Streamriffs

Looking Ahead

5/17/2020

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**It’s a strange time to do anything– have a baby, get married, start a business – but I know people doing all these mind-boggling things. Meanwhile, I can barely make my breakfast.**

I forget what I’ve put in the pancake batter, slosh it on the counter, reach for a paper towel, only to remember I don’t haveany paper towels. A pandemic snatched up every paper towel in America.  I gaze out the window and wonder: what day is it? What is it I was doing?

I don’t know much about anything these days.  I keep trying to make a plan, but I have no idea what to plan for.   One thing I do know: the middle of a plague is a strange time to launch a book.   How do you even dothat?  I know ZOOM parties are all the rage.  I just hate them.  They just depress the hell out of me.  Books, like babies, however, pick their own time to be born, and for some reason, mine picked now.

I wrote this book because rivers, in general, inspire me, and true happy-endings inspire me, too.  Our kids get so much doom heaped on their shoulders, and somehow they’re supposed to fix all that their elders have screwed up. Thanks a lot, folks.  But there are beacons of hope out there.

I Am the Elwhais a picture book about a special river on the Olympic Peninsula, a true story for nature enthusiasts, animal lovers, budding scientists, historians, artists and conservationists.   The story of the Elwha is important because scientists the world over see it as a prototype for troubled rivers everywhere.

It’s customary (and fun) to pop champagne and celebrate new books with family and friends, but now is not the time for champagne or merry-making.  Drinking alone, I’ve noticed, is not particularly festive, either.

Nonetheless, books and babies do require a welcome, no matter when they show up, and I’m grateful to welcome this one, from the amazing StrongNations Publishing crew in Canada.

When the UPS guy dropped off the box, I was afraid to open it.  I hadn’t seen the illustrations yet.  After three years of work, what if I hated them? But I did not. I loved them.

Laura Timmermans did a dynamite job bringing this story to life. On top of finishing our book in record time, she’s incubating her own first-edition, **a REAL baby,due in just a few weeks.  She’ll deliver a new book, anda new baby, in less than 8 weeks. Holy smokes.
Robert Elofson – Tribal Elder, biologist, and driving force behind the dam removal and river restoration – collaborated on this book, and taught me so much about his river.  When his copies arrived yesterday he was so happy that he had to call me.

And what he said just made my day.  Robert said he realized he’d done what every kid dreams of in college—accomplishing something that makes the world a better place.  And that if today were his last day, he could “die a happy man.”

I Am the Elwhais just right for older kids (third grade and up) to read by themselves.  For younger kids, it’s good for snuggling on the couch and reading aloud.

Mostly I wanted kids just to enjoy a good story, and maybe even be inspired.  But, if education is on your mind, parents and teachers can check off language arts, science, and history.  Find the river on a map, or figure out a road trip, and you’ll cover math and geography as well.  Unit Study enthusiasts can wrap in Native American culture, art, and drama too.

This spring is ushering in all kinds of promise… new rivers, new books, new babies of every kind.  Life seems determined to carry on, in spite of plagues and our anxieties.

And though I wobble between sad, worried and confused, I look forward with hope to the day when we can open that champagne, toasting not just to our survival, but to the missed celebrations and milestones we usually celebrate together.

Joel says he wants to have a “Hugging Party” once this over (and we’ve all been vaccinated.)  I want every one of you available for that party.

So stay well, carry on, and keep your eye out for happy endings.

If you’re interested in a copy, *I Am the**Elwha*is available at www.streamriffs.com**

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"Barn's burned down. Now I can see the moon."

4/7/2020

10 Comments

“Barn’s burned down.  Now I can see the moon.”
(Mizuta Masahide, Japanese poet, 17thcentury)

This week, I took a hammer and tore into my old barn.
It was a small barn, so small that a woman could tear it down, mostly alone. After awhile, my husband joined me, knocking down the heaviest beams, but for the most part, it was me alone.

My childhood barn was covered with poison oak vines and sagged in the middle.  It needed to be removed for fire prevention.  During this shelter in placetime, we’ve been cleaning up brush on our property. In the midst of one disaster, we prepare for another, the coming California fire season.

While I smashed at the walls, I cried.  The tears weren’t only for my old barn, my long-gone horse, and my carefree childhood days.  The tears were from pent up sadness, fear and anger, after three weeks of waiting for the end of the world, while we are all in coronavirus lock down.

It was clear the old barn needed to come down.  Another summer is headed our way, bringing more fires that will be searching for fuel.  My husband and brother assured me it was time.  But I didn’t want to say goodbye.   I’m a sucker for nostalgia.  The barn is a landmark of my childhood.  It is where I spent every morning and evening, feeding and brushing my beloved old, swayback strawberry horse, until it was time to run for the school bus, or to come inside for dinner.

The barn is where I hid out, when I needed time alone, trying to sort out the complexities of growing up, sitting on a hay bale, surrounded by the scent of hay, molasses, and horse sweat.

It is where I lay, the night I broke my shoulder. My brother and I had been riding in the pasture, double, bareback, barefoot, with not even a bridle to steer our steed.  Cheyenne, more interested in her dinner than her cargo, headed for the barn in a hurry. We hit the ground hard, and rolled in a heap into the powdery dust. I couldn’t get up, but lay next to the barn, while my brother ran to fetch our mom.  I remember it seemed like I was like looking through a kaleidoscope, the colors of the trees and sky blurring together, because of the tears pooling in my eyes.

Before it was my barn, the little shed was my Grandpa’s.  He built this barn, for his son’s sheep, over 70 years ago, from virgin redwood trees, sawed in his mill, with his huge, strong hands. My Grandpa built everything: houses, churches, picnic tables and aviaries- a desk for my room, and frames for the pictures I painted.  He called me ”Apple,”as in, the “Apple of his eye.”

It was only when I got much older that I realized, with shock, my grandpa’s and my family’s role in the decimation of these ancient, irreplaceable redwoods.

My husband wanted to tear down the old shed by himself-he’s fast and efficient, and likes to get things done.   He’s on a roll this week, hacking through the shrubs and trees to make a “defense-able space” around our little house, while he’s got time on his hands.  I knew he could do it much faster than me.   But he would not be likely to stop for any reverent moment.   Why would he? To him, it’s only an eyesore, and a threat to the property.

So, to honor my Grandfather, and those giant redwoods, I would not turn my back and let someone else do the demolition.  I would take it down myself.  I threw the rotten ones into one pile to burn.  Most were beyond saving.  But some were not.   I piled up a ragged stack of boards, silvery with age, and tinged with algae, but still sturdy. I want to build something new from the old, but I don’t have any idea what this will be.  I’m still waiting for light on this subject.

My hammer smashed.  Boards fell. Tears fell. Tears for all of our collective fear, and sadness, for the losses so many have had, for the potential losses that may be coming. Tears, for our lost routines, for our lost simple pleasures, for the lost joy of touching and gathering together.

With each board that fell, though, the view opened up.  It was a strange revelation, making a window through a wall.
So much light came in.  Now, when I stand on the deck of my Grandparents’ old home, there’s nothing to block my view. I see not a wall, but a patch of Easter lilies that my mom planted, fifty years or more ago, in full bloom.  I hadn’t noticed them before.  It makes me wonder.

I don’t expect a miracle to end to this virus anytime soon. But this not the first Easter we’ve have stood in the dark, grieving.  Holding our tools, our salvaged lumber, our sorrow, our prayers, and, without even touching, holding each other, we wait for the light.

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Shelter

3/24/2020

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Shelter: Noun, a place providing temporary safety from bad weather or danger

As I sat down to write about my shelter experience, two bluebirds landed on the walnut tree outside my window, drying their wings from the rain. I always get excited about the return of my bluebirds, cleaning out their nesting boxes and adding new ones. Sometimes I worry that they won’t return, but then they do, bringing with them the promise of another spring. Today, though, I can only tell they’re bluebirds by their shape and size. Due to the gloomy weather this morning, they look like grey birds.

It turns out bluebirds’ brilliant blue color is an illusion; or at least, not a real pigment. The structure of their feathers absorbs all other colors of the spectrum, gathering up only the blue waves and reflecting them back into the sky. On sunny days, they look like sapphires. On grey days, they pretty much look grey.

It’s ironic that the dark days of the Corona Virus arrived just as the rain finally remembered California. I’m grateful for rain, but the worldwide gloom is palpable. We’ve been ordered inside for an indefinite period of time in hopes of slowing the rampage of the virus. We’re restless and worried. Somberly, we wait, as if for a tsunami.

But the bluebirds -- historical symbols of luck and happiness -- have returned. Even on this dreary day, when the bluebirds are not blue, they remind me that spring is here. They’re shaking off the rain, scoping out the real estate, making plans for the future. Which seems like a good plan to me. We have to get through this rough patch to get to brighter days.

Yesterday I took a long walk, trying to outpace my gloom.  I came around a bend and saw my favorite Valley Oak, just beginning to leaf out. It’s mossy old branches stretch skyward, like arms reaching up in prayer, and low, nearly swooping the ground.

I’ve read that the Chumash trained some ancient oaks to grow low, for easy acorn gathering. I ponder this as I walk by. But Gus, our lazy St. Bernard, who cares neither for history, nor acorns, only wants to rest under this tree.

Instead of urging him along, as I usually do, I decided to rest a moment with him. I looked at one of the low branches that seemed exactly bench-height, and sat down. Sturdy but springy, it supported me easily.

For a moment I worried about loitering there, as I was on private property. But I was tired, and my nerves too ragged to care. So, I settled on the mossy branch. And then I had this moment.  It felt like the tree breathed with me.

It was, of course, only the swaying of the branch. It was the wind, plus my weight, plus the springiness of branch, but it felt exactly like when I was 16, loping through a field, bare-back, on my old mare, feeling her chest rise and fall beneath me, breathing as if we were one. It startled me at first—this sensation that I was on a living, possibly even breathing thing, but then it was lovely.

Small, unseen birds filled the oak, twittering and singing. A spring breeze lifted my hair. I breathed in the scent of grass and wildflowers. I closed my eyes. I felt safe from the storm.

Enclosed in that circle of branches, I suddenly understood the meaning of the word shelter. It isn’t meant to be permanent. It is meant to offer rest and safety, until the conditions are right to journey on. For that moment, the oak tree was the best of all possible shelters. And even though it was just a feeling, who’s to say that this oak did not, in fact, inhale and exhale along with me, exchanging, instead of only C02 and O2, but also, my great anxiety for its great calm?

I cannot sit on a tree branch forever, though. And bluebirds can’t stay forever in their nests. When the babies are safely grown, they’ll return to the woods and the sky. But for now, shelter is what’s needed.

It is the same for us. We’ve been asked to “shelter in place.” But more than just physical shelter, we need emotional shelter. Using the scaffolding of our lives, and the sturdy canvas of our gifts, we each have tools. Maybe our gifts are time, compassion, skill, talent or humor. Maybe it’s cooking, music, art, scientific minds,leadership, courage, ideas, or whatever it is you were sent here to share—all of these are the soul of shelter.

I find regular refuge in the words of Sylvia Boorstein, and Annie Lammot, who cobble together both shelter and light with their work. I find refuge in the funny photos and songs that artists put out. This is our job for now. Create shelter. Offer shelter. Accept shelter. Be a candle, while we wait for brighter days.

A bluebird’s dazzling color is not, in fact, a mere illusion. It’s the breathtaking result of their design and structure, combined with light. It’s their small superpower. We have superpowers too. We only need light for them to activate. Hold on for the light. Better still, become the light.

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Free Days and Sweet Dreams

12/29/2019

1 Comment

There’s something about the days between Christmas and New Years that are my favorite of all.  Not much real work happens.  Not much is expected of us. It’s a sort of limbo-land between the holy days of Christmas and the start of a new year.

After this, we’re expected to buckle down and do life diligently again. Resolutions, determination, and responsibility.  But for now, for most of us, these in-between days are like stolen time.  I’m pretty sure that the great Counter of Our Days doesn’t count these forgotten days. These are the freebees.

The truth is, by the end of December, we are all exhausted.  The year is old.  The days are short.  The Counter offer Days is old and tired.  Who wouldn’t be, after trying to keep this wayward batch of humans on track? I’m getting old and tired, too, which is exactly why I’m putting myself to bed.  Hitting the sack early makes me feel young and safe again, like I’m being tucked in.

All I know is, tonight it’s dark, cold, and a long time until daylight.  There’s no place better to be than bed.  A few days ago, we celebrated the Winter Solstice, so-- while-- Yay for the light beginning to return--it’s still pretty damn dark and cold.   And none of the news on TV is inviting enough to stay up for.

When we were kids, if we were lucky, someone kind ushered us through a soothing bedtime ritual: bath, tooth-brush, story, prayers, pillow fluff,  covers tuck, lullaby, good night.   Who wouldn’t sleep well after that?  Why do we not still need this? I’m pretty sure we still do.  We just have to do it ourselves now.

I generally fall into bed after only a cursory skirmish with toothbrush and soap.  My bedtime prayer is more like a mutter: “thank GOD,” as I bury face into pillow, hoping for a quick oblivion, while the trials of the day buzz around my ears like mosquitos.

But tonight, I’m reviving the ritual of tucking in.  It’s ridiculously early; no one knows I’m hiding here in my bed. But I’ve done all I can for the problems of the day.  It occurs to me that some of these problems may just have to sort themselves out, without any help from me. I don’t seem to be making lots of progress anyway.

Honestly, some problems will only be resolved by the eventual demise, or at least memory lossof all concerned, whichever comes first.   And some problems may need SEVERAL lifetimes to sort out. This mindset takes off a lot of pressure. After all, who said we were the ones in charge of solving them anyway?  I think that’s why God invented Himself, to figure out all the problems, so I’m handing them all off on a silver platter.  You’re welcome!

So, no worrying allowed in our bedtime ritual.  Only soothing activities.  That rules out most TV and social media.  For me, a pile of my favorite books. Christmas lights shining outside the window, big pillows, warm blankets.  Something nice to sip.  I plan to swat away annoying thoughts like the biting bugs they are.

I confess, I have a secret weapon.  On my nightstand is a small stash of chocolate toffee, which arrived from the UPS man, with no identification.  If no one takes credit for sending this, are there any calories involved?  Is this chocolate as free as these in-between days?

In the blackest part of winter, toffee cloaked in dark chocolate with a few sips of red wine is sublime.  I’ve stumbled upon at least one kind of Divinity, nestled in the quiet, magical, unassuming days between Christmas and New Years.

If you didn’t remember to claim these days as your own Private Retreat this year, it’s not too late.  Even in the midst of real life, you can claim a retreat, without ever leaving home. Just be sure to remember this early next year.

If we’re all lucky enough to be warm, and fed, and dry on this dark night-- we are lucky indeed.  Tuck yourself in.  Before you close your eyes, thank the Counter of Your Days for another chance tomorrow to figure out what matters most.  And tonight, may you have the sweetest of dreams.

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Shadows and Light

11/7/2019

3 Comments

I haven’t posted for a while, because I was confused about my life, and I couldn’t seem to find the words.  I’m not sure I do now, but I’m giving it a stab.  I often write about water, because it interests me, how it’s both life-giving and life-changing, and the topics are endless.  In my last essay, I wrote about the muddy, swift and pretty damn cold water that was swirling around me.

The short story is, a few days before last Christmas, a large corporation unexpectedly took over my husband’s medical practice, casually tossing out he and his partners like kitchen scraps.   At the merriest time of the year, we were both mad, worried and without a job.

That was miserable enough.  Our house went on the market January first, and we prepared to move, as our mortgage was too big to pay without his salary.   I set about the sad task of packing up all our personal belongings, as the realtor wanted prospective buyers to imagine their family in our home.  But then something else happened.

I’d headed into the woods, for my evening walk with the dogs.  I left in a hurry, because I didn’t want my family to see the tears that were threatening to fall, forgetting my flashlight or phone.  The woods were becoming dark, like purple and black ink, but there was still a trace of light.

I glanced over my shoulder at our house.  It looked pretty through the trees—every window in the house glowing. Usually seeing those lights through the woods cheered me. That night, they did not.  I knew soon they’d be welcoming someone new.  I turned away, let my tears fall where only the trees would see, and trudged up the trail.

Then, in the dim light, I made out an unfamiliar sight.  A young man curled up along the edge of the path in the leaves, his face turned away, one arm flung out towards the stuffed animal beside him.

He looked like a small boy who’d run away from home with his teddy bear, resting at the edge of the forest.  Just barely inside the woods, it wasn’t really too dark or scary.  From where he lay, he could have seen the cheery lights shining from my house.

I was worried, but not afraid.  I have young adult sons, all of whom have roamed theses woods since they were small.  Was it one of mine?  One of their friends?     Did this boy choose here, so close to my house, hoping I would spot him, and call him in soon for supper, where family troubles could begin to sort out?  I called out to him, twice.  No answer. I stepped closer, my heart beginning to thud.

Against his dark clothes and the dark woods, I could make out a light patch, where his shirt tugged up, exposing the small of his back.  A quarter-sized tattoo caught my eye.   Roundish with some marks I couldn’t comprehend.  I struggled to make sense of it , stepping closer and squinting, finally seeing it was a Chinese symbol.  I can’t read Chinese.   Who has that tattoo I wondered?  What does it mean?

I’m ashamed that I felt some relief not recognizing that stamp.  It’s not one someone I know.  But then, another thought crowded in, do we ever really know our children’s secrets?   How would I know who had that tattoo?

My heart banged harder; somehow understanding what my brain could not.   The boy was not responding. He was not waking up.  I ran, as fast as I could, back to my house, gasping so hard I could only get out a few words.

My husband, our middle son, and his friend, raced down the hill and headed up into the woods, calling 911 as they ran. My husband’s flashlight found him. Then it found the gun gleaming next to him.  The teddy bear was a little black dog.  Neither one would be waking up.

Hours after the paramedics and coroner left, we found out it was a neighbor’s son, recently come to live with her.   She didn’t know of the tattoo.  She didn’t know he’d been depressed.  She thought his life was going great. The only thing she knew is that she’d just lost a son she loved beyond everything.

I barely knew this young man.  He and I had passed each other on the trail several times in previous months. We’d chatted about local wildlife, and how much we loved this woods.  The last time I saw him, also in dim light, he’d mistaken our St. Bernard for a mountain lion.  He was relieved it was only me- and Gus.  We laughed together.  He told me to be watchful for mountain lions.

The day he lay himself down in the woods, I’d missed meeting him by a few hours.  I kept thinking, what if I’d left earlier?  What if I’d met him, with all his sadness and that terrible mission in his mind, and been alert enough to notice?

In my mind, I would say, “Whatever this is that’s so painful right now—this will pass.  You will barely remember this when you’re my age.”  Probably, though, I would have smiled and waved, as I jogged by, not noticing a thing. I’m pretty good at not seeing what’s right in front of me.  Like most of us, I’m pretty good at hiding pain, too.

This boy’s family and friends, also, wrestle with the same thought:  could anyone or anything have stopped him?  If a gun hadn’t been available, could he have outlasted his despair, and his terrible impulse?

Sometimes, high water comes upon us, so quickly, we barely have time to call for help.  It sweeps us down stream, into scary places and stories we don’t recognize. It can sink us.  Maybe that’s what happened to this handsome, smart, accomplished, dearly-loved boy.

My husband, said sadly, “He lost perspective.”  I think we all do that.  We stand so closes to our troubles, and the stories we tell ourselves about them, that we can’t see our way around them.  The question is, how do we recognize that in another, or in ourselves? How do we step back, and see a larger perspective?  How do we reach out for help, when we’re too proud to say we’re sad?  How can we help, when it’s awkward to address another’s sadness?

Shortly after my neighbor’s death, we took our house off the market.   Other opportunities came along, so we could stay, at least for now, while we figure out our next step.  But while our physical address remains, my inner landscape shifted.

I came to see up close how fragile life is, and how precious.  I understand more the impermanence of everything, and treasure everything more: my family, my friends and neighbors, dinner on the stove, the view of the mountains, the mocking bird in my garden, the roof over my head.  The simple stuff really is what matters most.

It sounds so sappy, but I finally get it--all of this is just on loan. This life, this family, these friends and neighbors, this house--only mine for a while.   That’s what makes it precious.  I know I will forget, and take things for granted again.   Life will rush in.   But I’ll try hard to remember.  Because one day, sooner or later, some other woman will be gazing out at this view I took for granted - where mountains meet sky, and gangly blue herons flaps past each morning, headed for breakfast along the Salinas River.

I’ve tried to recall how that young man’s tattoo looked.   Memory is tricky, though, not reliable.  I spent hours looking at Chinese symbols.  There is only one I found that looks like what I remember.   It was the symbol for dog. I could be wrong..

But whatever it was, somehow, I trust that little dog was waiting for his person,when he arrived, wherever he was headed.  I hope there were lights shining in every window of the house that welcomed them both. But mostly, I wish I could undo what he did- to himself, to his little companion, and to his family.  I wish him still here, paddling this river with the rest of us, trying to navigate the currents.

Now, I walk past two memorial crosses in my woods each day, one large, one small.  A tiny collar rests on one.  I am reminded: sometimes, if we’re lucky, we’re there in time to toss a lifeline to someone struggling.  Sometimes, we’re the ones that need that  line.  All of us are lifeguards, all swimmers.  May we be awake enough.  May we be strong enough.  May we treasure our blessings, while they are ours to enjoy.

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High Water

3/22/2019

4 Comments

  “Help. Going under!”  This would be a good sign, like the sandwich-board kind, for many of us to wear, during times of daunting change.   Then, those on high ground could toss us a line, or shout encouragement from the shore. Life abounds with ways to try to sink us.  Strangely enough, others can’t usually tell we’re going under.  We look pretty good, even while gasping for air.

Sometimes, floodwaters rise slowly.   There’s time to look for higher ground, or cobble together a raft to cling to.  Other times, riverbeds overflow fast, like flash floods in the desert.  Before we know it, we’re in over our head, without a life jacket.  Either way, high water rearranges the landscape.  It rearranges us as well.

I’ve been blessed with a long period of peaceful waters, just the average froth and foam of kids growing up, grown-ups-growing-older, and elders passing on.   That’s plenty of drama for me.  That changed this winter, though, when my husband’s job was unexpectedly outsourced, to an out-of-town bidder.  After 27 years, he and his partners are wrapping it up at Twin Cities Hospital in two weeks.

Honestly, the job thing is a mixed blessing, as my guyis more than ready to change things up.  He’s leaning towards retirement. Also, he’s a mountain biker. He likes to move, quickly, and he’s tired of the hospital walls that confined him.  He’s made other plans, at the surgery center, where he can scale back, have civilized hours, and more time to do what he loves.   I’m truly glad for him.

But the high water that washed away this job also washed away the means to pay off our beloved, rambling, family home—at least not without a lot of struggle.   So, we made a decision.  The kids are mostly out.  We don’t need all this space.   It’s time to sell.

The plan to downsize is easier for Biker Guy.   I’m no biker, though.  I’m a burrower.  More like a badger.  Right now, I’m a badger being hauled out of her den, tail first.

It’s hard saying goodbye to the house we built and raised our family in. For 19 years, we lined this burrow with the stuff and fluff of family life.  So much stuff!  What to keep? What to toss?
What about all the memories, etched into every corner?  Who will we be, without these walls to hold us? Will we drift apart, like dandelion seeds in the wind?   All these thoughts swirl around in my head.  Tears leak out at the most unexpected times.

Every shrub, tree, and bulb in this yard -- I planted and tended.  Season after season, I hovered over my bluebird boxes, bursting with happiness when the chicks finally flew. To me, they were not just a symbol of happiness, but a symbol that it’s possible to entice happiness to land on your very own roof. Will the new owners rejoice, when they return each spring?  Will they tend their boxes?

Our upheaval causes havoc to our neighbors, as well.   When our house sells, we plan to move back to our first little house, down the hill, displacing Margaret and Jack, who’ve been peacefully dwelling there for 12 years. I hate this part especially. If you live near the Templeton area, and know of a cozy,affordable place, for the nicest neighbors anywhere,will you let us know?

Sudden change feels like heading out your front door, expecting to step onto the porch boards, but landing, instead, in cold, fast water.   By the time you get your bearings, the current’s swept you downstream.  There’s a “For Sale” looming in your driveway.  Strangers browse through your closets and pantry.

Joel is way ahead of me on accepting this “change” thing, already dreaming of a lighter, brighter lifestyle.  He wants to see America in a van.  With mountain bikes strapped on back!    Am I too old for this?  Can a badger become a Gypsy-Biker?  As a kid, I had a purple Schwinn, with a banana seat, a bell, and big, wicker basket, for hauling flowers, picnic supplies, and reluctant kittens.  I’m pretty sure this isn’t what Biker Guy has in mind.

I know that job-changes and home-changes are only Class 1 or 2, on the scale of scary river rapids.   They aren’t the Big Waves, the ones that threaten to sink us, permanently, with sorrows and losses so great that we barely have the words to speak them. These waves aretinyin comparison.

But the truth is, any of us not currentlyin rough water, have probably just survived a stretch.  Or, we have one around the next bend. Why then, if struggle is so universal, do we feel so alone when we struggle?  I think it’s because we forget.  We assume that everyone else has it all together, so we suffer silently.  We try not to be a burden.  We’re somehow ashamed that we haven’t figured it all out, found the way to avoid suffering. We try to keep up appearances, even when we’re drowning.

Having signs (or T-shirts) that say, “Help! Going under!” would be so useful.  Loved ones, even strangers, would know to give us extra hugs and kind words.  Or soup, like my friend Heidi does. Words, hugs, and soup are the lifejackets that keep me afloat.  But people don’t carry signs.  We have to just pay attention, to the more subtle signs.   We might have to actually ask.  How are you?  How are you, really?

My hope for us all, as we struggle in the currents of life change, is this: may we keep our heads above water.  May we keep the landmarks of faith, family, and friends clearly in sight.  May we ask, or holler--for the help we need.   May we be quick to spot others in need of a hand, a hug, or a jar of soup.  And may we wash up on sandy shores, right where we’re supposed to be.

So today, how am I, really?  I’m actually OK.  No offers on the house, yet, and it will be hard when we really say goodbye—but for today, I’m focusing forward, envisioning new adventures with family and friends.  When I get across this river, I hope to be wobbling along on a new, purple bike.   I’ll need that wicker basket for hauling bluebird boxes.  I plan to extend their range.

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Jump Start in Bradley, California

11/5/2018

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It’s early November and Central California is still smoking hot, like an overheated griddle, and drier than an old tortilla chip. Our creek is dry, river is dry, well is drying up—and no rain in the foreseeable future. My own wellspring of creativity, optimism, and trust in human decency is as jaded as the news, as withered as the roadside weeds.

But life is full of surprises-sometimes a day can spin on its heels, leaving in its wake a fresh wind blowing, maybe even scented with rain-- without a drop of rain in sight.

It happened like this: my 85 year old Mom arrived in town last week, full of vim and vigor, eager to do something different than “the same old things” we always do when she comes to town. My duty is to keep Mom safe, happy and entertained while my brother’s on his annual hunting trip.  Though she lives alone, and manages well, we try to tag team the safe and happy part.

I carry tea and ginger snaps to her bedroom at dawn, which is our ritual, but she’s already been awake for hours listening to farm reports on the radio, briefed on local events for a hundred mile around.
“There’s a fall harvest festival today in Bradley.  Homemade jams and jellies, pumpkin bread, pot-holders, and a grand-prize drawing at two.  It’s a beautiful drive through the countryside.  I wrote it all down on my napkin.”

This translates to: “this is what we should do today.”  I dubiously look up Bradley on line, and find no mention of fall farm festivals.  I try to tell her there is no fall festival. This doesn’t daunt her.  It’s all written right here on her napkin.
Later that morning,  we set out to find the fall festival, even though I only have the vaguest idea where Bradley is.

After a forty minute drive on a barren, lonely road, Mom says, “I sure would hate to break down out here." I say, “We’re not going to break down, Mom.” Sheesh. Why does she say these things?

If you sneezed twice, you’d miss Bradley entirely.  On the outer edge of town we pass a wacky heap of rusted cars piled in front of a defunct gas station: Jimmy Raders Hot Rod Social. Also, a post office, a fire station, a school, a boarded-up church and a few chickens running down the street.  No store. No pedestrians.  No jam or jelly festivals in sight.

Bradley could NOT be a more ghostly ghost town. We scout out the the school yard, where small towns sometimes hold festivals, and we park in the shade of the lone tree to regroup. The lone teacher looked at us with some suspicion, and had heard of no festival. But when I turn the key to head home? Click. My engine is as dead as the ghosts in this town. Here we were, in the middle of god-forsaken-Bradley, stranded. Did I mention it’s really, really HOT? We're a long ways from home, and no help in sight. Mom perks right up. "We're having an adventure!"

Mom holds me by the elbow and we teeter down the sweltering street towards the heap of hotrods, hoping to find a live person for a jump start.  An unshaven man, wearing a wooly coat and knit cap is enjoying a cold soda, alone in his hot-rod shop. We "hoo hoo" and walk in, asking for jumper cables.
“No one ever comes here. Come in, come in!”

Inside are 1940’s  pin-up girls, photos of movie stars, and a big cooler filled with strawberry sodas.
But the guy, Jimmy Rader, is talking so fast my head spins.
"You gotta see this.  Come back into the back room, I have so much to show you.”
Mom follows him nimbly, asking question after question. This is way better than pot- holders and jelly.
I’m quickly feeling like a fly that’s bumbled into a spider web—the trap door kind, that start out wide and quickly become narrow and sticky.

I keep saying we need to go, that we just need some jumper cables, but mom is determined to see the “museum”  of old car  and motorcycle parts.  Deeper into his cavern she flutters.
“We really need to go, “ I say.
“You haven’t seen anything yet. Come back this way.  You can spend the night here in my bus. Or in the jail out back.   We film horror movies here in Bradley.”
Why does this not surprise me?
I feel like I've entered Hotel California, where "you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. "
“We have to get back,” I say.  “Do you have jumper cables?”
“I’ll drive you back to your car in my 61 Camero” the hot rod man declares. Mom nearly skips to his car.
“No thanks, we’ll walk.”
I imagine us disappearing into the sagebrush in his vintage Camero, a maniacal, fast-talking,  gear-head at the wheel--as the movie credits roll.
I grab her hand and pull her through the maze of metal.

So we walk—me leading, Mom tottering, holding my hand, back through the sweltering streets to our car.  Mom’s laughing.   She thinks its fun.  I don’t. I’m clearly not doing my part to keep mom safe-- although she does seem pretty happy.

True to his word, Jimmy Hotrod pulls up alongside us with his jumper cables and purring Camero.   Seeing a car in need, he quickly morphs into a brooding mechanic, swiftly diagnosing an alternator problem. Not a quick fix-and it takes four jumps and four stalls just to get us back to his station.

Once there, he hauls our battery out, and plunks in three different batteries-- from multiple discarded cars--none of which work.  He misses his lunch.  He misses a chat with the CHP who stopped by for his daily chat. He finally finds a  battery in his 1941 tractor,  “just to get you girls home” (where we will need to replace the alternator) and installs it.

Jimmy Rader wouldn’t take a nickel for his efforts, his battery, his sodas, or his lost time.  The scruffy-looking dude I’d pegged as an ax-murderer-- turned out to be the best kind of Good Samaritan ever. He cares for his older, mentally-challenged brother and has for over 40 years. He's married to the same girl he loved in Kindergarten. He never had a mom, she died when he was a baby, but he just likes to do good in the world, and make people happy. He's going to sell his museum pretty soon, and move to Placerville, because his town doesn't wish to have a tourist attraction here. He's sad, but wants his town to be happy. And he wants to follow his dream, of making a Knox Berry Farm-like old car park. Before we drive away, I impulsively hug him. Mom does too.  He looks embarrassed but grins. We promise to return the battery the following week.

Much later, back home, Mom and I sit outside on my porch, grilling steaks, sharing a chilled bottle of Sauvinon Blanc. I’m celebrating getting mom home safely—(it took another 3 hours and a tow truck to get us finally here) she’s relishing the adventure.  I can’t take credit for keeping mom safe, today, but I think I (accidentally) kept her entertained.

A week later, driving mom back home, we stop to see Jimmy Radar and return his tractor battery. We deliver a box of Sees candy to thank him.   My mom reaches for his hand.
“May God be with you,” she says, uncharacteristically.
He holds her hand gently, “And you too,” he replies.
As we drive off, tears run down her face. I don't know what she's thinking. I am thinking--"He never had a mom."
And I've been blessed with my spunky, adventurous mom for 59 years.

Back at home, the news is still the news, fractious, bitter and violent.  The weather is still hot and dry. But here’s what I know: Buried under the dust, all over California, there are little frog pellets, just waiting for puddles to plump them up. After the first downpour, thousands of frogs will emerge, croaking and hopping out, from wherever they go during the dry season. Brilliant blades of grass will poke through the dust, in about two minutes flat. Little rivulets will begin to carve patterns in the powdery earth.

And beneath our fear and mistrust, there is just us, in funny costumes, with all kinds of wild ideas, just waiting for puddles of kindness to plump us up, too. To jump start us. The rains eventually come. Mostly, we are hardwired to be kind, to rain down kindness on those in need.

Inside all of us, ideas and projects wait to be plumped up by rivers that flow through our dreams, rivers that will flow once again.  Maybe it will rain soon.   In the mean time, we put one dusty foot in front of the other.  We offer a hand; we accept a hand.   We remember the truth, expressed so luminously in Ram Dass words: “At the end of the day, we’re all just walking each other home.”

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Boundaries

9/30/2018

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My husband and I corralled our three grown sons for a last hurrah before school and jobs claimed them for the year, and paddled for five days through the forest-lined lakes and rivers of the Boundary Waters, between Minnesota and Canada. The fall colors were just beginning to flame, yellow and red torches against the dark green.  Every half mile or so, we spotted boundary markers, letting us know where the US territory ended, and Canada began.

Bald eagles, beavers, otters, and loons greeted us each day.  Paddling further and further out of cell service had unexpected advantages: in-person conversation became the regular way to communicate once again.

After long days of paddling and setting up camp, Joel, Jon and Luke hauled in stringers of Northern Pike and Walleye for fish-fries.  Barry and I read, sketched and collected firewood for the campfire.  Quiet days, peaceful nights, cooking together, and sharing long stretches of time in nature—these are my ideas of bliss.

There were bumps and bruises involved, too.   I came home with a bruised cheekbone, and banged up knees, from getting out of a tippy canoe on slippery rocks.  Joel cracked a few ribs while portaging with a heavy pack and a heavy boat, upending on slick rocks.  I capsized one just-packed canoe, and wonder my pride, Luke and Barry another, trying to rescue a camera (to no avail.) We were rookies, but we were learning. All in all, it was an adventure I’ll long remember.

Our last full day out, heading homeward, the wind came up on Horse Lake.  We tried to make it to a camp we’d seen earlier, but found it taken. In fact, every camp was taken.   Our lack of experience was a hindrance; we needed to get off the lake before we ended up at the bottom of it. We took refuge on a thin ribbon of sand between the choppy waves and dense, Canadian forest.

Tired, hungry, bruised, bug-bitten, and illegally on the Canadian side of the lake, I felt like when the music stops in Musical Chairs and you’re stuck with nowhere to sit. Most canoeists on the lake were making dinner and happily sipping cocktails.  We considered trying to cross the lake, hoping for a legal camp site, but didn’t fancy drowning-- so, we just sat.

I could see a boundary marker from a distance.  I’d been contemplating the concept of boundaries all week, both geographic and personal. My nearest-and-dearest would happily tell you about my ridiculous optimism when it comes to boundaries. I don’t have much in the way of walls or fences around my personal life. I guess I have hedges.  Not even rosehedges, which at least have thorns; mine would look like peonies, or those big fluffy, blue, hydrangeas.

In the musical chairs of life, if I got a seat-- and you didn’t--I’d offer up not only my chair, but also a pot of soup, and my grandma’s heirloom quilts.  Which sounds lovely, except, as my beloveds remind me, there are those out there who will trespass, and trample undefended boundaries.  I’m lucky, I guess--I’ve met so few of those.  But there is one that’s made a mash of my hedges and my good nature. Trampling is generous word. More like stomped through and munched to the ground. I get that this is my problem. The story that I tell myself is, really, just a story. I like to dramatize it, with villains and saints, but it's not that dramatic, and there aren't any villains or saints. There's a whole lot of me not being in another's shoes, I guess. Whatever. In my story, I have hoof-tracks across my forehead deeper than my considerable laugh-lines.

Stranded on the Canadian shore, I contemplate boundaries again, and consider reinforcing mine: What will it take? Growing thorns, stringing up barbed-words, firing shots over the wall? I resolve to let the Boundary Waters teach me a thing or two, even if it makes me depressed.

“You wouldn’t have a sandwich, would you?” a voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Our friends went off to find a camp, and now we’ve lost them.”
Two canoeists sailed in to our strip of sand, looking dog-tired.
“A sandwich!”  I thought, incredulously.  “How could a sandwich survive all the dunkings and tumbles I’ve had?  If I’d had a sandwich, my kids would have polished it off long ago.
“Sorry,” I said.  “We have one freeze-dried dinner left. Uncooked."

A second canoe, a search party, paddled in about the same time, reuniting the friends.  There was a happy reunion between them, all part of a Minnesota Curling Team, all much better canoeists than our California Rookie Team.

“We have a great camp,” the rescue-party said. “We’ll lead you there.”
“We found a camp too,” said the Sandwich guy.
“Ours is better.  We’re already cooking dinner.  We’ll lead you there.”
“We left our tent across the lake to save the camp.  We’ll have to get it. “
The Sandwich man turned to retrieve his tent. The wind was calming a bit, but these guys didn't mind the waves. As happy as we were for the reunited friends, things still looked bleak for us.

Clearly, the Curling Team dudes were vastly better paddlers.   Maybe we could follow behind and learn something.
“Hey!  Can we follow you?”
“Yah, sure,” the guy called over his shoulder, paddling away. “You can have the camp we reserved. You don’t have a sandwich, do you?”
Didn’t we just go through this?  I really wished I had a sandwich for this guy.
“Sorry,” I said, as we paddled to catch up.

The wind calmed down; spirits rose up.  We had guides and we had a camp-- all in one paddle stroke.  The Sandwich canoeists ducked in and out of bays, seeking the narrowest crossing, canoes pointed into the wind, paddling in synchrony. We watched and learned.

Finally we arrived on the U.S. side at their reserved camp.     Their tent had a note dangling from it, reading: “Looking for our friends.  If you need a place to camp, you’re welcome to share.”
I was thunderstruck.   Share a camp… with strangers?   As polite as I think of myself, this would never occur to me.  Where were the Boundaries here?  This seemed a whole lot higher-level kind of boundary lesson than I expected.

We helped take down their tent, and learned this was probably the last fishing trip the Minnesota Curling Team would share as a complete team. One member just finished his second round of radiation treatment.  His wish was one last paddle on the Boundary Waters with his mates. Right, our sandwich dude, the guy who was willing to share his camp with strangers.  The boundary buster.

As they paddled away, I felt humbled.   I had so much to learn about the graciousness of Midwestern Manners, the nuanced nature of boundaries, of relief and gratitude felt from unearned grace.   We were gifted not only a camp, but a tour guide as well. Also, a map, (a metaphorical map, but still) disguised as a note, for the territory ahead, by a man paddling his way out of this world.  I’ve never wished more that I had a sandwich to share.

We set up camp, cooked up our Cuban Rice and Beans, and sat by the fire.   A fox ran through camp.  A crescent moon set in the west  My family was warm, fed, and had a safe place to sleep.

I can’t stop thinking about the sandwich man.  Is there something here I am meant to learn?   All my self-rightous-ness, my indignation about what is fair and not fair, my certainty of the “right” way to behave, and my fury about those who don't play by my rules, came into question.

Whatever boundaries I construct, whatever walls I build, these also wall me IN, and there I will sit, with all those grim, self-righteous traits. Plus, it takes time away from tending my garden. And who knows what wild, beautiful things I may wall out, in the process? I think I'll just muddle along, try to open my heart's rusty door just a bit. I'd like to follow the example of a guy busting boundaries, instead of building them up, paddling his way towards grace.

All this pondering is making me hungry. I think I could use a sandwich, as well.

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Summer Plums

7/1/2018

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The first ripe plum on our little plum tree dangled in front of me this morning.  The birds hadn’t even a pecked a hole in it, yet.  The Santa Rosa plum, one of Luther Burbank’s best inventions, is a pretty, purpley-red color, with a frosted silvery sheen, and sunshine-yellow on the inside.  I plucked it off the tree, bit into it, and stopped in my tracks.

That POP, as your teeth snap through taut, purple skin, still cool from the night air, a burst of tart, followed by the gorgeous, juicy sweetness of summer--I had to stand still in awe. It tasted of being a kid, maybe eight years old, when the summer day stretches out forever, and you swiped a plum off the neighbor’s tree as you made your way to the pool, or river, or stream to cool off.   For that once instant I was transported.  Joy, (or her little sister, Well-Being) washed over me.

Maybe I’m getting jaded, or I’ve been running too fast, but Joy-- that sparkling, champagne-cocktail-feeling-- has eluded me lately.  That sense of bliss that slips up on you, unnoticed and unexpected, flooding your senses with sweetness and light.  Joy’s a slippery one; you can’t summon her like a dog, with commands, whistles or treats.  You can only entice her-- like scattering flower seeds for butterflies.

Joy is hard to define and harder to pin down.   The last (and most memorable) time I felt JOY, with capitol letters, was when a cherished family member confided she was pregnant with a much longed for baby.  That feeling stayed for months and months, culminating in a safe delivery of a healthy baby. I will always treasure that visit with Joy.

But it’s not usually the big things that get Joy to show up for the party.  Not even, ”Yay!  My book finally got published!”   Publishing a book is awesome.  But it’s also a lot liked the day after having your baby: a mixed bag, or diaper-bag, so to speak. When you achieve a longed-for goal, you feel accomplished and amazed—but also overwhelmed.

You think you’ve finished the job—but, NO. This is only the beginning! This is where the compost really hits the fan. Now you must raise up that baby, market that book, peddle that new business, --or whatever. From that moment on, Responsibility and Work climb into the front seat of your jalopy, joined by suitcases of Worry and Doubt in the back seat.  Joy may elect to come along for the ride, but-- she’s she’s choosey—showing up for the sunset vistas, or the rainbow after the storm.

Just as you catch a glimpse of Joy in the rear-view mirror, she’s fluttering off-- not one to hang around howling babies, and other cumbersome baggage. Joy slips out of the noisy, crowded, places, preferring to lightly settle, for a moment, on the quieter, sensory experiences.

Last night, the lilting song of a robin called out, over and over, breaking the silence of the woods as I walked the dogs. It brought me straight back to sunny, Sebastopol mornings, during apple blossom season, walking with my Gram. On those spring rambles, before I'd ever even thought of school, it seemed like nothing bad could ever happen-- like every single day would have blue skies, homemade donuts and robins singing. That robin-song feeling was sweet and tart--like a summer plum.

Joy hides out in scents, too.  Each person’s joy-perfume is different: maybe fresh-cut grass, lemon peel, lavender soap, or rain hitting hot pavement in the summer.  For me, hiking down to our creek is a perfumed-hit of joy.   The air gets cooler and sweeter as you descend into the shade. The pungent scent of mint and river-weed underfoot surrounds me, transporting me to my carefree youth, scampering along the banks of the Russian River.

This afternoon, my husband invited me to wander down to the creek with he and the dogs, for our version of a Hillbilly Holiday. This means sitting in a folding chair in the stream, watching crawdads and minnows dart past, while sipping a cold soda or beer.  I can’t help but think of friends touring villages in Spain and Italy, or setting up summer residences in Paris; but creek- sitting in Templeton, California, on a hot day is lovely too.

It’s likely that Joy is all around me, always available, if only I’d slow the old jalopy down and pay attention. Maybe if I toss out some excess baggage, move a few responsibilities into the trunk, and actually pay attention to the beauty around me-- Joy may decide to hop aboard and ride shotgun for awhile Maybe she just needs a little more room.

But even if she doesn’t choose to come along—her little sister, the sweet Sense-of-Well-Being, is always available. Maybe Well-Being needs a cuter name, like Willa, or Wilma. I think Wilma is good, after my own treasured Auntie. Well-Being-Wilma is not as celebrated as her champagne and roses sister. She's more like a cold beer and a handful of wildflowers. She doesn’t get her name in songs or poems much as Joy. No, Wilma is practical, cheerful, and generous as summer days are long. I don't have to bribe her to come, I just have to allow her--and there she is, climbing in with a picnic basket overflowing.

Joy, for sure, is sublime, and no life is complete with a taste of joy now and then. Some wise people live in a way that cultivates joy nearly full-time I'm not there yet. I will try to make a little more room for her, though, plant some flowers, in case she's in my neighborhood. But when I think about it-- what I really want on this jalopy ride is what Wilma so freely offers: a sense of well-being: enough freedom to walk by a stream whenever I please, enough peace and prosperity to enjoy the day, some good company, a cold beer on a hot day-- and when I'm extra lucky, the first plums of summer.

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Flow

5/1/2018

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Confluence:  Old Latin, adapted, from “com” (together) “fluer” (to flow) The point at which two rivers come together.

Hiking with friends recently, the word "confluence" popped up, as we came upon two pretty streams flowing into one another. I should have stopped for a picture, but I didn’t. You can picture them yourself though—swift and clear, lined with willow trees and wildflowers, gravel beds sparkling as sun filtered through the trees. The idea of confluence was tossed about as we continued on our way.

When two streams merge, there’s lots of energy -- but there is something more, something powerful and transformative. Ancient Hindus often built temples at the confluence of rivers and streams, as the sites were considered sacred.  The blending of waters is compelling, but this world is filled with confluences of every kind.

Music is a confluence of melody, harmony, rhythm, and words. Connecting with another person is confluence, too. Whether the flowing together results in an idea, a business, a friendship, a romance, or a new life coming into the world-- generations can be affected and transformed by confluence.

A confluence of three events led me to board a plane this week to Mexico: an invitation, a bucket list wish, and an offer I couldn't refuse--a cousin who promised to be our tour guide and interpreter.   I've been swept along in the current.

I’ve resisted my mom’s pleadings to escort her to Mexico for years, like a snail resists being sucked out of its shell.  My Spanish is terrible.  I imagine bumbling into streets teeming with drug lords. I don't like being out of my element. But I know that expands or contracts according to our willingness to take risks. But I do have respect for Bucket List Wishes from my mother. Also, I now have respect for confluence. I’ve being carried away by the current, like it or not.

59 years ago, a family wedding took place in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, that my mom was unable to attend as she was pregnant with me. She has let me know many times I could make up for my untimely impending arrival--if I would just take her there, to see her former sister in law and nephew. And so--we navigated planes, trains and Customs pat-downs to arrive in this lovely town of cobblestones, flowers, firecrackers and pop-up weddings and parades.

As the sights, sounds and tastes of Mexico swirled around us, Big Fish Dreams sailed forth into the world from Ely, Minnesota. Books, too, are a confluence of events and people. In this case, a confluence of art, story and people from all over that care about salmon and stream restoration come together. If you are a river lover, and have a kiddo that likes to fish, you can order Big Fish Dreams from Amazon or from www.ravenwords.com, and know you’ll be helping a good cause.

We are safely home now, and Mom had a great time. The Bucket List Wish has been checked, and while it wasn't my wish, I am the richer for this confluence. I actually learned a lot that completely changed my view of my extended family history. I was, in spite of myself, transformed by this confluence of events. I discovered my family is history is far more complex and more tender than I'd imagined. I'm glad I didn't resist the flow.

May your confluences all lead to happy transformations. May you stand in the flow of all good things. And if you get a chance to get to San Miguel de Allende--it's well worth the effort.

Jimmy Buffett - Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O2_lU3adj5k

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