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/.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Serenity in the Midst of Activity
That’s the theme of spring here in our woodland home … serenity in the midst of activity. Our 2002 move to the northern Wisconsin woods began as an escape into nature. Securely swaddled in 25 acres of trees we thought we were protected from outside intrusions. Still, “The only constant in life is change.” How many times have I heard that refrain?
How do we cope with change? Put simply, we learn to adapt.
The Town of Russell is the most recent location for expansion, development, and construction in the Bayfield area. This spring we start most days with the sound of moving equipment and heavy-machinery operating over a mile away up over the ridge behind our house. First trees were uprooted and removed. Now the gravel crusher has arrived. Pound-pound-pound-pound-pound. Screech-screech-screech. This project is scheduled for completion within four to six weeks assuming that operators can work from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. The next noisy step is yet to be revealed.
Every weekend night—and some weekday nights as well—we listen to bar noise from across the road (about a half-mile away). Summer was already a rowdy time as bar patrons moved outside to enjoy warmer temperatures while they conversed and drank, laughed and yelled. Live music shows entertained the entire area. One neighbor living on the hill behind us said that he could tell when a friend played at the bar because he could hear his instrument…. Our neighbor lives a mile beyond our house.
As of April 2009, we now enjoy occasional weekend evenings filled with loud, provocative music and hoots and hollers as the bar presents exotic dancing. Though we don’t attend these performances they still affect us. Initially there was a change in management. Now I hear that as clientele change, the bar atmosphere gets rougher and sleezier. But most significant, there's a subtle psychic energy shift that accompanies the sex trade business. Does anyone talk about it? No. For as long as no obvious physical changes can be identified (bar fights, wife beatings, public prostitution, etc.), it's not a problem.
How do I ignore the goings-on around me? How do I cope with the noise and continue on with my life, unaffected? How do I remember that someday, once again, I’ll be able to hear the songbirds without interruption and sense the presence of deer and bear by the light shuffle of their feet through the leaves and brush on the forest floor?
These questions bring me face-to-face with Taoist philosophy. I’m reminded that I’ve been practicing and teaching t’ai chi chih moving meditation for over 13 years. What do I do?
I emulate the Eastern Phoebes nesting above our kitchen window. These hardy souls build their nest under the eaves in order to share a protective overhang with their human hosts. In our case, the birds cope with Frances, Namaste, and my frequent exits and entrances through the front door right below their nest. Our kitchen window looks out on their nest as well. We also climb a nearby ladder twice daily to hang a hummingbird feeder over our front step.
Mama Phoebe initially responded to our shenanigans by flying out of the nest whenever we left or entered the house. She soon adapted her behaviors depending upon her level of comfort with our activities, sometimes flying away, sometimes staying put. But, now … Now we have new babies. We saw two fuzzy heads, beaks protruding over the side of the nest, yesterday. (We hope that there are two more huddled somewhere deeper in the nest.)
For the next few weeks Mama and Papa Phoebe will engage in almost-constant insect hunting in order to feed their young. They’ll time their feedings to correspond with the demands of their babies as well as the comings and goings of their human cohabiters.
And, guess what? Their babies will survive … and quite likely, thrive. There’s a lesson in this for me, I know.
How do we cope with change? Put simply, we learn to adapt.
The Town of Russell is the most recent location for expansion, development, and construction in the Bayfield area. This spring we start most days with the sound of moving equipment and heavy-machinery operating over a mile away up over the ridge behind our house. First trees were uprooted and removed. Now the gravel crusher has arrived. Pound-pound-pound-pound-pound. Screech-screech-screech. This project is scheduled for completion within four to six weeks assuming that operators can work from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. The next noisy step is yet to be revealed.
Every weekend night—and some weekday nights as well—we listen to bar noise from across the road (about a half-mile away). Summer was already a rowdy time as bar patrons moved outside to enjoy warmer temperatures while they conversed and drank, laughed and yelled. Live music shows entertained the entire area. One neighbor living on the hill behind us said that he could tell when a friend played at the bar because he could hear his instrument…. Our neighbor lives a mile beyond our house.
As of April 2009, we now enjoy occasional weekend evenings filled with loud, provocative music and hoots and hollers as the bar presents exotic dancing. Though we don’t attend these performances they still affect us. Initially there was a change in management. Now I hear that as clientele change, the bar atmosphere gets rougher and sleezier. But most significant, there's a subtle psychic energy shift that accompanies the sex trade business. Does anyone talk about it? No. For as long as no obvious physical changes can be identified (bar fights, wife beatings, public prostitution, etc.), it's not a problem.
How do I ignore the goings-on around me? How do I cope with the noise and continue on with my life, unaffected? How do I remember that someday, once again, I’ll be able to hear the songbirds without interruption and sense the presence of deer and bear by the light shuffle of their feet through the leaves and brush on the forest floor?
These questions bring me face-to-face with Taoist philosophy. I’m reminded that I’ve been practicing and teaching t’ai chi chih moving meditation for over 13 years. What do I do?
I emulate the Eastern Phoebes nesting above our kitchen window. These hardy souls build their nest under the eaves in order to share a protective overhang with their human hosts. In our case, the birds cope with Frances, Namaste, and my frequent exits and entrances through the front door right below their nest. Our kitchen window looks out on their nest as well. We also climb a nearby ladder twice daily to hang a hummingbird feeder over our front step.
Mama Phoebe initially responded to our shenanigans by flying out of the nest whenever we left or entered the house. She soon adapted her behaviors depending upon her level of comfort with our activities, sometimes flying away, sometimes staying put. But, now … Now we have new babies. We saw two fuzzy heads, beaks protruding over the side of the nest, yesterday. (We hope that there are two more huddled somewhere deeper in the nest.)
For the next few weeks Mama and Papa Phoebe will engage in almost-constant insect hunting in order to feed their young. They’ll time their feedings to correspond with the demands of their babies as well as the comings and goings of their human cohabiters.
And, guess what? Their babies will survive … and quite likely, thrive. There’s a lesson in this for me, I know.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Sun, Sun, Sun, Here It Comes ...
"Here comes the sun (du dn du du)
Here comes the sun.
And I say,
It’s alright."
(Thank you, George Harrison and The Beatles.)
After days of clouds, rain, and shivery temps, we’re edging toward summer. This past week—brrrr—chilly. Temps sunk to the low 30s, highs hovered in the low 40s.
Is this typical weather for this time of year? I remember that our first few years here (2004? 2005?) I offered free t’ai chi chih classes at Memorial Park in downtown Bayfield, mid-May through mid-June. The event was part of the Chamber’s “Bayfield in Bloom” promotion.
Hardy folks showed up at some of my practice sessions wearing winter coats, hats, scarves and mittens. So, yeah, this is typical weather. It’s easy to forget from one year to the next how slowly the South Shore of Lake Superior eases into summer.
Vegetable seeds are in the ground. Thanks to much-needed rain we’re soaking in green. A few varieties of lettuce and sugar snap peas peek hopefully out of the earth. As far as swiss chard, red kale, and tomatoes plants go—not much growth—but they haven’t frozen yet!!! One night, nervous about a potential freeze, we hauled out old blankets to cover our babies.
Speaking of babies … We suspect our Eastern Phoebe’s eggs hatched out last weekend. On Saturday we heard a screeching “phoe-be” in the yard right outside our front door. “It sounds like a birth announcement,” said Frances. Was Dad spreading the news to the neighborhood? It certainly felt that way.
Mama bird now sits higher in her nest (above the kitchen window). In these temps I imagine it’s a challenge to keep her scantily-feathered babies warm. I also heard tiny peeps. Did I hear tiny peeps? Though we’ve not seen heads or beaks yet, fledglings have 15 to 16 days to mature before they take off for parts unknown.
We’ll watch closely over the next few weeks. Soon we’ll have a crew of starving, persistent peepers demanding breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snaks. It’s fun to catch glimpses of Mom and Dad as they feed insects to their young. Perhaps this year once again we’ll witness several of the fledglings as they swoop down out of their nest and into the air. They’re great reminders that it’s okay to leave security behind as we wing ourselves into the future … whatever it holds.
Here comes the sun.
And I say,
It’s alright."
(Thank you, George Harrison and The Beatles.)
After days of clouds, rain, and shivery temps, we’re edging toward summer. This past week—brrrr—chilly. Temps sunk to the low 30s, highs hovered in the low 40s.
Is this typical weather for this time of year? I remember that our first few years here (2004? 2005?) I offered free t’ai chi chih classes at Memorial Park in downtown Bayfield, mid-May through mid-June. The event was part of the Chamber’s “Bayfield in Bloom” promotion.
Hardy folks showed up at some of my practice sessions wearing winter coats, hats, scarves and mittens. So, yeah, this is typical weather. It’s easy to forget from one year to the next how slowly the South Shore of Lake Superior eases into summer.
Vegetable seeds are in the ground. Thanks to much-needed rain we’re soaking in green. A few varieties of lettuce and sugar snap peas peek hopefully out of the earth. As far as swiss chard, red kale, and tomatoes plants go—not much growth—but they haven’t frozen yet!!! One night, nervous about a potential freeze, we hauled out old blankets to cover our babies.
Speaking of babies … We suspect our Eastern Phoebe’s eggs hatched out last weekend. On Saturday we heard a screeching “phoe-be” in the yard right outside our front door. “It sounds like a birth announcement,” said Frances. Was Dad spreading the news to the neighborhood? It certainly felt that way.
Mama bird now sits higher in her nest (above the kitchen window). In these temps I imagine it’s a challenge to keep her scantily-feathered babies warm. I also heard tiny peeps. Did I hear tiny peeps? Though we’ve not seen heads or beaks yet, fledglings have 15 to 16 days to mature before they take off for parts unknown.
We’ll watch closely over the next few weeks. Soon we’ll have a crew of starving, persistent peepers demanding breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snaks. It’s fun to catch glimpses of Mom and Dad as they feed insects to their young. Perhaps this year once again we’ll witness several of the fledglings as they swoop down out of their nest and into the air. They’re great reminders that it’s okay to leave security behind as we wing ourselves into the future … whatever it holds.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Enlightenment Guaranteed
“Intriguing, humorous, inspiring, delightful.” These are my comments about this 2001 German film (with English subtitles) by Doris Dörrie that we watched several nights ago. Of course we checked it out from our favorite video/DVD store … the Bayfield Library.
Though billed as a comedy the film reveals the value of meditation as well as the benefits of self-discovery. At the same time, the film portrays our all-too-human failings and self-doubts with humor and compassion.
Plot: Brothers Uwe and Gustav are adrift in mid-life crisis. Uwe’s wife leaves, taking their three sons and infant daughter with her. Gustav, a Feng Shui consultant, longs for greater fulfillment in his life. He plans a trip to Japan to deepen his meditation practice. Uwe, lost and alone after his family’s departure, insists on accompanying him.
What results is a tumultuous journey for them both. After checking into their Tokyo hotel Uwe and Gustav accidentally exit out a different restaurant door than the one they entered. Suddenly they’re homeless. Without passports, directions, money, or Japanese language skills they’re forced to rapidly confront their fears and anxieties.
A scene at an ATM machine in Tokyo was priceless (and extremely reminiscent of Frances’ and my early travel experiences in Central America). Uwe inserts his credit card in the ATM to withdraw money, then Gustav follows suit when no money or card is forthcoming. They both lose their cards, of course, and then they’re truly on their own. The first night the brothers sleep in cardboard boxes, side by the side. The next day they visit a department store where they steal a tent to ensure that future nights will be spent in greater comfort.
Ultimately, these men realize that there is a freedom in not understanding what’s happening around them and in not living by the rules. It’s certainly not easy for them to come to this conclusion but it seems to be a necessary step in order to shed their fears of the unknown before they submerge themselves in the daily rituals of Buddhist life.
Much of the first section of this movie was intimately familiar. When Frances and I traveled in Central America last winter, we didn’t speak the language well and we soon recognized our vulnerability. It was also true that as outsiders we weren’t expected to know or follow all the cultural rules or mores. What freedom!
Eventually Gustav and Uwe find their way to Sojiji Monastery where they confront a new set of challenges. Each morning they rise at 4:30, bathe in cold water, join the monks in early morning meditation, eat breakfast, and devote themselves to hours of cleaning, scrubbing, washing, sweeping. They—and the viewers—quickly discover that their perseverance is exhausting. Cleaning floors and toilets is difficult and physically challenging. Sitting in meditation is painful. Sweeping leaves from one spot to another in the outdoor garden is mindless…. Or is it?
“Buddhism requires us to be truly present, to live in the moment,” said director Doris Dörrie about her intentions in making this movie, “It’s very difficult, but that’s part of the attraction.”
And, soon enough, the brothers reap the benefits of their seated meditation practice. They become witnesses to the thoughts that stream through their minds, they allow emotions to surface, and, eventually, they reach a place of greater serenity.
By movie’s end, Gustav and Uwe leave their monastery retreat and return to Tokyo, slipping easily and comfortably back into their tent that is set up at the edge of a tennis court and next to a train track. The first night back one of them suggests that they chant the heart sutra they learned at the monastery. The other agrees, and you then hear their chant emanating from the tent walls.
Somehow through days and hours of seated meditation and repetitive chores these brothers have allowed themselves—as director Dörrie explains—to give up hate and envy and the aggression that results from these disquieting states and to achieve a much-needed state of serenity. They’ve learned nothing and everything in a few short weeks.
Gustav and Uwe’s meditation practice reminded me of what I’ve often experienced during years of teaching t’ai chi chih moving meditation. Over and over, I witness students arriving at class rushed, hurried, uncentered, out of sorts. Soon after we begin to move, though, a hush settles over the room. And, after a 40-minute group practice, I look around the room and feel the incredible change in energy that’s occurred. Our group practice has welcomed each of us into this moment—now—where we stand quietly, relishing the peace and serenity. Often these moments of peace can be fleeting. But the more regularly we practice, the more quickly and easily we can get to that elusive state of tranquility.
In “Enlightenment Guaranteed” both Gustav and Uwe experience positive change. It takes the extreme situation of foreign travel to begin that change. But, by the end, you’re convinced that they’ve changed forever.
Some people believe that lasting change is impossible to achieve. But, instead of viewing change as a simple route from one way of being to another, it’s helpful for us to view our path toward peace and enlightenment as a spiral rather than a straight line.
We’re always circling back toward where we began but, with each cycle, each circle, we move forward. Now, in this moment, we have more information and more experience to inform us than we had in the past. We need to trust in ourselves enough to believe that with each day and with each experience, we gain greater wisdom and expand our ability to love and accept ourselves and others.
That’s why we call meditation a practice. It’s never perfect. The best we can do is devote ourselves to it. That, believe it or not, is enough.
Though billed as a comedy the film reveals the value of meditation as well as the benefits of self-discovery. At the same time, the film portrays our all-too-human failings and self-doubts with humor and compassion.
Plot: Brothers Uwe and Gustav are adrift in mid-life crisis. Uwe’s wife leaves, taking their three sons and infant daughter with her. Gustav, a Feng Shui consultant, longs for greater fulfillment in his life. He plans a trip to Japan to deepen his meditation practice. Uwe, lost and alone after his family’s departure, insists on accompanying him.
What results is a tumultuous journey for them both. After checking into their Tokyo hotel Uwe and Gustav accidentally exit out a different restaurant door than the one they entered. Suddenly they’re homeless. Without passports, directions, money, or Japanese language skills they’re forced to rapidly confront their fears and anxieties.
A scene at an ATM machine in Tokyo was priceless (and extremely reminiscent of Frances’ and my early travel experiences in Central America). Uwe inserts his credit card in the ATM to withdraw money, then Gustav follows suit when no money or card is forthcoming. They both lose their cards, of course, and then they’re truly on their own. The first night the brothers sleep in cardboard boxes, side by the side. The next day they visit a department store where they steal a tent to ensure that future nights will be spent in greater comfort.
Ultimately, these men realize that there is a freedom in not understanding what’s happening around them and in not living by the rules. It’s certainly not easy for them to come to this conclusion but it seems to be a necessary step in order to shed their fears of the unknown before they submerge themselves in the daily rituals of Buddhist life.
Much of the first section of this movie was intimately familiar. When Frances and I traveled in Central America last winter, we didn’t speak the language well and we soon recognized our vulnerability. It was also true that as outsiders we weren’t expected to know or follow all the cultural rules or mores. What freedom!
Eventually Gustav and Uwe find their way to Sojiji Monastery where they confront a new set of challenges. Each morning they rise at 4:30, bathe in cold water, join the monks in early morning meditation, eat breakfast, and devote themselves to hours of cleaning, scrubbing, washing, sweeping. They—and the viewers—quickly discover that their perseverance is exhausting. Cleaning floors and toilets is difficult and physically challenging. Sitting in meditation is painful. Sweeping leaves from one spot to another in the outdoor garden is mindless…. Or is it?
“Buddhism requires us to be truly present, to live in the moment,” said director Doris Dörrie about her intentions in making this movie, “It’s very difficult, but that’s part of the attraction.”
And, soon enough, the brothers reap the benefits of their seated meditation practice. They become witnesses to the thoughts that stream through their minds, they allow emotions to surface, and, eventually, they reach a place of greater serenity.
By movie’s end, Gustav and Uwe leave their monastery retreat and return to Tokyo, slipping easily and comfortably back into their tent that is set up at the edge of a tennis court and next to a train track. The first night back one of them suggests that they chant the heart sutra they learned at the monastery. The other agrees, and you then hear their chant emanating from the tent walls.
Somehow through days and hours of seated meditation and repetitive chores these brothers have allowed themselves—as director Dörrie explains—to give up hate and envy and the aggression that results from these disquieting states and to achieve a much-needed state of serenity. They’ve learned nothing and everything in a few short weeks.
Gustav and Uwe’s meditation practice reminded me of what I’ve often experienced during years of teaching t’ai chi chih moving meditation. Over and over, I witness students arriving at class rushed, hurried, uncentered, out of sorts. Soon after we begin to move, though, a hush settles over the room. And, after a 40-minute group practice, I look around the room and feel the incredible change in energy that’s occurred. Our group practice has welcomed each of us into this moment—now—where we stand quietly, relishing the peace and serenity. Often these moments of peace can be fleeting. But the more regularly we practice, the more quickly and easily we can get to that elusive state of tranquility.
In “Enlightenment Guaranteed” both Gustav and Uwe experience positive change. It takes the extreme situation of foreign travel to begin that change. But, by the end, you’re convinced that they’ve changed forever.
Some people believe that lasting change is impossible to achieve. But, instead of viewing change as a simple route from one way of being to another, it’s helpful for us to view our path toward peace and enlightenment as a spiral rather than a straight line.
We’re always circling back toward where we began but, with each cycle, each circle, we move forward. Now, in this moment, we have more information and more experience to inform us than we had in the past. We need to trust in ourselves enough to believe that with each day and with each experience, we gain greater wisdom and expand our ability to love and accept ourselves and others.
That’s why we call meditation a practice. It’s never perfect. The best we can do is devote ourselves to it. That, believe it or not, is enough.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Just Another Rock in the Road or ... ?
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?
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?
Friday, May 29, 2009
We were There!
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Out from Under the Forest Canopy
“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.
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.
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