Hallelujah

It’s been weeks since that cool August morning when I stood in a valley in the Brooks Range and sang Hallelujah. I'm writing this now because my time in the Brooks Range is done and I’m homesick.

I was finishing my morning walk, stepping along to brisk tunes on the Ipod when I looked north and saw a light. For just a moment, I thought there might be someone out there and that was oddly comforting. Just for a moment, I wondered if this was the way we humans were supposed to live -- not jammed up in cities, not isolated by technology -- but in small groups, alone but able to see the lights of our neighbors just a short distance away.

On another day, these could have been yard lights in a neighboring farm, on before the rooster crowed, the dogs barked or the barn cats stretched in the musty hayloft, licking their lips at the thought of milk pails clanking. The mornings of my childhood. On another day, they could equally have been a campfire stirred up by a neighboring band of hunters, stretching their limbs as they rose from the cold ground, shivering in skin shrouds and looking for wild white sheep on rocky ledges above. The mornings of prehistory. On this day, they were somewhat of an illusion -- just lights on at our small airport, night and day. There was no one out there.

But I was not alone. The fox that lived in a den under a module in our camp passed unhurried, swerving off the road into the rocky ditch, then out through the tundra. I gave her space, out of respect for her task or feeding three kits in the lower yard, and out of concern that most foxes in the Arctic are rabid.

I watched until her silky brown ruff blended into the mottled hummocks, then lifted my gaze to focus on amber sunlight gently unveiling the bodies of mountains across the valley. The earth’s spinning dance was soft and smooth, and sunlight flowed across the landscape like water seeping down garden rows. As our valley turned to face the day, secret shapes appeared for a moment, then vanished as the light moved on to reveal others. It was mesmerizing.

Albert Camus wrote about mornings:

“On certain mornings, as we turn a corner,

an exquisite dew falls on our heart

and then vanishes.

But the freshness lingers, and this, always,

is what the heart needs.

The earth must have risen in just such a light

the morning the world was born.”

Through the gift of modern electronics, Rufus Wainwright started singing “Hallelujah” in my ears, and the exquisite dew of memory fell on my heart; I tipped back my head and joined in.

“Hallelujah”

Praise, joy, thanksgiving -- a 14th century word that most articulately expresses a 21st century feeling. Isn’t that miracle of its own?

“Hallelujah”

Praise, joy, thanksgiving for the way sunrise flows over mountains.

Praise, joy, thanksgiving, for the comfort of distant lights and knowing we are not alone.

Praise, joy, thanksgiving for the earth that carries us through the darkness and into the light

“Hallelujah”

for secrets revealed each day as into the world we are born.

Turn, Turn, Turn

I was amazed at the furor that arose when Michael Jackson died. After decades of reviling him, the US media took to his death like flies on a whale carcass. I’m just Alaskan enough to have seen one whale carcass, and it was over twenty years ago. What I remember is the smell of such a large mass of melting flesh and the equally impressive tornado of flies that rose fifty feet above it. The Jackson Tornado circled the headlines for ten full days, sweeping aside deadly bombings and political sex scandals. I just didn’t get it.

Then it came to me that I was too old to appreciate the emotional significance -- all those Gen X kids who sang along with that young boy soprano as they passed through puberty knew the words to his songs. “Thriller” was a marker of their time, and so was his passing. By the time Michael Jackson arrived, I was too wrapped up in motherhood and trying to make my way through life to memorize lyrics like "you are not alone..." My time for that was with poems of the Sixties, like "Turn, Turn, Turn" by the Byrds.

To everything there is a season,

and a time for every purpose, under heaven.

I was thinking of this song, and others, while I sat beside my mother’s bed in the Special Care Home in Cut Knife, Saskatchewan. It is the second day of my visit and unlike the first when she never opened her eyes, she at times seems somewhat aware of my presence. Mom played the piano and we kids all sang so I also know the lyrics to songs of the forties like the Patti Page’s Tennessee Waltz and Doris Day’s Sentimental Journey.

A time to be born, a time to die

A time to plant, a time to reap

A time to kill, a time to heal

A time to laugh, a time to weep

Most of the time, her eyes are tightly closed and I can’t tell if she’s awake or dreaming, perhaps somewhere between. This may sound heartbreaking, but I am more relaxed in her presence than I have been during the past three years. I can finally ‘hear’ that she is not asking for my help or even having a conversation with me. Her brain’s in the grip of a noisy illness with a song and a voice of its own. "No more worries for you," I say smoothing her forehead with my fingers, "nothing but smooth sailing from here on."

A time to dance, a time to mourn

I’ve watched enough others journey through this Special Care Home to know there’s no turning back for Lois Esther. She’s headed down a road to Heaven, as beautiful as the canola-lined road into this town, and beyond my reach. She no longer expects a response when she speaks, and it’s hard to hear what she says. She is evolving into memory.

A time to rend, a time to sew

I am stitching blue cloth on white while I sit here -- a crib quilt top for my soon-to-be born grandson. She will not meet him even if she does live to the day he is born. But I am embracing this hope of the future. At this moment, I feel that even my time with him will be too short. There is nothing like facing a parent’s demise to acquaint one with their own mortality.

A time to build up, a time to break down

I don’t cry when I leave her but there is a moment when tears suddenly flood my closed eyes as I am flying home. I look out the blurry window just in time to see the most easterly ridges of Rocky Mountains jut toward the rising sun with shocking urgency.

I can’t help but smile at this scene. I find comfort in knowing that the ups and downs of my life will be un-noticeable within the context of eternity. Not just individuals, but even species come and go quite regularly. Those mountain layers are like books in a library. One thin page describes humans, another the oreodont and other mammals from millions of years ago, a few volumes about dinosaurs, and maybe a small folio about the ungulates, including the white-tailed doe and two fawns that looked down on me while I drove to the airport this morning. The past doesn’t leave us. It returns to the earth and is held firm. It really is ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

You can’t have it both ways Linda, I say to myself. If you love the idea of being part of millions of years of change, then you have to accept its moments. Births, deaths, risk, and heartbreak touch each of us, because we are part of this wonder.

A time to love, a time to hate

A time for peace, I swear its not too late.

In the end, even Michael Jackson could be redeemed. “He was the best Daddy ever,” his daughter Paris said at this memorial, “and I loved him very much.” Did this mean he really was just a normal ‘dad’ who wanted privacy, and not the ‘thriller’ we’d read about in the news? Rather than pursue this mystery, the tornado of flies leaves, in search of another carcass.

“I love you Mom,” I said, pressing my cheek to hers, as I rose to leave. “I love you too,” she answered. Perhaps it was just an automatic response, but I savored the sweetness of our final words.

Love is all we bring to this earth. It’s all we really need while we’re here. And it’s all we leave behind.

Turn, Turn, Turn.

Evermore

A shiny black raven is ‘wag-tail’ walking across the roof of a module just outside my window. It’s been bouncing from conduit to pipe to rooftop around the yard, sipping fresh cool raindrops from yesterday’s storms. I saw him and his ‘wife’ out this same window in January when they were maneuvering their way through a big blow.

Our resident ravens seem to easily tolerate minus fifty degrees and weeks of darkness, but when those are combined with wind speeds that would be called a hurricane in most parts of the world, even these hardy warriors struggle. On this day in January, the West Wind barreled across the hills and hit the end of our office building with a ‘whump.’ Buckets of polished snow bee bees rattled against the glass. I watched the ravens brace themselves within cable trays and even land on snow banks under the module stairs, seeking shelter. Each fierce gust threw them up into the storm, but over and over, they curled their wings to hover nearby until the torrent subsided, then settled again in relative safety, to await the next onslaught. There was really no escaping the storm, but it appeared they knew how to respond and recover from each blast. They were the picture of resilience.

I listened to Elizabeth Edwards book “Resilience” while flying to Portland last week. The sub-title is “Reflections on the Burdens and Gifts of Facing Life’s Adversities.” I liked the book because Elizabeth doesn’t come across as a heroine, or present a roadmap for facing recurring adversity. She comes across, not as a serene martyr; but a hearty warrior who reveals her struggles and weaknesses.

I was seeking wisdom while we were headed south to consult with a veterinary oncologist. Our little dog, Roxy has been diagnosed with spindle cell sarcoma, cancer. I was struggling because this news goes beyond what I consider to be the ‘law of averages’ that brings stability to my life. My ‘law of averages’ states that while many potential hardships appear on the horizon, one shouldn’t worry too much as life in general turns out okay. Last fall, I accepted the odds of a stillborn baby are one in a thousand, and my grandson was that one. I found it harder to accept that seven months later, when the odds of spindle cell sarcoma in dogs are one in ten thousand, Roxy was the one. How could I face the loss of another loved one? Could I keep my feet on the ground in those circumstances? This trial felt new, beyond past experience.

A week later, I’m a little euphoric from news that Roxy’s cancer is treatable. I know there is still risk, but hope and resilience has suppressed my demons of despair. That takes me back to our resident ravens. Now that it’s June, they are busy feeding three big chicks, joyfully flying to and from the nest on wings made strong in their battles with the wind. I suspect they are not distracted by memories of those stormy days last winter, or worries about next winter, but are instead leaning into each minute of sunshine. A morning like this, with its puffy white clouds and soothing sunshine, holds seasonal amnesia for all of us. I can relate to this Chinese proverb about resilience: “One joy scatters a thousand griefs.”

Watching these ravens, I am re-evaluating my ‘average’ life. If an average year in the life of an Arctic raven includes battles with deadly storms that add insult to the day to day struggle for survival, then I can expand my definition of an average life to include extremes. Faced with extremes, I can find shelter among family and friends, hold some ground when I'm thrown off base, but remain flexible so I don’t get wiped out by a big blast. And when hard times have passed, I can leave them in their place, lean into the sunlight, and striving to be a hearty warrior, not miss a moment of joy.

Within a raven’s nest, I imagine lessons about resilience. Perhaps the adults recite Richard Bach whose writings about birds and flight have inspired thousands:

"When you have come to the edge of all the light you have and step into the darkness of the unknown believe that one of the two will happen to you either you'll find something solid to stand on, or you'll be taught how to fly."

Yes, there is an edge to the light we have, and there is darkness. And the light of an average day reveals abundance, and facing adversity pushes back darkness to expose more than we currently see.

“Evermore,” quoth the Raven, “evermore.”

Not narcissus poeticus but rangifer tarandus

Not narcissus poeticus but rangifer tarandus, originally uploaded by aryllascott.

I spotted their gentle silhouettes in the distance when my truck topped a rise on the ice-covered Haul Road. They were there for just a moment, and disappeared from view as I sank into a valley. I smiled and breathed a sigh of relief as the truck rumbled to the top of the next hill. There they were again. As the sun has migrated north, people in most of this hemisphere have been searching for the first spring daffodil. I’ve been searching for caribou. Not narcissus poeticus with their potent pollen, but rangifer tarandus with antler-stamens bobbing in the new soft April light.

For the last couple of weeks, my eyes have strained to turn each distant dark spot on a snowy hill into a sign of life, to no avail. When I finally saw them, they were easy to recognize. Grey-ghost caribou in pale winter coats, carrying unborn babies to North Slope calving grounds as they do each spring -- a jagged shuffling line of bodies that reassures me we’ve all survived another winter. Just a small group, but over the next few weeks, their numbers will swell to thousands.

This long hard winter left me impatient for their return. Last year, they were tilling our snow-covered hillsides in March, but this year, lacking the human constraints of numbered days, they’ve just been smart enough to stay south of the Brooks Range while we gritted our teeth through winter's final minus fifty mornings.   Their tenacity is built on this foundation of wisdom from a thousand thousand migrations. Perhaps that’s why it feels like magic when they appear. One minute, they’re not here -- then they are -- it's not just easy to see them, it feels natural.  They don't arrive in a bright splash of color like a daffodil, but as a subtle sign of life in a stark landscape. And they don't appear because I was looking, but for their own reasons and in their own time.

Ah, hope! Sometimes you are there just for a moment before you fade, then come into view again, as constant as spring migration.  You appear as a flower, a sunrise, a migrating caribou -- not because we are looking, but mysteriously in spite of our struggles -- in so many forms, and yet so faithful, so easy to recognize if we are willing.

To Walk is to Dream

 To imagine walking alone down an ice-covered gravel highway north of the Brooks Range when it's minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, one must consider fire. Human skin is comfortable in a relatively narrow range of temperatures and when we take it beyond its limits either through heat or cold, the feeling is similar. Extreme cold is as painful and deadly as extreme heat. Seeing this man walking north with nothing but a small cart is not a complete surprise as he's been preceded by Haul Road rumors. But I am startled.

Caribou, ravens and foxes have proved their mettle through generations, but few humans venture into the Arctic winter, even with good reason and a safety net. Here is someone who faces it alone, with nothing more than he can carry. I observe him from the comfort of our heavy warm truck. We've spent a lot of days hunkered down this stormy winter, not even driving, to avoid the possibility that we might get stuck for a few hours. He chooses to travel for days, on foot, alone and exposed. My brain chews on this enigma.

While common in some parts of the world, I'd venture pilgrims are scarce above the Arctic Circle. And this one is both rare and mysterious. Accustomed to peeking behind the magician's curtain with a quick Yahoo search, I am surprised to find little more than his name, Toru Yamaguchi, and a quick note in the Fairbanks NewsMiner that he started at the southern tip of South America five years ago and plans to finish at Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, the northern coast of North America. I didn't even know there was a Pan American Highway and he has almost walked its length. I found no Facebook page, no blog, no website where he posts daily snapshots from a satellite phone, but an article in the Fairbanks NewsMiner includes a quick quote from Texas in 2007.

"People think I need help," he says, "but I don't need help. I love to walk. This is my dream.

To walk is to dream. Toru Yamaguchi walks slowly and deliberately. Perhaps it is because of the weight of the cart he pulls, or perhaps it's simply that after five years, he's in no hurry. I reflect on what it might be like to have walked the world from stem to stern. First, I envy how much closer he is to these Arctic mountains than I will ever be, and then I envy the hours he has spent listening to the symphony of the Americas. Then I move beyond envy to consider that to an outsider, such a traveler might appear foolish or fearless, but he is more likely self-aware, self-confident and self-contained. He has experienced truths that were impossible to understand. In the steamy press of a jungle or a dreamy frigid Arctic landscape, his own breath has been a constant companion. He has tested his mettle, and found fear can be pushed back to reveal a world much bigger than most of us could envision. He is not bound by politics or geography. Life and death are his limits, each constantly within reach. After five years, I'm guessing it doesn't feel like a huge journey so much as one brilliant moment after another, each step a lifetime within a lifetime.

To imagine what it's like to walk alone down an ice-covered highway north of the Brooks Range when it's minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, one must take into account that each life includes personal pilgrimages. While most are smaller in scale, they take us beyond day to day existence, and allow us to breath in, breath out, and see the dream that is our life. An evening walk reveals a sunset more beautiful than we have ever seen. Love-lifted wings carry us through a terrible life 'storm.' The awakening journey of pregnancy connects us to our ancestors and human continuity. The death of a friend, parent or child leads our hearts into unknown territory. From these experiences, we constantly refine our limits, and learn that while we can touch the pathways of other lives, no one can save another from their life's truths. Like Toru Yamaguchi, we make our own way and we all walk alone.

I watch him in the rear view mirror as we drive away. We shared a few words, and smiled warm thoughts for his safe journey. He said 'thank you' when he grasped the apple and orange I held out the window and I felt grateful that he had accepted our gift. Perhaps his face lit up, thinking of fresh sweet juice streaming down his throat on a dry Arctic highway. I can only imagine. Like a true pilgrim, he remained a mystery. The mask protecting his face from the cold completely hid his features. We never even saw his eyes.

Between a Candle and a Mirror

When I walk south across the yard after lunch, the sun on my face feels warm, even though it’s minus twenty and the sun is so low, its bright beams slice through mountain tops.
Crunch. Crunch. My hard-toed boots strike dry snow. I don’t stop. Movement warms my legs and arms. It’s hard to believe that small white bulb shedding less heat than a candle is actually a blazing ball of hydrogen. I can still feel warmth on my left cheek when I turn west at the end of G Camp, and my face is definitely colder when I turn north at the next corner. I pull up the face mask and hurry along a little faster, heading ‘home’ to my warm office.

Looking north, I see an orange moon disk sinking slowly behind a snowy hill. It looks as big as the sun, but I feel no heat. There is no fire there -- it’s just a mirror, offering reflected light to guide me through darkness. As daylight arrives, it fades and retires, unable to compete with a star.

Of course, it is my egocentric nature that sees these celestial bodies move. In reality, I am the celestial body in motion -- not just walking, but also taking a wild ride through the universe on a spinning globe. I am so comfortable with this miracle that I seldom even think of it. Only when my heart and mind find it hard to let go of a moment do I remember, ah yes, the earth does turn and I must go with it. Time is defined by the candle and the mirror, and my life is defined by times when I move forward and times when I pause to reflect, before moving forward again.

In his book ‘Lightning,’ Dean Koontz says there is always hope because each night is followed not by another night, but by sunrise and a new day.

I do love sunrises more than sunsets – exponentially more.

In This Moment

I was lucky this year because I was happy so much of the time. I spent a few days with my younger brother in early December when we made a trip to see our Mom – and like many siblings, I guess, we enjoyed exploring the many ways we have turned out alike. Most of all, we are both fundamentally happy.
I’ve read that happiness is genetic – you are either born that way or not – and Harvard Medical School says it’s also contagious – spending time with a happy friend (or brother) increases your happiness ‘quotient’ by 15%. But even so, I have wondered how happiness is sustained in spite of the inevitable trials and sorrows of a normal life. Little brother says it’s all about living in just this moment. I am familiar with the Buddhist ideal of living in the moment, but little brother’s view has a quantitative twist. Add up the moments of your life, he says, a normal year has 525,600 minutes, and a Leap Year like 2008 has 527,040. Now, just think how many of those minutes were actually frightening or sad – not that many – with a little luck, almost all of the moments of our lives are filled with the potential for happiness.

Now of course, to really benefit from this equation, one must be quick and willing to let go of dark memories and allow the twinkle of shining seconds to light the soul. So, I thought I’d reflect on bright moments from this year to celebrate the fact that in spite of passing through anger, anxiety, and great despair, I survived with my overall happiness intact. Through these memories, I relive the moments of joy, and looking back on them, I feel lucky because I was happy so much of the time.

Febuary 15 - After a long drive from the airport, we crested the last hill and looked down on 'home.' It was minus 47 degrees and I think this scene captures how tenuous life is in the high Arctic. We humans are not at all special here. We are fragile and we have to be really careful. There’s a tension and fairness to it. Each moment alive is precious.

March 8 - From 34,000 feet, Slope Mountain looks like an underwater landscape. In a way, it is; we do live in Water-world, the blue planet. The water in the atmosphere isn’t dense enough to be a cloud, but looking through over six miles of water vapor is like looking down into an ocean. This is my favorite mountain, and I thought I knew it well, but in this moment, I saw hidden mysteries of time, wind and water that I’d never noticed before.

June 16 - The caribou that live on the North Slope all give birth within a few weeks in June. Driving north, we came upon this herd of thousands. There were moms, dads and babies scattered across the tundra as far as we could see.

July 12 - Here’s the southwest corner of ANWR, the part of Alaska at the center of great political debates for decades. It's made up of mountains and plains, myths and legends. Look at those cloud shadows, drifting across the slopes like a long told story passed down through generations.

August 3 - Our little dog Roxy is a constant source of love, surprise and delight. When we adopted her two years ago, she was a frightened, anxious little thing -- it is amazing to watch her blossom and change. Just goes to show the power of giving and receiving love. Any day with Roxy and Walter is a good, and happy, day for me.

August 19 - I was watching a herd of musk ox off the side of the road when I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a young male challenge the herd leader. It was all over in a few minutes, and the young one was banished to a solitary life down the road. I didn't see this because I was clever -- just lucky to be in the right place at the right time.

September 8 - I was having a bad day, a really bad day, at work. When the power went out, and I thought – I’m outa’ here – I’m going to take a ‘time out.’ I’d driven about 5 miles when I saw three Dahl Sheep ewes and three lambs just off to the right. I decided I’d walk toward them taking pictures. If you’ve ever been around wild sheep, you know that they have a ‘sight’ alarm – when they catch sight of you, even a mile away, they just start moving up hill. So, I never dreamed I’d get very close. But these sheep didn’t run away. As I walked uphill, they walked down toward me until we were in one group. I was so close, I could hear them munching on golden grass.
I believe this to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, when the beam of an undeserved blessing shone down on me. Two days later, I’d learn of the dark days ahead. I got through them in part by looking at these steady brown eyes. ‘Don’t’ be afraid,’’ they seem to say, “everything will be okay.”

October 10 - I went straight from the airport to the hospital, and it was several hours before I drove downtown to check in to my hotel. As I drug my bag to the front door, I saw them there in the gutter – tiny brown birds, diving, shaking, wagging their tales in a puddle from that afternoon’s rainstorm. The reflection of the red brick building across the street turned the water a delightful peach color. I couldn’t help but smile and shake my head, ‘thank you, thank you, for this priceless moment’ I said dropping my bag, and digging out the camera. They looked so happy, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding in my life. I’d travelled from the Arctic Ocean to the Gulf of Mexico that day, from winter to a warm autumn day. I can remember thinking I couldn’t possibly be too sad when the air felt so warm and comforting. Of course, I was wrong about that, but I also remember thinking that the potential for beauty and joy exists around every corner even when the darkest cloud is overhead. About that, I was correct.


December 23 - At the opening reception for my art show in November, two couples whispered, “we just got married.’ They’d flown to California just before the election, as an act of civil disobedience, one told me. So I made each couple a wedding pillow, just like I’ve done for other friends over the years. I just took a short walk in a blizzard to deliver the second gift.

Is a quilted pillow an act of civil disobedience? I think not. I may never actively march, give a speech, or otherwise protest myself. Perhaps my part is to celebrate the courage of those who do. I'm inspired by my friends and our new president to renew thoughts of service. We each have a part in our great, strong country. When I think of peace and freedom, and realize that either can begin with me, I think, "what an amazing opportunity!" It's a humbling happy thought to end the year.