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!
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Persistence Extraordinaire
Stubbornly persist, and you will find that the limits of your stubbornness go well beyond the stubbornness of your limits. -- Robert BraultThese 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.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Healing Power of Stories
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....
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....
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Birthday Wishes
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.
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.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Arbor Day Year 'Round
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?
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?
Saturday, July 31, 2010
For the Love of ... Silence
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:
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.
Friday, July 9, 2010
What I Learned from My Goose ...
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.
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.
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