T17:26:00.003-05:00

Yesterday’s news reported a 7.1-magnitude earthquake rocking Honduras. It rocked us too. A mere four months ago we were there … right at the epicenter. Or close.

We spent almost a week on Roatán, one of the Bay Islands off the north coast of Honduras. That island—a favorite stop on our seven week trek—was a 1-1/2 hour ferry ride from the mainland. It was also nearest to the reported epicenter of the earthquake, just 80 miles northeast of La Ceiba in the Caribbean Sea.

We traveled through many of the areas reportedly affected by the earthquake. Our journey took us from Cancún, Mexico, through Belize, and on to Honduras via water ferry. From there we bused from Puerto Cortés to La Ceiba. En route we changed buses at a shopping mall in San Pedro Sula. There a hotel receptionist, Raul Gonzalez, reported to the Associated Press that guests ran into the street in their pajamas when the 2:24 a.m. earthquake struck. “It was really strong,” he said, “I have never felt anything like that.”

Our bus continued on to La Ceiba, crossing the Democracy Bridge in El Progreso. That bridge spans the country’s largest river, the Ulua. It collapsed yesterday. We passed over that river. We took that bridge.

We also stayed two nights at the Gran Hotel Paris in La Ceiba in mid-January. Our stay was accidental. A previous hotel, the Monserratte, where we’d roomed both before and after visiting Roatán and before flying to Guanaja, was filled. It was raining. In desperation we hauled our backpacks to a nearby plaza where we’d seen another hotel.

The Gran Hotel Paris had space available and, as it happened, was a much better choice. Rooms were smaller but the hotel itself was cleaner, livelier, and had a more relaxed atmosphere than the Monserratte.

“People were running for the door,” said Alfredo Cedeno from the Gran Hotel Paris, about yesterday’s tremors. “You could really feel it and you could see it—the water came out of the pool.”

We sauntered past the aforementioned pool on our way to breakfast at Gran Hotel Paris. And we watched children playing in that same pool through the restaurant’s glass windows. We walked next to that pool. We ate beside it.

According to the Associated Press report two children died and 40 people were injured as a result of yesterday’s earthquake. It terrified residents through much of Central America. And, since we rode a bus—twice—over the now-collapsed bridge, breakfasted—twice—next to this now-waterless pool, and swam and snorkeled in the Caribbean waters near where this six mile deep earthquake occurred, it almost felt as if we were still there when the earthquake struck.

It’s curious that just a few days or a week in a hotel, on an island, or riding a bus can make a city, a hotel, a bridge, or a country seem so familiar … and almost like home.

Out from Under the Forest Canopy

2009-05-27T20:10:00.002-05:00

“Bear,” yelled Frances, 10:00 pm Friday night. I raced downstairs as she flipped on the deck light. We peered cautiously through the patio door glass … nothing.

Soon a smallish black bear weighing about 200 pounds—probably a yearling—wandered into the light on the south deck. It calmly pressed its body between the deck rails … and disappeared.

How did Frances notice the bear in the darkness? Engaged in her nightly stock market review, she heard an unfamiliar sound at the patio door. Claws scratching? A nose bumping? She glanced up to find a bear staring directly at her.

The tradition in the North Woods is to stop feeding birds throughout the summer months or to commit to a daily ritual. Unwilling to abandon our feathered friends, each morning we carry two bird feeders, two hummingbird feeders, and a pan of corn out of the house. And each evening we haul seeds and feeders back inside. We hope that these huge black robber barons will refrain from including our home in their nightly stops.

When I removed a bird feeder from the deck railing earlier in the evening, I recalled a small pile of sunflower seeds--spillage--that remained. Most likely, that minuscule portion inspired this close encounter.

Suddenly I couldn’t remember whether the goose corn was safely inside for the night. “No,” said Frances. I immediately volunteered to retrieve it. “You will?” she replied with amazement. I quickly donned a headlamp, headed for the basement, pounded on the inside of the basement door, and gently eased the door open. No bear in sight. I grabbed the corn and hurried inside.

Monday afternoon—Memorial Day—Frances, Namaste, and I, were each busily engaged in our individual outdoor projects. Again, Frances sighted a bear. I abandoned my work in the garden as Frances bolted toward Namaste. He is our loyal home security guard and genetically wired to bark ferociously and chase bears up trees. Unfortunately, we’ve heard stories that bears may pick up small dogs, carry them up a tree, and toss them to the ground.

This daytime visitor, probably the same bear from several nights before, slowly ambled through the woods on the south side of our house. Finally it stopped and watched us. Then it continued on, paused, lifted its nose, sniffed. It repeated this behavior as we watched quietly until it turned directly toward us and started to run. Frances yelled, Namaste barked, and the bear halted.

Frances carried a hyper and shaking Namaste inside. Mr. or Ms. Bear continued to watch carefully, still not convinced that it was time to depart. I shouted into the woods, “Bear, you need to leave. This is our house and you are not allowed in our yard. Go!” Without argument, the bear turned and walked quietly away.

Beach Time at Little Sand Bay: Sunday, May 17, 6:15 pm

2009-05-26T18:34:00.004-05:00

I've needed rocking for a long while. Broad, watery arms hugging, then releasing. Hugging, releasing. Sunlight dancing on the shores of longing. So still. The rocking rhythm dances toward me, then backs away. It's quiet but for the rhythmic lullaby of water on rock, sand.

I sit in peace. Dog body close at hand. A slight quiver of nose, quick turn of head announce a presence. Quickly felt, and gone. Sunlight's liquid dance sparkles; hot fireworks V toward early evening, breaking like a wave on shore.

Springing into Dangerous Territory

2009-05-18T10:16:00.005-05:00

Green enfolds me. It creeps out of the forest ... closer, closer. Soon green will hang, leafy, above me; lie, mossy and glowing, beneath me; and press its tender glossy arms around me in a months-long embrace. Becoming green.

It’s been a strange spring. The forecasted exotic dancing at Gill Net Tug Bar began the first weekend in April. The bar lies directly across the road from Same Spirit. It claims the other end of the 40 acre parcel purchased by the previous land owner. Frances and I are not happy about this new business plan. Obviously, the bar operators are not making enough money selling booze so they've decided to throw in some women's bodies and see what it gets them.

Male dancers performed over Mother’s Day weekend. Then a Tuesday night Town of Russell board meeting last week ensured that the bar is good to go for up to six performances this year. Frances and I fought with a torrential burst of energy to prevent the bar from segueing into this new territory. To no avail. My objection: men’s violence against women. It’s a hard road to travel. Men demand their rights and freedom to do as they please. Women want to believe that their men don’t act as obnoxious, violent, and degrading of women as they suspect.

Interestingly, the First Amendment to the Constitution protects the right of bar owners to offer women’s bodies up as tempting hors d’oeuvres for their male customers to sample. That, by the way, is the same Amendment that prohibits the U.S. Congress from making laws “respecting an establishment of religion.” What a weird web we weave. Freedom of religion equates with freedom of sexual slavery.

When you look up information on our Founding Fathers, you soon discover that this bizarre flip from protecting religious freedom to protecting men’s ongoing use of women as sexual objects isn’t so unexpected. A listing of the men present at the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia, PA in 1787 (Bill Bigelow, based on writings by Charles A. Beard and Forrest McDonald) reveals that the majority of these 55 men were lawyers, judges, doctors, bankers, all men of wealth and privilege.

Hmmm. Were these men present to draft the Constitution in order to protect assets they already owned: slaves, property, bonds, estates, plantations? The authors of our Constitution were white, upper class men. Today, over 220 years later, we can boast a slight increase in diversity in the ranks of our current government officials, corporate heads, and world leaders. Still, they typically share a common ground: wealth. And a common goal: protecting their wealth and privilege.

Some may say, “You’re just a woman. What do you know?” It’s true ... I represent the rights of a minority class whose voices are seldom listened to and, when heard, often discounted, ridiculed, or ignored. Why would anyone listen to strippers or prostitutes? Other women may, when they’re not worried about what their men might think.

Even so, the stories of strippers and prostitutes seldom surface because sex workers reside in the lowest realms of society, buried deep in a morass of shame and disgust. We know deep inside ourselves that these professions are demeaning to all of us, women and men. Still, we smile, joke, and wink about venues that offer exotic dancing because we are told that men cannot control their sexual appetites just as they cannot control their ever-expanding desire for power.

In 1998 researcher Kelly Holsopple conducted a set of interviews with over 40 strippers and gave a 250 question survey to 18 others. She found that all of these women were physically assaulted during their careers as strippers.

When asked for examples of what their customers did, they said men had “yanked their hair, arms or ankles; sprayed beer, flicked lit cigarettes, or spit at them; pelted them with ice, coins, trash, condoms, room keys, pornography and golf balls; bit, licked, slapped, punched and pinched them; and ripped or tried to tear off their costumes.” (Galena Gazette, Dec. 18, 2007) Healthy, positive self-esteem would be impossible to achieve in a workplace like this.

My thought? This abuse was all part of the “entertainment.” These women weren’t really women, they were simply the body parts their jobs required them to reveal. Women’s body parts don’t have rights now, do they?

Green Goodness

2009-05-15T08:10:00.004-05:00

It’s a glorious spring day! Clear azure skies. Full sun. Still. Twenty-six degrees. Yipes, 26 degrees!?!

As expected, May did bring flowers. Bayfield's spring promotion, “Bayfield in Bloom,” begins today. Businesses in the area boast a profusion of daffodils—-cream, yellow, amber—-that spill over front yards, beside signs, into ditches.

Several days ago Frances and I walked down a dirt road near our house and spotted tiny white wild strawberry blossoms in the ditch. The other side of the road was aflame with brazen yellow marsh marigolds. When we looked closer, we singled out purple and blue violets trembling in the grasses ... anemones and bellwort.

Each day envelops us in its expanding spectacle of green as leaves unfold, growing larger, and blue sky slowly disappears behind this lush canopy. Meanwhile, creeping ground cover, grasses, and plants push farther out of earth. I'm a child again. Marveling at the richness of rebirth that comes in all shades of green: forest, lime, evergreen, emerald.

I remember other spring days, decades ago, when my dad walked through the woods on our property, my sister, brother, and me trailing close behind. He pointed out a profusion of colors and spoke the names of wildflowers we picked, a Memorial Day honorarium in memory of his mother and father.

From Dad I learned to cherish the beauty, fragility, and elusiveness of shade-loving forest flora. After retirement he grew his own profusion of wildflowers in the front yard of his farm home. When he died, 10 years ago this June, we honored him by gathering bouquets of wildflowers—-from his front yard garden, the ditches, and the woods—-to place near his body. It was only right that this man of field and woods should be surrounded by nature’s royalty.

For me, spring is a sacred time. A time to hearken to nature's stirrings. The spirit of my ancestors, my farmer dad--his parents, too--and all those who've worked the land and walked its woods and fields and streams, is reborn in the green goodness of the earth.

April Showers

2009-04-30T16:04:00.007-05:00

... bring May flowers. I don't remember how many times my mother repeated that familiar phrase during my childhood. It helped me wait patiently through the too-brown, overcast, grey days of spring when vibrant blossoms were still a distant memory from the previous year.

Today I rose after a long night of rain to my first outcropping of nightcrawlers and angleworms. A moist, earthy smell filled the air. Our small pond, now deeper, attracts the geese to its banks daily. There they circle on the waters and plunge their beaks into the rich, dark, mucky earth that lines the edges and bottom of their miniature lake. They pluck at roots and detritus, shaking their discoveries into the water, nipping and nibbling, contributing more ingredients to the muddy broth.

For over a week now Frances and I've raked leaves off our small flower gardens and out of the ditches where daffodil and tulip bulbs and other indeterminate greenery poke their heads up through the earth. Several days ago Frances pointed out a tulip that pierced through a pile of leaves to reach light. It was quite the sight; pointed green leaves growing straight up through the center of dry, brown oak leaves left lying from last year's treefall.

Bird calls emanate from every direction. Spring peepers sing at the end of our drive and along Emil Road where wetlands are more prolific. A pileated woodpecker appeared to Frances today. The day before two birds--a purple finch and a chickadee--flew to our patio door, sat on the back of a folding lawn chair, and stared straight through the glass at us as we sat in the living room. Finally Frances said knowingly, "Oh, they're telling us that we need to fill the feeder...."

Sounds and sights and smells are everywhere. And tomorrow ... May flowers.

Twigs, Mud, Dried Grasses and ... Polypropylene Fibers?

2009-04-28T12:35:00.006-05:00

Today, full sun and blue skies. I lean back, tip my head skyward, and watch the sway of treetops filled with red buds. These tender tidbits marinate themselves in sunshine. Soon enough their flavor will burst forth. Juicy, delicious shades of green circling along branches, dripping magnificent cool shade onto the forest floor.

Is it obvious that I've tiptoed--and now tumbled--into spring? There's no going back. A few frozen snowpiles lie hidden in shaded harbors but my senses are attuned to the sights and sounds and smells of spring....

On our walk to the mailbox several days ago Frances and I found a bird's nest in the ditch along our drive. Delicate and fragile, it was tiny, just two inches deep and three inches across. This lightweight home was woven from dried grasses with a few bits of birch bark curling along its outer edge. Most remarkable were the traces of manmade trash that coated its exterior. White, fluffy, polypropylene fibers--probably stolen from one of Namaste's stuffed dog toys--served as insulation. None of that fiber invaded the interior of the nest, though, where eggs and, later, tiny babies probably rested.

We placed this miniature woodland house on our fireplace mantel alongside an earlier model. That nest, discovered last year, is much larger, heavier, and sturdier, three inches deep and almost six inches across. Its materials, too, include dried grasses but its circular "concrete" walls are made of mud and thin, tiny twigs.

These nests remind me of a recent email: "Duck Story." It tells of a mama duck who built her nest on the second story concrete awning of a downtown San Antonio, TX bank building. Then she laid 10 eggs. Through words and pictures the duck tale unfolds.

When all 10 carefully watched eggs hatched, one bank employee took mama and her 10 ducklings under his wing. Once he saw the first babe fly/fall to the cement sidewalk below he quickly positioned himself below the nest. There he caught each baby as it flung itself into the air; then gently placed it next to its mama.

Once successful, this man then realized that the birds were still two blocks away from the San Antonio River. He cringed at the thought of their trek down sidewalks and across busy intersections. Retrieving an empty cardboard box, he gently placed the babies within, and led mama to the river. The final family portrait, taken after everyone was safely in the water, showed 10 babies lined in rows facing the camera with mama in the front, beak open.

I do wonder: What happened to the tiny beings that were hatched and tended in my two empty nests. I hope they, too, experienced a picture-perfect moment after leaving the nest.

Speeding into Spring

2009-04-22T16:42:00.008-05:00

Today we moved into the 21st century! Frank, a local computer technician/magician, connected our computer to high-speed internet service. Already--one hour later--we're rushing from email to blog to internet search. Finally, Frances can be on the computer while I'm on the phone or vice versa. Life is good.

I know, I know. Many people left dial-up connections behind years ago. Though we may be in the forefront of trends involving health and wellness, computer technology and innovation aren't on our Top 10 list.

Soon I'll revisit and edit posts from our trip to Mexico and Central America written earlier this year. No longer constrained by dial-up lethargy the "add image" icon at the top of this blog makes me smile with anticipation.

Spring has sprung in the Northland. Then unsprung. Then resprung. Last week ended with full sun and highs in the 70s and 80s. Then new snow fell the following day; now we're back in the 40s and 50s. "Typical spring weather," we say to comfort ourselves and our neighbors.

The days inhale and exhale abundance. As green shoots find their way up through leaf-covered earth, woodpeckers and sapsuckers hammer on hollow trees outside our windows. Namaste spends long hours guarding the bird feeder; he works mightily to keep squirrels suspended in trees above his head, chattering excitedly. Later he enters the house carting along his most recent collection of ticks.

Our well-loved Eastern Phoebes returned on tax day, April 15th. Their familiar song, "phoe-be" and their characteristic tail pumping while perched on a nearby branch sent waves of tenderness circling through my heart.

Each night we carry our bird feeder into the house to prevent black bear vandalism. One afternoon last week while Frances and I sat on our deck drinking coffee we heard the loud crash of a not-too-distant tree. Namaste's finely tuned nose had pointed in that general direction for a good long while as he barked repeatedly.

We looked at each other and nodded, "Sounds like a bear." Yep, it's spring. Along with improved computer mobility comes a new lease on life. Bring it on ... greening grasses, bursting buds, energizing sunshine, revitalizing rain, and blossoming daffodils. I'll take it all.

Happy Day of Adventure to You

2009-04-07T20:38:00.001-05:00

Last week we celebrated Frances' birthday with a day-long adventure. Since our return from Mexico and Central America--two months ago now--we've both longed for more excitement in our lives. So, with that goal in mind, Frances consulted a road atlas and traced a tentative circular route, we loaded the dog and snacks into the car, and off we went.

Our day trip was reminiscent of a similar drive we took with Frances' mother and dad over 10 years ago. That day we left her parents' home in Roseau, MN, crossed the Canadian border 10 miles north, meandered around Lake of the Woods, and late that evening re-crossed the border into Minnesota. Frances' Dad was a dedicated coffee drinker. Accordingly, we stopped several times along our route for a "snort" of coffee.

This time--2009--we climbed into the same car, a 1984 Crown Victoria that Frances inherited from her mom and dad. Again, we planned to stop at several small town cafes along our route. Unfortunately, we found no cafes. I wonder whether that is a modern-day reality ... Shelley's Smalltown Diner replaced by Cenex or BP or Mobil gas stations and convenience stores.

Our snorts now come in self-serve paper take-out cups. If we wish to find a real sit-down coffee spot or cafe, we must now drive to a metropolitan area where neighborhood coffee shops abound. Along with the hundreds of coffee and tea choices, they offer their own humorous or thought-provoking business name and, often, a cornucopia of gastronomic delights. On our trip, through, we did without.

Soon enough our drive down Hwy. 13 south brought us close to Copper Falls State Park. A slight detour there was well worth our tumbling-rushing-falling-water walk under the sheltering branches of cedar and hemlock trees.

Afterward we pulled out a snack from our own backseat cafe then followed Hwy. GG deep into the Chequamegon National Forest. At Clam Lake we turned onto Hwy. M to head toward Cable, WI and began the final loop, circling toward home. These highway names, by the way, are unique. I teased a friend years ago when we visited her family here that once the alphabet is exhausted, the Wisconsin highway department just doubles up the letters to create an entirely new series of highway names.

At dinnertime we glimpsed a sign advertising all-you-can-eat-ribs at Telemark, a resort and conference center. A quick turn-about delivered us to this well-known resort where we ate our meal in the bar with several other tables of hungry travelers or guests, then made for home.

One person suggested to me when I returned from Central America, "Each day is an adventure if we approach it that way." I'm becoming more and more of a believer in that perspective. Adventure can be anywhere you look. Actually, all you have to do IS look. What you find may stimulate your mind, feed your senses, expand your perspective, and open you up to new people, new situations, and new terrain.

Birds of a Feather ... Float through Life Together

2009-03-25T22:44:00.001-05:00

Taxes.... Does that adequately explain my writing silence for the past 10 days?

Yesterday I guided Ander and Lucy to the pond gathering liquid on the south side of our house. A backhoe scooped fresh earth and buried rock out of this ravine last fall. We hoped that spring thaw would create a natural pool cum swimming hole for our goldfish and geese. Perhaps someday a geothermal heat source could be harvested from these humble beginnings.

During the six years that we’ve lived here, our geese—water birds that they are—have survived in the woods with a small rubber bucket that holds two, maybe three gallons of water from which they drink and bathe themselves. In the hottest, most desperate days of summer Frances fills a small children’s swimming pool with water and one goose at a time floats serenely in its coolness.

But yesterday Lucy, then Ander, walked down the slight snow covered mud bank and glided into this small natural pool. Immediately the two began their water dance: dive, surface, turn, flap, and float. In the 14 years I’ve known these blue-eyed birds I have never seen them so intent on submerging their entire beings in watery wetness: unabashed splashing; long, silent dives beneath the water’s surface; then placid floating.

After I re-entered the house I peeked out to observe their lively bathing. In time Lucy hauled herself out of the water and onto the snowy edge where she spread her wings and groomed her back with fresh-washed beak. Soon Ander joined her. He, too, began to groom, wings rising up and down, beak traveling along feathers that carried a winter’s worth of accumulated grime. In short order both geese were back in the pond, floating and basking in chill spring waters.

When we lived in the Twin Cities, on several hot summer days Frances and I loaded Ander and Lucy into the cab of our old red Dodge pickup. We drove to a small nearby lake where we unloaded geese and inflatable kayaks. Soon we formed an unlikely chain of water traffic: Frances in her inflatable boat, then Steph, followed closely by Ander, then Lucy.

We paddled into water lilies and stopped while the geese explored the water and weeds around us. Slowly the four of us paddled back to shore where we reloaded boats and geese for our return. In those days the geese seemed nervous about their truck ride and, suspicious of our destination, stayed within arms’ reach. Though they enjoyed their water outing they seemed relieved to return home to their swampy suburban wetland.

But yesterday was a special treat for us all. What a wonderful, wet, fleeting-flapping-floating celebration of life!

Spring is a long time coming ...

2009-03-14T11:50:00.000-05:00

These days, everywhere I go, everyone I talk to sings the same refrain: "Oh, I can't wait for spring! This winter ... I'm so over it!" I feel that way, too, and I was gone to Central America for seven weeks this winter.

On Monday Frances, Namaste, and I drove down to the Twin Cities to visit with my sister, Mel. She flew to Minnesota to meet staff and conduct business for her new job in Baltimore, MD. We spent just a few hours visiting over several evenings but it was a golden opportunity. Even though she and I talk by phone most weekends, two years is a long time to not have face-to-face time with one of your best friends.

During our stay "down south" another winter storm flashed through the area leaving snow and subzero temps in its wake. On Thursday we left Minneapolis at 4:00am. Departing temps in Minneapolis were -3 but as we traveled further north they dropped to -9, -14, -18, and finally bottomed out at -24. The inch or two of new snow lining the streets of Minneapolis shrank in comparison to the eight plus that lay in our woodsy backyard.

Everyone's ready for spring. Our geese were more than happy to stay in their heat-lamp-heated barn during this most recent cold spell. Frances wondered aloud about our neighborhood wild turkey. "Can he dig into the snow?" she asked, "How does he keep warm when these temps are so cold?"

At the end of our road trip we discovered "our" turkey sitting in a tree next to the road about a half-mile from our house. "Oh, that's what he does," Frances commented when she spotted him. She'd imagined that he'd find someplace warmer than his traditional roosting spot.

Today the sky is blue beautiful. The sun glances off heaps of white that stretch off into the woods. In recent weeks squirrels race around our house tempting Namaste into hide and chase games. And, no, Namaste never wins.

Spring signals her return in longer days of sunshine and increasing animal activity. Next weekend it will be official ... Spring Equinox. Soon black bear will emerge from hibernation and knock down bird feeders. Then migrating birds will chirp familiar songs as they flash brilliant colors from tree branches. And, finally, finally, the snow and ice will begin to thaw.

Our first spring in Bayfield--2003--my brother and his girlfriend visited. On one of our outings we rode the Madeline Island ferry. Huge chunks of ice bobbed around the ferry, bumping up against its sides as we made our 20 minute journey across the bay. It was Memorial Day Weekend, the last weekend in May. What, I wonder, will this year bring?

Where Attention/Intention Goes, Energy Flows

2009-03-08T16:08:00.000-05:00

My intention for our trip to Mexico and Central America was put in place before we caught our plane from the Twin Cities. Its elements were simple: Keep yourself open to the people and situations you encounter. Treat everyone you meet with warmth and generosity.

Once I set this intention, of course, I WAS more open. This "go with the flow" attitude helped us through innumerable situations. When we missed our bus stop at Tela, Honduras and continued on to La Ceiba, we did so with relative ease. When we arrived in Placencia, Belize after dark, we found lodging quickly through the aid of a local gas station owner. When we deplaned in Guanaja, Honduras, we located our own private island with the help of Simeon, a local water taxi, despite the fact that we had no knowledge of this island and no advance reservations.

Wayne Dyer's translation of the Tao Te Ching, Verse 27, says, in part:

"A knower of the truth
travels without leaving a trace,
speaks without causing harm,
gives without keeping an account....

"Be wise and help all beings impartially,
abandoning none.
Waste no opportunities.
This is called following the light."

Dyer explains further: " ... live more spontaneously--you don't need to neatly wrap up each detail of your life. Understand this and you can travel without being attached to a plan that covers every possible scenario. Your inner light is more trustworthy than a guidebook, and it will point you in the direction that's most beneficial to you and everyone you encounter..... have faith in yourself to go on a trip with a minimal amount of planning. Allow yourself to trust in the energy of the Tao to guide you ..."

Of course, during our travels Frances and I relied on Lonely Planet guidebooks to provide information on local customs, transportation options, directions, and lodging recommendations. But we often made decisions based on what "felt" right to us. This allowed us to design each day centered on our energy levels, our interests, and our moods. Anxiety levels were kept to a minimum because we had no pre-set agenda to follow, no reservations to keep. That allowed us an amazing amount of freedom. And, most days we varied our route and even our tentative plan for that day based on the circumstances that presented themselves from moment to moment.

Frances often doused to determine what lodging might suit us best and we were never disappointed. On only one occasion throughout our entire seven week trip did we make lodging reservations in advance. Cerros Beach Resort was located across the bay from the town of Corozal, Belize and we phoned Jenny and Bill, the owners, to discover whether they had an opening--over Christmas Eve and Christmas--before we arranged transportation across the bay to their resort. We then discovered that Bill provided boat transport to any clients who wished it.

Our own private island in Guanaja, Honduras was another example of trusting the Universe to deliver us to the just-right location. And, after we'd spent five nights on our own private island, we discovered that the Caye where we stayed was, indeed, the Caye Frances doused out and highlighted on a map in our guidebook prior to our arrival.

This willingness to be open to the Universe was not always easy but it taught me one all-important lesson: Practice, practice, practice.

Zeke, Zeker, Zeker the Sneaker, Hiziki-san, Zukeroo, Zukermann ...

2009-03-07T08:17:00.000-06:00

"If we are honest with ourselves, all of us will admit to yearning for a connection with animals. What we see in them is a living reminder of what we have lost--a certain innocence of spirit, freedom of action, and an ability to love unconditionally.

"We want to be part of this world of theirs, to throb with the rhythm of life that flows within them. Deep down we sense that if we can only make a connection with another species, in some powerful, mysterious way the bond will strengthen and affirm us both."
--Allen M. Schoen, D.V.M, "Love, Miracles, and Animal Healing"

It's time for me to write about the death of my beloved cat, Hiziki. I didn't have the courage to post an entry to my blog immediately after his death though I wrote innumerable pages in my journal. I feared my overwhelming grief might transmit itself through the keyboard and into the vastness of cyberspace; it was too intimate to share with others.

Yet, in several days it will be six months since Zeke died. It is time to account for his passing. Perhaps it's even time to remove his name from the introduction to this blog, though I'm not sure that I'm ready.

Zeker the Sneaker was my friend and companion--my family--for almost 19 years. In the early years of our relationship he positioned himself on my keyboard in a never-ending effort to claim my attention while I tried to write. Years later he merely climbed atop my desk and sat quietly observing me from behind my computer screen.

Zukeroo offered companionship during months of lonliness when I lived by myself in a South Minneapolis apartment. He comforted me during times of grief and loss following the death of both of my parents and both of Frances' parents too. He often positioned himself at my feet during my t'ai chi ch'uan and t'ai chi chih practices stealing some of the chi energy for himself. And he continually inspired me with his skillful hunting, his wild nature, his deep loyalty.

Though his contributions were subtle, Hiziki-san was one of the founding members of Same Spirit. When bodywork clients arrived--rushed, stressed out, ill at ease--they often found him lying belly-up on the living room floor, centered in a sunbeam. He modeled ultimate relaxation and peaceful contemplation for all of us, clients AND practitioners.

Mr. Zukermann died on September 10, 2008. The day before, Frances and I made lunch for three clients visiting from the Twin Cities. Midway through our meal I heard a rustle and saw Zeker the Sneaker emerge from the innards of a woven basket resting in the corner of our dining room. The basket was our recycling bin for paper products. Zeker, paper lover that he was, had evidentally recruited it for his own private escape. How he fit inside I'll never know. He squeezed himself between handle and narrow edge to drop into a tight ball of fur; unexpected and, therefore, undisturbed.

Later that afternoon Zeke began to howl inconsolably. Eventually he found a hiding spot in the basement. That night, I carried a quiet, desperately ill Zeke from the basement to the upstairs bedroom floor. I placed an air mattress beside him and slept next to him all night, waking often to place my hands on his body or near him, sending him reiki energy, hoping to comfort him and ease his pain.

The next morning I called the vet. The time had come to say goodbye. Before leaving home, I carried Zeke out onto the deck and we sat, as we'd often done together, immersing ourselves in nature. Though he'd spent the previous afternoon and evening in misery, his breathing shallow, his body cold and unmoving, he soon lifted his nose into the air, nostrils expanding to draw in the smells around us. Without hesitation he dropped from my lap to the deck and walked toward the stairs. His gait was weak and wobbly, stumbling. Then he sank to the deck to rest.

Eventually he descended the stairs and ventured onto the narrow path that led through tall grasses and weeds to the bird feeders. I followed him and found him lying on the rich, dark earth under the tall sweep of vegetation. Bird song and conversation rode the airwaves above his head. Oh, this was indeed Zeke's little bit of heaven! When we returned from the veterinary hospital several hours later, we dug a hole and placed Zeke's body into this, his final resting spot.

After Zeke's death I searched for words of consolation. I felt so lost and alone. Soon I found myself between the pages of "Earth Prayers" in the chapter, Benediction for the Animals. Here I read and was comforted by these words of James Koller:

My paw is holy
herbs are everywhere
my paw
herbs are everywhere

My paw is holy
everything is holy
my paw
everything is holy.

Inquiring Minds Want to Know ...

2009-03-02T12:14:00.000-06:00

How did we dare undertake a journey to Mexico and Central America by ourselves? Lest anyone think otherwise let me make it abundantly clear: We felt the fear and did it anyway. Luckily, Frances and I have different fear tolerances. So, when Frances felt fearful I usually felt OK, and vice versa. Consequently, we were never totally stopped--only slowed down and sometimes slightly detoured--by our trepidations.

One of the most difficult times during our trip was when we first arrived in Cancun. It was Frances' first time on her own in a Spanish-speaking country. My Spanish--last spoken in college and a brief foray to Cancun--was 30+ years old. Everything was unknown; we were total neophytes. Thus, we were suckers for the man who told us his sad tale about being mugged. As the story went ... He stopped to give money to a beggar and another man came up behind him and held a knife to his throat. He'd lost everything, he told us, including his shoes. He needed to pay his hostel for another night's lodging in order to receive a call from his parents who were arriving the next day. With no money or ID, he was homeless and helpless.

Later, of course, we heard from others that this was a common fiction created by young Americans not ready to return to the United States. At the time we heard this story, we sat on the steps outside a grocery store in Cancun. I was in an insulin reaction and we were both eating to raise blood sugars so that we could continue our adventures. Giving Mike money seemed like the easiest way to cope with the situation.

Border crossings were another fear-inducing time. When we reached a border, we never knew what hoops we might have to jump through, what fees we might have to pay, how long the crossing might take.

Public transportation was another unknown. Just how well-maintained were those water taxis we took? Our first high-speed water taxi from Corozal to San Pedro, Belize had engine trouble midway through our trip; our speed declined considerably as we motored slowly toward our destination.

Bus drivers, too, drove like race car drivers. We survived best when thoroughly engaged in the scenery so that we could ignore the honking horns, the dangerous passing, and the rapid stops. Flash, our pickup truck taxi driver from Puerto Cortes, Honduras to Guatemala, had a leak in his gas tank. The gas station attendant had to rock the truck from side to side to allow gas to flow through the neck of the tank. Heck, Flash wasn't totally honest with us from the beginning. We were 15 miles down the road before he told us that we were crossing the border into Guatemala to find another water taxi.

In Honduras and Guatemala we were often surrounded by men holding rifles. They stood outside our hotels, outside banks, and along city streets. That took some getting used to as did the razor wire, barbed wire, iron gates, and iron bars skirting fascades, windows, and doors of various hotels along our route.

Later, we found ourselves taking risks that others may not have taken. Still, we could usually sense when a situation or person felt reasonably safe. Often seemingly risky situations were no more than one person's creative way to make money. And I have to say that people were very creative. Rather than become annoyed or disturbed by this I was impressed with people's cleverness.

Of course, some money-making strategies involved telling lies or half-truths or misleading a potential client in order to get a desired outcome. The taxi drivers at the Cancun airport were one example. When they mobbed us at the exit and we told them that we were waiting for a city bus, they responded, "Oh, you just missed a bus. There won't be another for an hour ... oh, no, two hours." We persisted and stepped onto a city bus a mere 20 minutes later.

When traveling, you realize how much your safety and success depend upon the assistance of others. And, of course, traveling--like anything else--takes practice. I'm more knowledgeable than I was at the beginning of our trip. I'm not sure whether that means I'll be any less fearful the next time around, but I'm willing to try ...

Signs, Signs, Everywhere a Sign

2009-02-24T07:54:00.001-06:00

"Go Slow." This message was etched into the concrete under our feet as we walked off the dock in Caye Caulker, Belize. What a wonderful welcome! Those two words set the tone for our stay on this sweet little island. Here everyone goes slow since transportation is confined to foot, bicycle, or golf cart.

The vibe in Caulker was one of slowmo relaxation as shown by another sign, "No Shirt, No Shoes ... No Problem." We would have stayed longer but my visitor's permit was running out. Reluctantly we headed to Belmopan for an extension. As our water taxi zoomed away from the dock and Caye Caulker disappeared from sight, another American we'd met called, "Goodbye, Caye Caulker. We love you."

Our next destination, Placencia, Belize, also had a laid-back vibe. "Solve half the problems of the world. Keep your religion and your sex life in the bedroom." This sign stood along the main sidewalk skirting the beach in Placencia. What simple, yet wise, words. Really, what more can you say?

And, of course, there were indoor signs as well. Our first lodging in Placencia posted a creative, playful sign in our hotel room: "No Smoking Inside the Room. If we catch you smoking in the room, we will assume you're on FIRE and take appropriate action."

While staying in Placencia we responded to another sign and stopped at Mrs. Beulah's for homemade bread. A bunch of kids and young people hung out downstairs and told us the bread was gone unless we wanted whole wheat. "Yes," I said with a fist in the air, "We want whole wheat!"

Upstairs Mrs. Beulah told us that the whole wheat bread was still in the oven so I paid her $4BZ (about $2US) and promised to return at 4:00 pm for pick up. Later, as we walked downstairs with the bread, the crew hanging out was playing reggae music. Several men moved to the beat. I automatically joined them, swaying my body and waving my arms.

Later I realized that it was a throwback to my days working for a whole foods bakery in Minneapolis. Our weekly baking sessions were accompanied by the music of Bob Marley. The men seemed to enjoy my spontaneous dancing as well as my willingness to join in. We smiled and laughed with each other.

In another hotel in La Ceiba, Honduras, management posted a sign on the drinking water bottle in the lobby: "What's good for the tourist is good for everyone." (My translation from Spanish.) The subtext here, of course, was that not everyone who lives in Honduras can afford good, pure drinking water.

Signs communicated much about culture, habits, and mores of the countries we visited. By the end of our travels I automatically looked in each bathroom to see whether they posted a sign asking users to place their toilet paper in the wastebasket rather than flush it down the toilet. That sign was common throughout the Yucatan in an effort to keep septic systems flowing freely.... Everywhere a sign.

Mid-Life Travel

2009-02-21T06:59:00.000-06:00

I fell flat on my face twice during our travels in Central America. The first time I landed in sand softened by Caribbean waves. (We were nearing the end of our run across a narrow strand of San Pedro on Ambergris Caye, Belize en route to catch a water taxi to Caye Caulker.)

The second time, like the first, I was fully loaded with my backpack on my back and a bag in hand. As I stepped off the water taxi we'd just taken from Dangriga, Belize to Puerto Cortes, Honduras I fell headlong into members of our travel group. Despite their looks of shock and surprise as I collapsed into their midst, they managed to block my fall and set me upright again. In both cases--just like my years spent trying to run as fast as my friends in schoolyard games--I was rushing to keep up with others. But, happily, in these two instances I was left unhurt ... not even a scraped knee.

Still, traveling when you're 54 requires more care and caution than traveling at age 22, or even 44. Frances and I often needed more rest, especially when busing or taxiing for long hours or after navigating border crossings from one country to the next. We also monitored our bodily functions intensively since there was absolutely no way we could tolerate traveler's diarrhea while using public transportation. We also learned to eat and drink little on travel days since we never knew when we'd stop or if we'd find an always-elusive bathroom.

Eventually we tired of riding chicken buses. Why? We were often among the oldest riders on these buses that were designed to transport people with much shorter legs and smaller bodies. Packing almost twice as many riders into an old school bus as the capacity allowed was challenging. But sitting with your backpack on your lap, your other luggage lodged between your feet, and your knees braced against the seat in front of you when you couldn't move was near-debilitating. Worst of all was standing in the aisle while clutching all your luggage as you were pressed tightly against riders on all sides. When more passengers boarded the already-crammed bus OR when someone decided they needed to squeeze by you, it took supreme willpower--and magic--to accomplish.

In one instance, on a chicken bus from Rio Dulce to Flores, Guatemala, a bus staffer asked local riders to relinquish their back row seats to accommodate the gringos who'd boarded. I can't imagine how resentful these riders may have felt to abandon their seats to us for that four-hour trip. Indeed, some of those people stood throughout the entire journey. Still, I was grateful.

In Honduras we discovered first-class buses. Not only did we each have a seat for ourselves. We could check our luggage into a separate compartment beneath the bus. What luxury!

Of course, most of the travelers on these first-class buses were other tourists so the opportunity to experience local culture and customs was reduced dramatically. No food vendors were allowed on these buses or permitted to stand along the outside of our windows to offer their wares of fresh pineapple chunks, filled tortillas, chilled sodas, or dried plaintain with lime and chile peppers. We did take a first-class bus several times after our initial experience, though, and did so with deep gratitude for the breathing space it afforded us.

Buzz ... Infected by the Travel Bug

2009-02-20T16:28:00.001-06:00

Roberta, our Bayfield librarian, knows a bit about virtually every library patron's life and dreams and, in her infinite wisdom, introduced us to Kate as we planned our trip to Latin America. Kate was the first of several people who inspired us to leap into our adventure. Having traveled extensively in Mexico and Central America herself Kate assured us that we were embarking on one of life's great journeys.

Kate greeted me with excitement yesterday as I climbed the steps to the library. "Oh, I read parts of your blog while you were on the road," she said, "And I was so inspired. My mom has diabetes and tells me she can't travel so I told her about you. Here, I said, this is someone with diabetes who is traveling. So there."

"Kate," I replied, "You have no idea how much you helped us through our own pre-trip fears and anxieties."

For the next 10 minutes Kate and I were like two kids in a candy store. Though the treats we salivated over were merely pictures in our minds, we shared some of the tastes and sensations from each of our trips and hungrily longed for more. Once the travel bug bites you, I've concluded, you're infected for life. There's no remedy except to travel and experience new people, cultures, and lands 'til you can travel again. That's one communicable disease I'll gladly pass on to others.

Speaking of diseases, I overheard a tourist on Roatan Island, Honduras, mention that Bill Gates owns a beach house a short distance from West Bay. Our "Lonely Planet" guidebook warned us to take anti-malarial medication while visiting this area since there are five different strains of malaria identified on Roatan. Suddenly Bill Gates' anti-malarial activism made perfect sense. If you own a vacation home or travel in an area inhabited by these mosquitoes, the fear of malaria is no longer an abstract concept.

My brother, Brett, mentioned that news reports about Bill Gates' speech at the Technology, Entertainment, Design (TED) Conference circulated the day I returned from Central America. Gates evidentally hoped to make an infecting point about malaria by releasing mosquitoes into the audience. As he opened the jar of mosquitoes Gates said, "Here I'll let them roam around. There is no reason only poor people should be infected."

Gates waited several minutes before he reassured his elite audience that the mosquitoes he'd released were malaria-free. He went on to say that there's more money put into drugs for baldness than drugs for malaria. I believe Gates chose a potent way to drop audience members into a real-life fear-of-malaria-free-fall. Frances and I certainly couldn't escape that fear while traveling in Central America and we finish our weekly dose of malaria meds in two more weeks.

Bang, You're Dead

2009-02-15T11:28:00.000-06:00

Last night we saw the movie, “Taken,” about a 17-year-old girl and her friend who travel, unescorted, to Paris. The two are spotted at the Paris airport, then kidnapped and sold into the sex trade.

The young woman’s father (Liam Neeson) is an ex-government agent—-a preventer-—recently retired. On the phone with his daughter when the kidnapping occurs, he promises the men responsible, “... I will find you and kill you,” which he does.

After the movie Frances said of our recent trip to Latin America, “Think how lucky we were. Just imagine what could have happened if our Honduran taxi driver, Flash, decided to turn off onto some country road somewhere.”

Frances believes Flash hijacked us when he convinced us to buy his taxi services after our water taxi from Puerto Cortes, Honduras to Belize City, Belize didn’t show. Rather than wait a week for the next water taxi, we chose to pile into his small pickup truck and drive to another location. This water taxi, he promised, would get us to our desired destination. En route we discovered that Flash was driving us through the Honduran border into Guatemala to reach that taxi.

On another occasion a young traveling Danish couple warned us, “Never allow anyone near your backpack on the bus. You could become a drug runner without knowing it.”

Earlier, a young woman seated next to me on a Belizean bus told me I was smart to hold my backpack on my lap during our bus ride. If I placed it in the back of the bus with the other luggage, it—-or some of its contents—-could go missing.

Frances talked with a man on the same overcrowded bus who ate his meal as he stood in the bus aisle pressed tightly against other standing passengers. She told him she was impressed that he could eat under those circumstances. “Well, if I don’t eat it now, it won’t be there later,” he replied.

We learned in Belize that plastic bags filled with a white powdery substance found floating in the water or resting along the shore were known as “white lobster” or “box fish,” a/k/a crack-cocaine. Dumped overboard by drug runners evading the law, they were later retrieved. If these bags disappeared, though, the drug runners searched for the interlopers instead and spoke an international language, “Bang, you’re dead.”

It’s not uncommon, we were told, for local fishermen to find white lobsters floating in the sea. Often these struggling fishermen couldn’t resist temptation. One bag, quickly sold, could buy a cement block addition to their tiny one-room house. Of course, they also had to move their family out of that house for a year or two until their risk of being caught—-and murdered—-diminished and the addition was completed.

How do you balance the risks of traveling in unfamiliar territory against the excitement and adventure? After seven weeks in Latin America I still don’t know the answer to that question. I do know, though, that I gained untold experience and information that will help me on future travels.

It's True! Experiences, Not Possessions, Make Us Happier

2009-02-14T12:26:00.001-06:00

A news item on Public Radio caught my attention yesterday; it reinforced what I wrote hours earlier in my blog. When you buy experiences with your money (i.e., travel, meals out, or theater tickets), you're happier than when you buy material goods. The media chose Valentine's Day to tout this message since this holiday, more than others, is framed around consumerism. Who among us doesn't think about sending flowers, candy, or cards to those we love? It's an American tradition.

Yet, Ryan Howell, assistant professor of psychology at San Francisco State University discovered through his research that, when asked to write about recent purchases, study participants felt experiences they had led to longer-term satisfaction and produced better memories than material objects they purchased. Even more significant, those experiences produced more happiness regardless of how much money was spent or the total income of study participants.

"People still believe that more money will make them happy, even though 35 years of research has suggested the opposite," said Howell.

Frances and I are proof positive! Post-trip we both feel energized and revitalized. Friends notice our buoyancy. We feel it, too, when we work around our house, pay bills, file paperwork, and sort through belongings. We are releasing possessions in order to create more space in our home and in our lives.

Occasionally, though, it helps to be reminded that DOING things rather than HAVING things brings us the greatest happiness. I know that I have no buyer's remorse about our travels in Latin America even if I must cut my spending in the coming year. My hunger for learning new things is sated, my vitality is restored, and ... I'm happy.

The Journey of a Lifetime

2009-02-13T10:51:00.000-06:00

"Certainly, travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living." -- Miriam Beard, author, from USA Today, November 28, 2008

Back home for one week now both Frances and I recognize the wisdom of Beard's statement. Inspired by the wide variety of lodgings we inhabited throughout Central America--all plain, simple, comfortable, and uncluttered--Frances was compelled to purge our house. As we cull through our possessions and papers and sort through our basement, closets, and drawers we're also reassessing how we choose to live. How can we live more freely? How can we not be owned by our possessions? How can we simplify and delight in that simplicity?

For me, travel is one of my greatest teachers. Starting with a six week bike trip I took through Western Europe immediately after college to the present day, I've learned lessons on the road that rival years of classroom lectures. Those lessons have stayed with me longer and affected me more deeply because they were rooted in the art, architecture, landscape, culture, history, natural world--and people!--that I met, talked with, touched, felt, and heard. My mind was filled with new information but so, too, were my body, emotions, and spirit.

I'm often surprised when friends or family members admit that they admire our courage for taking this journey through foreign lands. Certainly there were times when we felt fearful or uncertain during our travels. But the insights and information, the surprises, frustrations, adventures, beauties, and bounties that we encountered, filled us with energy and inspiration that carry us forward.

Years ago I scanned the book, "Hungry Planet: What the World Eats" by Peter Menzel. This photo book showed one family per country from Australia to the United States (and many countries in between) posed beside one week's worth of groceries. I was struck by how prepared, packaged, unnatural, and unhealthy much of their standard fare seemed. One country stood out from the rest. The family from Guatemala was surrounded by fresh fruits and vegetables, grains, and beans. "I want to eat like that family eats," I thought to myself.

Not surprisingly, as soon as we entered Guatemala, we were greeted by huge, bountiful, and beautiful markets. Fruits and vegetables were piled high. Grains, spices, and unknown foodstuffs tantalized nose, mouth, and eyes.

During a walk through a market enroute to Rio Dulce we were enticed by bags of unidentified chunks of a green fruit or vegetable sprinkled with salt, lime juice, and chilis. When we asked our bus driver, he said, "Oh, that's green mango. Since it's not ripe it tastes sour, tangier. Do you want some?" We tried it and liked it ... What a treat! Green mango remains one of my favorite taste discoveries from this trip.

The picture of a Guatemalan family surrounded by their food made an impression on me. And, yes, I still believe that a picture is worth a thousand words. But experiencing some of those foods myself--without a camera lens between us--was so much better.

Coming Home and Traveling ... through the Tao Te Ching

2009-02-11T12:04:00.000-06:00

In the winter of 1989 Frances slipped behind the wheel of her old red Dodge pickup truck and spent three months traveling from central Minnesota through Ohio, Nebraska, New Mexico, Arizona, Idaho, and other parts of the central, southwestern, and northern United States. Her travel companions were two of her closest friends: her Golden Retriever, Sadie, and her rabbit, Poof. The trio camped together and shared many adventures.

"But," Frances reminded me during the last week of our trip through Latin America, "After only a few days at home Sadie was intent on getting back on the road. She just couldn't settle down. I had to tell her, 'No. We're home now. We're not going anywhere.'

"I have a feeling you might be like that too," Frances warned.

Perhaps she was right. I'm not sure that I want to pack my bags and head out the door this week. Yet, now that I've tasted the fruits--both literal and figurative--of a warmer, sunnier, more exotic culture and climate, I don't need to spend the rest of my life in my beautiful, shady house in the woods.

In fact, both Frances and I are reevaluating the direction of our lives, reimagining what we both long to experience as we cull through our possessions and lessen the load. It's clear that we both love to travel. Leaving behind the routine of daily life provided us with an opportunity to be more objective, less willing to cling to what we know, and more open to trusting that we can learn, grow, and thrive in many other circumstances than we previously thought. That's one of the precious gifts we received from our travels.

The morning after our return to the North Woods I led my Cornucopia T'ai Chi Chih class in our first winter practice. During class tea time, as usual, we read and discussed the next verse of the Tao Te Ching, Verse 23. We're studying this well-known classic text from two out of a multitude of translations: Ursula LeGuin's "Lao Tzu Tao Te Ching: A Book about The Way and the Power of The Way" and Wayne Dyer's "Change Your Thoughts--Change Your Life."

Dyer's chapter, "Living Naturally," spoke directly to me about my experiences during our travels. "Open yourself to the Tao and trust your natural responses ... then everything will fall into place," translates Dyer. He later writes, "The Tao points out that the Way is responsible for everything ... When you conform to the naturalness of the universe, you cooperate with this all-creating power that flows through you. Suspend ego-driven plans and instead participate in the power that created you--allow it to be the guiding force in your life."

Yes, I have come home and still, I am traveling.

Home Again Home Again Lickity Split

2009-02-06T08:20:00.000-06:00

Our return home was like slipping on a pair of comfortable, well-worn jeans. No, we weren't entirely prepared for the 4 degree temperature at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport on Tuesday afternoon (about an 80 degree drop from Cancun, Mexico temps). Still, we were born, raised, and are growing old in this climate ... our bodies and minds know it intimately.

I've seen two gorgeous sunrises since coming home to the woods. And, too, we're surrounded by our own sea ... this sea has sparkling white waves that are frozen in place but they are beautiful nonetheless. During our absence spiders and mice moved into our vacant house so one of our first priorities will be to convince them that they need to move to new digs.

I admit, it does feel like we've returned to an overly-worn routine here, especially after experiencing a multitude of adventures during our seven week trek. We're also facing a daunting pile of work concerning our business and our home as well as the ever-present responsibility of chainsawing, hauling, splitting, and filling the wood stove to achieve some modicum of heat.

Our last day in Cancun was just right. We found a wonderful eco-tel just three blocks from the bus station. It had a quiet, peaceful inner courtyard filled with trees, plants, flowers, a small swimming pool, and a massage studio. We took advantage of the latter and each had an early evening massage to relax and ease muscles strained and tired from seven weeks of carrying our world on our backs.

First, though, we asked our host for a restaurant recommendation. She mentioned La Parilla (The Grill) several blocks away and handed us a card allowing us a small, complimentary drink. The restaurant name sounded familiar to Frances and we walked back toward the neighborhood we stayed in when we first arrived in Mexico. We didn't turn at our familiar street, though, continuing on to find the turn our hotel hostess mentioned. After walking a mile or two we decided that we were lost, hailed a taxi, and asked him to drive us (what turned out to be) eight blocks to La Parilla.

And, yes, it was a familiar restaurant. We ate our first Mexican meal at La Parilla our very first day in Mexico and, appropriately, we ate our last Mexican meal there. During the course of our travels our stomachs and our feet went full circle.

Thanks to our friends, Robbyn and Jan, for our wonderful welcome home and overnight stay before we ventured back to the north woods. It was terrific to reconnect with friends as we headed for home. We met a new friend, too. Laura, a coworker of Jan's, joined us for dinner and shared her plans to move back to Mexico in 2009. She provided email travel advice during our trip and, though we were unable to visit most of her recommendations, it was a treat to meet our Spanish-speaking cyberwoman upon our return. Hearing Laura's Spanish-tinged English was a wonderful way to transition from, and slightly extend, our Latin American travels.

Due to our technological limitations (when I write "our," I mean Frances and Steph), we were unable to post travel photos on our blog. Once we learn how, we plan to include some of those photos on the blog post-trip so stay tuned ... Perhaps we can keep the sun shining and the temperatures above freezing as we continue to share memories of our adventures.

La Playa ... The Last Days

2009-02-01T12:26:00.003-06:00

The countdown has begun. Today is our last full day in Playa del Carmen. Though it´s cool we have beautiful blue skies and a plan to douse ourselves in the Caribbean sea one last time later this afternoon.

Friday we experienced a magnificent storm. We´d just finished checking email and updating the blog as rain cascaded from the sky. People crowded under store entries and any available shelter; small street stands closed up shop; and a bicycle taxi ferrying a woman and child pulled off the street onto the sidewalk, then into a covered alleyway, then disappeared entirely. The taxi driver and passengers were dripping wet. For over an hour rain poured down rain spouts, sidewalks, and streets, rising higher and higher.

Two young Mexican girls at the shop next door grabbed umbrellas and dashed in and out of the rain, finally settling themselves beneath a rainspout that pounded their umbrellas with nonstop water. It was wonderful to watch people pause, stop, and patiently await nature´s grand display.

NOW we know why curbs and sidewalks are so deep here in Mexico and Central America ... to keep walkers suspended above the swirling fray.

We experienced a similar storm while staying in Guanaja, Honduras. There we went inside, secured shutters and doors until rain finished, then opened up and closed down again as rain returned over and over throughout the day. That time I asked one of our water taxi´s sons what he did on that rainy day. He looked at me like I was nuts and said, "I stayed home." No further explanation needed.

After Friday´s rain, Saturday was breezy and cool with high waves. We almost didn´t go in the water. Late in the afternoon we joined four others in the heavy waves. Everyone else stayed on the safety of the beach. The water was so warm we could have bathed in it. Instead we watched each approaching wave and jumped up at just the right time to ensure that it didn´t dunk us or shove us into the sandy shore.

Tomorrow (Monday) we catch a bus for Cancun. Tuesday is fly away day. It feels sad and yet appropriate that our time here is almost over. Back to the life we abandoned for seven full weeks. Other than occasional thoughts of our friends and family, Namaste, Zeke, and the geese, I´ve plunged myself into this alternative lifestyle. It has been adventurous, stressful, tiring, inspirational, educational, and absolutely, positively fun!

Sea and Sun

2009-01-30T14:19:00.004-06:00

We´re playing in Playa (del Carmen). With just four days before our return flight to way too cool Wisconsin, we´re spending time in the waves and sun. Yesterday we rode the waves for two hours and thought of several of our water-loving friends in Bayfield, Roberta and Teresa.... Wish you were here! Compared to Lake Superior the water is so warm here that you never have to get out.

Today the water was smooth and calm. After several efforts to float on her back and a few nosefuls and mouthfuls of water, Frances commented, ¨The sea is my own private netti pot.¨ It´s true! Sea water running into the nostrils is similar to pouring salt water into your nostrils from a small ceramic netti pot. Ah, gross!

Frances bought an English language book on Mayan Prophesies yesterday and read it in its entirely before going to bed last night it was such a gripper. Frances is happy to loan out the book to anyone wishing more information.

Our excitement for the day yesterday was finding acidophilus and bifidus at a pharmacia. That was a major accomplishment since we couldn´t speak enough Spanish to communicate exactly what we wanted. Everyone seemed to think we needed the antibiotics themselves. Now our digestive systems should get back on track after our five day dose of antibiotics.

Steph finds herself floating around for an hour or two after each venture into the water which makes for an interesting time trying to walk and navigate curbs and sidewalks.

Two more days of this intensive relaxation, sun, water, heat, and lounging should make us more than ready to tackle whatever cold and snow awaits us.

How do you pronounce tocino?

2009-01-26T17:46:00.004-06:00

Yes, we´re back in Mexico ... Chetumal, just across the border from Belize. We spent a few hours at the bus station here enroute to Belize during our first week of travel. Now we´re lingering for several days. We´ve slowed our pace considerably due to fevers and stomach/intestinal problems we both experienced several days ago. Luckily we came prepared with antibiotics so we´re well into treating our unknown illnesses.

It´s difficult to determine what causes stomach symptoms in this part of the world. For starters, it could be different foods, contaminated food or water, or insect bites. We read in the guidebook before our visit to Tikal that you can find mosquitoes there that cause both dengue fever and malaria ... or, rather, the mosquitoes can find you. We fell ill the day after hiking through Tikal.

At dinner last night our waiter said, ¨You have to help me with this,¨ as he placed a page of lyrics from an American song on the table before me. His main difficulty was with the words light and bright. He pronounced them the way Spanish speakers pronounce the vowel i which is similar to an American e. In the end, he read through the entire page and did quite well.

Later Frances and I speculated about why he chose to ask me for help. Then I remembered! I asked him for pronunciation help when I ordered my meal, a chicken (pollo) and bacon (tocino) sandwich. ¨How do you pronounce bacon,¨ I asked, ¨Is it tocino or tochino?¨

¨Chicken and bacon,¨ he replied.

I insisted. Eventually he said, ¨Tocino.¨ I´m glad he decided that I could return the favor.

Tomorrow we visit the Mayan Cultural Museum in Chetumal. Wednesday we head for Playa del Carmen to relax, recoup, and spend a few days on the beach--which we haven´t done yet on this trip--soaking up sunshine and storing up heat (just like human solar batteries). A week from Tuesday (Feb. 3) we return to our beloved northern home (a/k/a the Deep Freeze).

Treking Tikal

2009-01-24T09:57:00.004-06:00

Yes, ... we´re happy to be here. We´ve been in Flores several days. It´s a small island in a freshwater lake (Lago de Peten Itza)in the north of Guatemala. Madeline Island echoes in our memories over and over again because of our numerous island experiences during this trip.

Yesterday we took a tour to Tikal, a Mayan ruin lying deep in the jungle. We chose this tour because, other than our earlier venture to Cerros Ruins in northern Belize, we haven´t made any other treks into the jungle. Our tour bus left at 5am to beat the heat and the rush of tourists that we experienced during our visit to the ruins in Tulum, Mexico.

Our tour was one of the first of the day in the park so we spied creatures immediately ... a Tucan outside the restaurant where some group members ate breakfast, beautiful occillated turkeys by the parking lot (they resembled peacocks and Cesar, our guide, said they were captured for their meat and also their feathers which were used in headdresses), and Pizote-Koatymundis, a mammal that looked like a cross between a raccoon and an anteater with a long striped tail that stood straight up and waved and undulated behind it.

Later in our tour we saw Spider Monkeys frolicking in the branches above us--so much fun to see them in their natural habitat--and we heard the infamous Howler Monkeys (an eerie sound).

A Laughing Falcon pair showed themselves to us while perched high overhead and, at the end, a baby crocodile lounged next to a pond by the Visitor´s Center.

The tour began with Cesar handing out fresh Allspice leaves, a potent remedy against the Evil Eye of others. Next we saw a hughly magnificent Ceiba tree--the Tree of Life. Its root system alone grows taller than a standing human, its trunk--smooth and naked--rises straight into the sky, and its branches spread out horizontally at the top with moss and vines hanging down. It was fabulous!

We remembered that La Ceiba, Honduras was named after this incredible tree that stood by the sea there. Unfortunately, that same tree was later cut down to allow further expansion of the city.

Cesar showed us another tree with a fruit called "horse´s testicles." These large, rounded fruits split in half when they hit the ground and contained a milky liquid similar to Elmer´s glue--very sticky. "Monkeys love this fruit," he told us, "They just wait until the sap dries and the seeds turn brown and hard, then they scoop out the meat without getting messy."

Our four hour tour included three ruins we could climb. I climbed two and skipped the third because, after one high stone stepping climb, I realized that my thigh muscles were too worn out--still are!--to continue. Once I got to the top of Mundo Perdido (Lost World) I was tired AND fearful to climb back down. It was steep! You don´t realize how steep until you stand at the top and survey your surroundings.

Cesar reminded us that ruins were built as places to observe and connect with heavenly bodies. Thus, Tikal was designed to represent the Little Dipper (and, he said, the three great Pyramids of Egypt correspond with Orion´s Belt). Buildings on earth were constructed to line up with the path of sun or stars or moon as they traversed the sky. Quite an amazing feat of engineering!

Our guide revealed near the end of our tour that he and his family were victims of the Guatemalan civil war, his father shot in the back of the head when Cesar was three. "That," he said, "Was how I learned English. My family ended up in the US as political refugees."

We arrived back in Flores at 3pm and went back to our room for a nap. Our bodies and minds were worn out. Today our joints and limbs are still creaky and sore. Frances is experiencing a roiling stomach and napping in bed right now, hopeful that we can still catch our bus to Chetumal, Mexico early tomorrow.

The clock is ticking.... Several days ago in Rio Dulce we bought needle and thread to repair our well-worn packs. We, too, are wearying of our travels but none too excited to return to the extreme cold and snow that await us at home.

Surprise! Guatemala

2009-01-21T18:37:00.004-06:00

Just to set the record straight ... our own private island wasn´t all peace and bliss. We did have some complicated manipulations going on with the man who found us this island and provided services as our water taxi. But that is an entire story in itself. We´ll tell that another day.

Yesterday we were hijacked and ended up in Guatemala instead of Belize. At least Frances thinks we were hijacked. I think that this is the return route we were meant to take BUT I wanted to go to Guatemala and Frances did not.

It all started at the water taxi. When we arrived before 7AM, we were told there was no taxi to Belize City on Tuesdays and we´d have to wait a week to get there. However, a man at the site assured us we could get to Punta Gorda, Belize if we paid him $40US each and $25US each to get on a different boat. He kept pushing us, saying that we had to make up our minds quickly since the boat was leaving at 8 am.

Finally we said yes since we weren´t inclined to spend another week in Puerto Cortes, Honduras. But, after we naively hopped into Flash´s truck and headed down the road we slowly discovered that Flash intended to drive us to Puerto Barrios, Guatemala. There he would drop us off at a boat scheduled to leave Guatemala for Punto Gorda, Belize. SURPRISE!

The drive was beautiful. So much so that by the time we reached Puerto Barrios we were ready to switch to the bus instead of the boat and spend a bit of time in Guatemala. In addition, our taxi ride with Flash got us through immigration quickly and easily, the best experience we´ve had so far entering a new country.

In downtown Puerto Barrios, Flash asked a bus conductor about border crossings into Belize and then, magically, we were immediately placed in the front seat of a small van heading to Rio Dulce, Guatemala. The bus driver, Manuel, was wonderful. He told us he´d lived in California for two years and his English was very good. By the way, Flash revealed to us that he had lived in Boston for 10 years so his English was good as well.

During our trip to Rio Dulce Manuel shared a tremendous amount of travel information with us and truly eased our way into another new country and culture. This was especially helpful given the fact that when we got out of bed yesterday morning we had no plan to visit Guatemala on this trip at all.

We´re on another adventure and plan to spend the next three to four days in Guatemala before entering Belize through another border crossing.

Our Own Private Island

2009-01-19T18:30:00.003-06:00

"Would you like your own private island?" asked the man at the airport landing strip in Guanaja, Honduras. We hesitated. "Sure," we thought, "How likely is that?"

But that's where we stayed, on one of the small cayes just inside of one of Guanaja's reefs. The first day Frances and I walked around with big smiles on our faces. We were dreaming, weren't we?

No, this was our reality for five days and five nights. We lived in a multimillion dollar house and property; caretaker's small house and dock at one end of the island and spacious, airy, comfy, two-bedroom, two-bath "Big Boss" house on the other. The entire house had wooden slat louvered doors and windows (mahogany) that allowed it to open up into a breezy shelter that invited the sound of waves and the whoosh of sea breeze to circulate throughout. No screens. Just wide open doors.

The wooden deck straddled the sea on cement-filled plastic plumbing pipes. A combination cement/rock/coral reef sea wall stood along one end and side of this tiny island that took less than five minutes to walk around.

This was a genuinely magnificent spot to idle away hours watching sunrise, moonrise, stars, heavy rainstorms, and sea creatures as they swam and floated and meandered through the shallow waters that surrounded us.

We rested in the hammock, snorkled right off the shore, wrote, cooked, read reef and fish identification books and even finished one novel each on a rainy day. Right in front of "our" house men walked out in the ten inch high water and fly cast for fish that pushed their dorsal fins out of the water as they played and fed in groups.

We were startled to see creatures that were invisible in their surroundings but appeared in front of us for one moment before blending back into turtle grass and white sand, invisible again right before our eyes. Dozens of small crabs, a striped eel, bone fish, sting rays. All of these performed their disappearing acts as we strained to follow their paths in water that was clear like air. That reminded Frances of schools of fish we saw in Roatan, visible only because we saw their shadows in the sand; their bodies were transparent.

The waves hitting the reef roared constantly. While the sound made it through to us (Frances commented that she had to raise her voice louder just to be heard), the waves themselves were calmed.

We left our island paradise on Saturday. Today we're spending our last night in Honduras in Omoa, then back to Belize via water taxi. We'll wend our way slowly toward Cancun in order to catch our return flight in just two short weeks.

Should We Stay or Should We Go ...

2009-01-10T17:18:00.004-06:00

We're halfway through our travel adventure ... can't believe it. Today, drumroll please, Frances bought her first sleeveless shirt after traveling for over three weeks in the tropics. I packed two sleeveless shirts and three t-shirts but Frances, the woman who wears long underwear year round in Bayfield brought two long-sleeved shirts and one t-shirt ... she tells me that she's just like her dad.

Here on Roatan Island you typically sweat from about 9am to 9pm. One of the shop owners who moved here from New Jersey last February said that most people try to get into the shade or stay home from around noon to 3pm. I still haven't figured out how people work in the heat. It's hard enough relaxing and having fun.

We ARE getting tans. Even though we spend most of our time under trees or palapas, in buses, or layered with 50 plus suntan lotion, we can't avoid it. The sun is so intense.

About a week ago we saw a large blow up scene celebrating the holiday season. It was larger than life size on the edge of a central park. Styrofoam snow rained down on a snowman. What a sight! I can't even imagine it, or remember it, when I'm living in 80 and 90 degree heat.

We're trying to change our return flight since Frances is over it when it comes to bus travel. If we can't, we'll need to start busing for cancun [sorry, the keyboard I'm using at this internet cafe won't capitalize "c" and "m" or provide parenthesis marks] within a few days.

Both yesterday and today we checked on a thatch roof that's being built downtown in West End. Frances wants to build something similar on our property in Bayfield to duplicate the idea of something natural meant to withstand wind and rain. It's like bringing part of our trip home with us. We found out from our hosts at the cerros Beach Resort in northern Belize that palms for thatch need to be female rather than male because they're stronger. They also have to be harvested between three days before and three days after the full moon so that they are at their peak strength.

One of the men watching the construction yesterday told us that the palms used for this thatch were harvested last full moon. Jenny at cerros Beach Resort told us that the right timing for harvest can mean the difference between a thatch roof that lasts for two to three years versus one that lasts for 15 years.

I mentioned to Frances as we walked down the one main street in West End today that I feel like I'm an investigative reporter searching for as much local lore and information as I can find. It's great fun ... plus you meet many interesting people.

Terror of the Not So Deep

2009-01-08T19:58:00.005-06:00

Another wonderful day on Roatan. We started with our fruit breakfast and a long conversation about American politics with two young, passionate, and politically-aware travelers from California. Next we headed to West Bay (about a 45 minute walk from Keifitos Plantation where we're staying). We swam out from the shore to snorkle ... the water was incredibly clear.

Unfortunately, Frances is a much braver explorer than I. She tries to point out the beautiful fish but when she looks to find me I have turned and headed back toward shore. All she sees is my pink snorkle disappearing into the horizon. Neither of us can swim but I am more scared about it than she is. I'm still trying to get used to the fact that once I put my face (with snorkle mask) down into the water I am cradled by the water. Today when I saw the sea bottom getting farther and farther away from me I hightailed it back toward shore. We did go out again and swim further into the reef after Frances assured me that it got more shallow farther out from shore. (My fears about going into a low blood sugar add to my anxiety.)

I told Frances today that if we keep getting back into the water and practicing I'm sure that I'll feel more and more confident. I'm definitely learning more about me and my inner fears. Hopefully, I can overcome some of my anxieties before our time runs out here on these beautiful shores.

After a long swing in our hammock and peanut butter sandwiches in our room, we headed into West End to have a drink and visit the internet cafe. We tried our first Mojitos tonight, thanks to another movie star, James Bond. Frances saw them on the menu and the first was so good we had another.

Tomorrow we go fruit picking with our host, Phillip. He harvests his own fruit from the plantation for our breakfasts so we'll see how it's done. He did forewarn us to wear long pants with shoes and socks since we'll venture through stinging nettle.

Thank you, Jackie Chan!

2009-01-07T11:21:00.004-06:00

We're back in paradise again ... Roatan Island, off the north coast of Honduras. (We think about Bayfield and Madeline Island often ... the main difference is the climate). We arrived by ferry (250 person capacity) last evening from La Ceiba. It was an hour and a quarter trip across the Caribbean Sea with barf bags distributed freely to those on board.

Luckily the ferry was set up like a movie theater and showed a Jackie Chan movie during the trip. That provided a vital focus point to keep attention off the swells. Nonetheless, people rushed for a bathroom and kids and adults alike made use of their plastic bag accessory. One crew member was stationed at the front of the boat and intently watched faces to discover where to go next to offer additional plastic bags and/or needed wiping up services. I think Frances and I have fairly strong stomachs but, truth be told, Jackie Chan may have saved us!

We found a wonderful lodging that's about a 10 minute walk from town along the beach. Cabins are perched atop a high embankment with stairs to the beach and a long dock. We rented snorkle equipment from Phillip, our host, and we plan to swim right off the shore this afternoon to see what sea life resides underneath the waters. On our deck we have our first hammock! We're told we'll be able to lie in it to watch the sunset! We already paid for four additional nights.

Of course, Roatan is one of the best spots in this country to sample malaria ... five different kinds on this island alone. We visited a butterfly and insect museum in La Ceiba two days ago and also found out about Chagas, a disease from biting insects that affects one-third of Honduran people. No known cure. It gets into the blood stream, attacks heart, liver, digestive tract, and kills within 10 to 20 years after infection, usually by heart attack.

We're staying on a plantation and hope to join Phillip on his venture to pick fruit for breakfast in the next day or two. We had lots of exotic possibilities this AM: a white sour fruit, a black (chocolate pudding-like) fruit, papaya, and watermelon. Frances wants to find out how the owners planted fruit trees in the preexisting tropical forest. There are horses, cows, and chickens here too. As a result, we had homemade cheese on fresh-baked bagels for breakfast this AM. A horse ride on the beach is an enticing possibility as well.

It's noon ... Time to shop for groceries, head back to our lodging, and hit the water. Adios, amigos.

From Spanish to English and Back Again

2009-01-05T19:21:00.002-06:00

We´re in La Ceiba, Honduras now ... arrived here accidentally on Sunday, Jan. 4. We paid for bus tickets to Tela but didn´t realize we were at our bus stop, a pull off point along the road where we expected a bus station, and we just stayed on the bus. No one told us we were at our destination. All buses have a ¨conductor¨who collects fares along the way as people board the bus. On other buses in Belize that conductor would have told us when to get off. No big deal. We planned to be here soon since this is the jumping off point for the Bay Islands.

We´ve been on the road three weeks. We started in Mexico with mostly English and a little Spanish to communicate, then stayed 10 days in Belize which is English speaking. It was a relief to not have to struggle to communicate. But now we´re back at it. This time most of our communication is with lodging, restaurant, market, and bus employees who know no English or very, very little. So it´s up to us to find a way to express ourselves.

I think often of Dora Kling from Washburn who told me that when she goes to Mexico each March for a month of vacation, she speaks Spanish and when that doesn´t work, she acts and points. ¨Why, once I performed an entire three act play,¨she told me, ¨They still didn´t know what I wanted.¨

We also met a young Canadian man on our water taxi to Caye Caulker, Belize. He had traveled extensively in Mexico and Guatemala and told us that several times he ended up spending an additional night or two at his lodging because he didn´t know how to tell them that he wanted to check out. Whew. We´re doing fine. Steph´s 30 year old college Spanish classes and Spanish dictionary are helping tremendously.

Traveling across borders from one country to the next typically means a long, stressful day. Our experience getting from Belize to Honduras is a prime example. First we boarded a bus in Placencia, Belize at 545 am for a two hour trip to Dangriega. Then we took a taxi to the water taxi meant to deliver us to Puerto Cortes, Honduras. Here we were told to give up our passports for the water taxi company to fill out their manifest. They assured us that they´d been doing this for over 20 years. Then they loaded our luggage in a truck and about 32 of us in various vehicles for our trip to immigration where they took our passports out of a plastic bag for the immigration officer to stamp.

We reboarded our vehicles for a trip to a dock in the middle of nowhere where we waited for over an hour for a boat to arrive. The immigration officer got on the boat and called our names one by one from our passports indicating that we should board. Three hours later we were at Puerto Cortes. Here we had to ride a cab to the Immigration Office in Honduras which was closed. A sign on the door indicated a number to call for assistance. Here we waited over an hour in blazing midday heat for our immigration official to arrive. Again, our passports were handed back to us in order for us to fill out a form to present to the customs´agent. After a long line, and an additional unexplained $3 US fee, we were done.

Frances and I were the only members of our boatload who stayed in Puerto Cortes. Everyone else just wanted to get the hell out of there. Heck, the cab driver told us he had lived there his whole life and there was nothing to see.

But we were exhausted and unwilling to travel any farther. We´d already put in a 10 hour day and needed to rest. We walked to a nearby hotel with a fence all around and booked a room. Chickens must have been living immediately behind or underneath our room because we heard crowing and clucking the rest of that day and all night. There were even small chicken feathers on the floor of our room and in the shower.

Again, what an adventure....

Tropical Paradise

2008-12-28T19:42:00.002-06:00

We're in Caye Caulker, Belize. Took a wonderful snorkle trip to the reef this AM with three stops: first stop our guide, Salvadore, led us (seven total with only Frances and I choosing to wear PFDs around our waists) as he pointed out a green moray eel, a sea turtle, various corals including one called "brain" (eerie how realistic it looked), another called "staghorn" and yet another called "fire."

At our second stop (sting ray and shark alley) we were in water so shallow that the guide told us to take off our fins and just walk or float above the sting rays. Sharks have not been seen on this reef recently so we watched the sting rays from the boat while Salvadore held one in his arms and pointed out where the stinger is located along its quite long tail. Their eyes were amazing.

I was perfectly happy watching from the boat when Frances ventured in. She slid into the water too late to see the baracuda that several others were watching. This was where we also had a snack of fresh pineapple, bananas, and oranges ... delicious.

At our final stop Salvatore told us we could go out on our own to view some schools of fish and swim around the barrier looking for whatever we could find. I was too careful, not wanting to accidentally hit or touch the coral or injure myself so Frances had to wave me further into the reef to see more fish. I was also too careful about sunscreen, I guess, and being reluctant to put any on that would wash off in the sea I now feel the heat of a fabulous snorkeling sunburn.

Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Boxing Day were spent at Cerros Beach Resort, across the bay from Corozal, Belize. What an experience! The owners, Jenny and Bill, are focused on sustainable and nature-centered experiences. They heat their water and run their electricity on solar, capture their shower and toilet water from the rain, house their guests in four cabanas built with local palm thatch and wood from their property, pick us up and boat us across the bay to their resort, and treat us with great care and attention, feeding us wonderful food that Bill cooks. Each breakfast and dinner were times to share travel stories and stories of life in Belize.

On Christmas Day, Jenny drove Frances and I to a nearby town (Chenux?) where we visited a local family they have befriended. This trip was intended to allow us the experience of crossing a river using a hand crank bridge. The bridge holds two vehicles plus pedestrians. Cars drive on, then a government worker starts cranking and within five minutes the wooden bridge meets the other side of the river and cars drive on their way.

The day before our trip over the bridge a man and his wife drove quickly onto the bridge while it was raining and went straight off the bridge and into the river. His wife couldn't swim and died. The sad remains of their experience sat beside the road ... a water-soaked car with its windshield smashed out.

Christmas night, Bill (our chef, who told us he's prepared a meal for two presidents--Clinton/Gore and Bush/Cheney) made us a pork roast that was shared with us and the other two guests there, Kath and Ian (from London). As an aside, Bill told us that each president always gives a memento to their chef. Clinton gave him a keychain with the presidential seal on it, Bush gave him a small bag of M&Ms from Air Force One.

So many stories were shared between guests and hosts during our three days at Cerros Resort we'll have to tell more later when our internet cafe charges are cheaper. Still can't believe we're here. I told Frances over lunch today that I feel guilty when I think of all my friends and family who are shoveling and layering on coats and gloves and hats and mittens. I'm working on getting over my guilt. The warm salt air and beautiful azure water seem to help.

Go South, Senoras, Go South

2008-12-23T15:24:00.004-06:00

We´re in the bus station in Chetumal, Mexico waiting for a connecting bus to Corozal, Belize. It´s been a full day trip and more to come....

I forgot to tell the most memorable story of our first night in Tulum. We stayed at the hostel, The Weary Traveller, and spent most of the night fighting bedbugs and too-cold AC (one sheet, no blankets for the bed and no air circulation without AC). The bedbugs were persistent and Frances awakened numerous times throughout the night scratching and complaining.

We moved the bed away from the wall but discovered later from Brett, my world-traveling younger brother, that there were numerous other strategies to fight this plague had we known about them. After moving the bed so that it touches nothing else (i.e., walls, bedside tables, etc.), place glasses of water underneath each leg of the bed. Huh, there were plastic cups under each bed leg. Next, coat the legs of the bed with vasoline. Bedbug escape strategies continued but we decided that our best plan was this: Never stay in another Weary Traveller again.

We´re leaving our comfy bus experience behind the further we go. Our bus this AM from Tulum to Chetumal did not have a TV or assigned seats so people squeezed in whereever they could fit. What a relief to NOT have a TV. Quiet conversation is what I heard--bueno. The price for two for 240 kilometers was $11.80US so Frances calls these bus fares "the best deal in Mexico."

I wonder whether we´ll have similar nights in Belize. In Tulum the music started about 4:30pm and played for several hours. Then political campaigns circled the neighborhoods with loudspeakers and music announcing various candidates for presidente. I usually woke about 3:30am to the sound of dogs fighting and cats howling. Then back to sleep until the roosters started crowing at 4:30 to 5:00am. The birds start singing loudly about this time as well. At night the animals are loud--including party animals--but traffic is quieter. We liked the sound of the jungle in the city. Will that continue? We´ll soon see. We are definitely in paradise compared to the below zero temps and snow in the world that we left behind.

Sol y Mar

2008-12-21T14:33:00.004-06:00

We´ve been on the road in Mexico now for almost a week. Finally our minds are catching up with our bodies as we visit our first (ever) internet cafe. We flew into Cancun last Tuesday (16th) and by the time we found lodging and a meal (five tacos and a tamarind margarita) we hit the bed at 6pm and slept ´til 9am the next morning. Monday the 15th was a long day what with finishing up final details for our home and business, shoveling the new foot of snow, and driving at 35-40 miles per hour all the way to Duluth/Superior due to icy roads. We planned to have dinner with friends Robbyn and Jan in St. Paul but instead reached their home at 10:30pm, talked ´til 1:15am and set the alarm for 3:00am to reach the airport for our 6:00am flight.

Our most memorable moments so far ...

Snorkeling Dos Ojos cenote outside of Tulum. Our guide, Sebastian, from Argentina showed us the tiny root hairs of trees that grow down through the limestone roof into the underground waters where we swam. Also, one place in the cave had long shafts of sunlight piercing into the water that Sebastian called ¨the fingers of God.¨ The driver for this trip, Daniel, told us enroute that his first girlfriend when he was 16 called him a pulpo (octopus) because his hands were everywhere. A word is worth a thousand pictures, eh?

We went to la playa yesterday just north and east of Tulum. White sand beaches so beautiful and easy to walk (the sand doesn´t shift underfoot because it is made from coral reef) compared to the shores of Lake Superior. The water is 80 degrees and air temp about 87 but the breeze off the ocean is cooling. We sat next to a massage stand on the beach with four tables and four therapists waiting patiently for clients. Frances just couldn´t pull herself away from the sight. She said, ¨The language is different but the techniques are the same.¨

Today we looked in vain for an open laundry. No luck since it´s Sunday so it´s back to our hotel to hand wash clothes. We may still have time to get to the Tulum ruins but don´t want to rush as we´re on vacation.

The sun and warmth and beautiful flowers are divine. We may leave for Belize tomorrow AM. We´ll see what the rest of this day holds ...

We're Off!!

2008-12-14T13:14:00.000-06:00

This winter Frances and I are leaving the northern tundra for the tropics of Mexico and Central America ... and none too soon. While "tundra" may be an exaggeration, right now we're in the midst of our first major winter storm with whiteout conditions, tumbling temps, dangerous windchills, and nonstop snowfall. We drive to the Twin Cities tomorrow to catch our 6:00 AM Tuesday morning flight. Our fervent hope ... that the weather accommodates our travel plans and we arrive safely in Mexico on Tuesday afternoon.

First stop: Cancun. Then we're off to parts unknown. Our only agenda is to spend time in Mexico, Belize, and Honduras with occasional bouts of snorkeling when opportunities and coral reefs present themselves. From subzero to 80 degrees plus will take some adjustment but we're confident that we'll acclimatize ourselves to the warmth and sunshine.

We'll keep in touch through occasional stops at internet cafes along our route. So revisit "Under the Forest Canopy" in the coming weeks--seven total--as we travel to seashore and jungle, Mayan ruins, and ?? Adventure awaits us ... Hasta luego!

June is Bustin' Out All Over!

2008-06-28T07:27:00.000-05:00

The lupines are out in full force. Radiant spikes of purple-blue with occasional pinks and whites line the roadsides, appear at the edges of forest, peek out of tall grasses, and stake their claim amidst acres and acres of green.

Two nights ago I stopped along a gravel road to pick a bouquet. I felt like a thief! Lupines should truly be left where they grow. Still, I couldn’t resist plucking a handful. These glorious blooms hold an honored spot on our kitchen counter and feed our souls each time we enter the kitchen.

Why are lupines so magnificent? Part of their wonder is in their wildness. They are hardy enough to survive among tall weeds and grasses that would overwhelm other varieties. Yet they seem frail and elusive. Where will they show up next? What colors will be revealed? It’s hard to know until they appear. Locals and visitors both relish these few short weeks of summer that sing with lupines!

But lupines aren’t the only blooms over which we hold bragging rights. Driving back from teaching my t’ai chi chih moving meditation class in Cornucopia last week I saw a field of white daisies. They were so plentiful they resembled snow covering the field of grass. When I attended retired biologist Tom Gerstenberger’s slide presentation on “Special Places in Bayfield County” at the Bayfield Library last Saturday night (part of a 24-hour BioBlitz), he mentioned that same field of daisies. They were fabulous!

Several other beauties of the northland: buttercups spring up abundantly, adding a yellow glow to the summer heat. Orange hawkweed, too, hums its vibrant tune along the roadways. Both varieties are a delicious treat; too delicate to include in bouquets but eye-catching in their natural habitat. I can almost see wood nymphs dancing across their blossoms in frenzied delight!

Blackberry bushes also blossom prolifically; large white flowers that whisper a promise of delicious fruit. I impatiently await the small purple-black berries that will soon hang heavily at the ends of these branches.

Every summer these indescribable wildflowers surprise me with their fortitude and vibrancy. They’re truly a gift of pleasure and presence. Just yesterday this song from the musical “Carousel” echoed into me: “June is bustin’ out all over. All over the meadow and the hill! Buds’re bustin’ outa bushes And the rompin’ river pushes Ev’ry little wheel that wheels beside the mill!” Rodgers & Hammerstein had it right. It’s almost July but June IS bustin’ out all over!

Rebirth and Death

2008-06-25T13:31:00.000-05:00

Spring is a time of rebirth. It’s easy to understand why when we see grasses, plants, and flowers weave upwards through the soil, greening, budding, and flowering; birds laying their eggs in newly-built nests; and bear, deer, fox, and other creatures of the wild delivering their young into dens and deeply hidden places. But this spring has also been a time of death and dying. Frances’ mother died April 3 at age 93. I, too, lost an uncle and then an aunt this spring. They all lived good, long lives but death is always hard to embrace no matter how long-anticipated.

My cat Hiziki’s health (“Zeke”) is also failing. Three or four months ago he started drinking more water. Then he lost weight. In late May he ate a woodpecker and began to vomit, ceasing to eat or drink at all. Oh, how I’ve grieved! Zeke is the family member with whom I’ve lived longest. I moved away from my parents at age 17 but Zeke has been with me for 18, 19, or 20 years. His purr soothes my spirits daily. His beautiful green eyes hold my gaze with love, acceptance, and appreciation.

Zeke shared most of the eight years I lived alone in a Minneapolis apartment. Desperate for attention, he climbed into my lap and onto my keyboard each time I sat down to write at my computer. When I moved onto four and one-half acres of suburban land with Frances, he moved too. Initially frightened, he soon acclimated himself to the excitement of nighttime hunting. He let himself in and out of our front door by lying on his back and wedging his claws underneath the heavy wooden door until he could pull it ajar, flip quickly onto his feet, and run hurriedly inside.

One night Frances and I awoke to feel Zeke chasing a baby bunny across our bodies in bed. Another time he appeared after a battle that left part of one cheek torn away from his face. Though injured, his attitude was one of great pride and accomplishment. “You should see the other guy,” the look in his eyes said.

Our move to the woods north of Bayfield added new challenges. Zeke took to hunting in the wilderness with the same spirit of adventure that he’d shown in the suburbs. This time, though, he was coping with coyotes, wolves, and bears. The story of his face-off with a black bear our first spring here in the woods is described in a previous blog (“Lions and Tigers and Bears … Oh My!” June 30, 2007).

Several weeks ago while he was still unable to eat I found Zeke outside underneath a fern next to our house clenching a red squirrel between his teeth. Maybe he couldn’t eat, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him, dammit!

For the moment Zeke is stable. After a trip to the vet I decided not to use any additional measures to extend his life. No blood tests or x-rays, no fluids under the skin, no updated shots, no teeth pulled. I love and comfort him, give him daily reiki energy sessions, turn on the faucet in the bathroom tub when he wants to drink, and squeeze tuna water out of the can when he wants to eat.

This past month reminds me of the final days in both my father’s and mother’s lives. I was present with both of them when they died and my memories give me the strength to carry on with this beloved cat of mine. Though incredibly difficult and painful, I’m also grateful and filled with love and appreciation for this great grey creature—once 16 pounds—who continues to bring such joy to my life.

Taking Flight

2008-06-22T14:39:00.000-05:00

SATURDAY, JUNE 21, 2008, 10:00 am

I’m on the deck watching two goldfinches at the feeder, one adult and one fledgling (?). The one I call fledgling is smaller, less colorful, with a skinnier head and neck and more plain looking ... I’d call him “unfinished.” As they sit on the wire before flying to the feeder, the babe cries out high-pitched needy sounds. Could they be father and son? I don’t know the parenting habits of finches so it’s all a guess.

We’re still anticipating the departure of our eastern phoebe nestlings from their home above the kitchen window. This morning I saw two of the four “twiddly butts”--that’s what Frances calls them--with faces to the wall and butts pointed out into the world. I’m anxious, thinking that they’ll be gone soon and I’ll miss their presence.

SUNDAY, JUNE 22, 2008, 7:30 am

Yes!!! Our eastern phoebes took flight this morning! I was busy with morning chores but sneaked a peak at their nest and saw the fledglings positioned differently. Beaks pointed out from the nest instead of inward toward the house. I felt a sense of alertness and expectancy. An hour later as I prepared my own breakfast I checked the nest again. Only one baby remained. It stood sleepily on the human-built deck beneath its nest then gradually turned its head and blinked its eyes. I sat quietly, watching, since I knew that the end/beginning was near. Before long it casually flung itself into the air and was gone.

I still marvel at the sight of fledglings leaving the nest. (See last year’s blog dated July 2, 2007.) Just 15-16 days after breaking out of their eggshells, eagerly accepting insects from their parents’ beaks, and quickly growing to almost-full size (7”), they venture into the world. They’ve never flown prior to this day yet they glide and lift gracefully into the unknown. They’re good role models for adult humans who hesitate, procrastinate, and exasperate themselves and each other with their timidity and hesitancy to take a risk, to try something new ... to spread their wings.

Ah yes, the next time I’m reluctant to push beyond my comfort zone I’ll remember the eastern phoebe fledglings who vacated their nest on untested wings and soared through the air to their next grand adventure.

Rise and Shine

2008-06-04T22:20:00.000-05:00

Morning quiet in early June. It’s cool—-40 degrees-—but a welcome calm weights the air.

“The woods are quiet, dark, and deep ...” I look out on a world of green leaves and hazy, almost-drippy dimness. An overturned bowl of condensed soup covers the sky, thick white. It rained much of the night and will likely rain much of this day too.

A chorus of squirrels sings from a circle of trees by the south deck. This woodland choir pleases me and I’m reminded of my mother’s favorite wake-up call, “Rise and Shine.” She’d sing the words up the stairwell or through one-inch square holes in the living room ceiling, the heat source for the bedroom I shared with my younger sister. It was a lovely, hopeful, just-right promise for a new day, the “shine” trailing upward in an insistent soprano, then sliding downward to completion.

I can still hear my mother’s voice--and feel her intent--three years after her death. Of course, my sister, brother, and I groaned under the weight of such morning glee. We didn’t want to get out of bed to get ready for school and no song, performance, or enticement made the least bit of difference. It was downright aggravating.

Too late I regret my childish disregard and hopefully revisit this joyful refrain. I occasionally sing “Rise and Shine” to Ander and Lucy as I let them out of the barn. The geese seem unimpressed but I sing it anyway. Some days I sing it to myself, a silent voice bouncing around inside my head in search of a fertile spot in which to take root.

Even though today’s air is heavy with the possibility of rain I remind myself to “rise and shine.” I must create my own light today. What better way than to start, as the squirrels and the birds do, with a song?

The Green Mile ... Er, 25 Acres

2008-06-03T14:20:00.000-05:00

Vivid greens—-lemon lime ferns; rich, forest green pine branches tipped with tender green; apple green maples, oaks, and poplars—-suddenly crowd the woods. Frances looked out the window at a nearby maple this morning. Bright green light reflected off the vast expanse of each leaf and bounced into the room.

“Wow, those leaves are big!” Frances said, “Have they always been that big?”

“No,” I replied smugly, “Not since last year.”

They DO look huge. “HAVE they always been that big?” I wonder after she’s gone.

All this green is unexpected. Overwhelming. Still, during the transition from winter to spring green is a promise hidden in the trees and plants and dirt. The gradual transformation from bare branch to bud to leaf unfolding doesn’t happen overnight.

A new editing client who works as a doula (birth assistant) told me on the phone yesterday that “transition” is a legitimate part of the birthing process. It’s a short period of time, she said, seven to ten minutes when the woman may shake and vomit. It’s too late for medication but too soon to begin pushing. Stuck, almost every woman giving birth says she can’t do it, said my client. After this brief phase is over the pushing begins, followed by the birth.

An apt metaphor: Like a pregnant woman engaged in nine months of gestation who brings her babe into the world, Mother Earth goes through a similar cycle. Just when I think that spring, then summer, will never arrive it slides into view like a baby’s head breaching the cervix.

The natural world is transformed. I hungrily gobble up greens, inhaling the sights, sounds, and gradations of color. When I glance out the window, a Phoebe pumps its tail up and down as it perches on a wire cage encircling a bleeding heart. From another angle I spy a forget-me-not nodding its flowery blue face. But now, NOW, all is surrounded by green. I feel the way I did at the birth of a friend’s second son. I’ve just witnessed a miracle.

Unfolding Magic

2008-05-17T07:07:00.000-05:00

And now the buds emerge ...
They linger on edges
Unable to touch
The gliding raven
Soaring overhead.

They tint the forest
With their palette.
Lime, lemon, rose,
Flavoring the air
With possibility.

They whisper sweet
Promises of hope,
Rebirth,
Longings satisfied,
Unfolding magic.

They embody months
of long darkness.
Snowstorms
and rain alike
Nurtured their growth.

Now they fling themselves
Impatiently,
Recklessly,
With graceful abandon,
Into the light.