In the Name of Love

A hawk flew up from a pine tree as we drove down I5 in Oregon last week and I suddenly remembered another bird, another trip. No matter where I travel, my favorite past time is looking for wild life. One of my best memories of visiting the Grand Canyon this week is seeing a family of deer -- a buck, doe and two fawns. What I remember most about visiting Paris was being awakened by the rich song of a robin. I lay under my thin blanket in a business hotel hear the Eiffel Tower, something like a Holiday Inn the review said. The room was tiny and spare by American standards -- not at all like a Holiday Inn, I thought, but certainly adequate.

It was May, and while the grass was green, this most romantic place had not yet embraced the warm colors of summer flowers. I rose and pulled back the curtain to see if I could see him, but the wet gray street was empty. These Parisians led a civilized life. At six a.m., it was just me and the robin. I was surprised to hear the sound that I counted on every year to let me know I'd survived the winter. Of course, I knew there were European Robins, but nonetheless, it seemed a rare moment to hear this fellow traveler. I could imagine him in the top of a leafless tree, head thrown back, mouth wide open, sounding out with all his heart. We'd come to Paris for history and art. He'd come for nothing but Love.

I did not see him, or even hear him again after that morning. Perhaps he flew on; perhaps he found his soul mate that very day. We enjoyed the sights and sounds of Paris, which was just what we'd expected. We got saturated with art and history at The Louvre, ducked under bridges on a Seine boat ride, sat on the grass beneath the Eiffel Tower, climbed up the Arche de Triumphe and became accustomed to being corrected when we tried to speak French.

It was May 2001, before the planes, before the war, before Freedom Fries, left me wondering just how welcome I am in the world. It is my ego that gives me these misgivings, of course. I am not so important that I would even be noticed when visiting most places. And in my heart I believe that when it comes down to it, I'm as welcome as the robin when I travel in the name of Love.

Last Waltz

Last week, I made the long trip back to Saskatchewan, Canada, where I visited my Mom who's in a nursing home there, my brother, his wife and my neice. It has been nearly 50 years since I lived there, but something about just breathing the air takes me back to my childhood, and I am reminded that in my family, we didn’t tell stories, but we did sing. And there were times in January when word of an upcoming dance cracked the hard glass of winter in our little community. It was a “do-it-ourselves” event. Someone would wake up the furnace in a hibernating hall, and sprinkle green wax across its pale wooden floor, and someone else brought immigrant fiddles out of the closet and grandpa’s guitar from under the bed, and our Moms and Grandma’s baked bread, pies and chocolate cake.

In the crisp twilight of a Saturday night, everyone got there however they could. Some came in dust-creaky cars with their windows wide open to dilute fumes pouring from exhausted mufflers; some came in horse-snorting sleighs called ‘cutters’ that sailed between fence posts on a carpet of snowdrifts; and we felt the magic of being quilt-bundled kids perched high on a John Deere tractor fender, feeling big rubber burn a pathway through a Milky Way wilderness.

It was freezing cold, but worth it, to have a chance to smile at each other across a lantern-lit room, breathing sweet dust stirred up into sweet-shuffle dreams of romance lost and found, in a schottische, a two-step, a square dance or two, called out to a choir of swish-sliding shoes.

By ten, they’d be sprawled out tired, politely waiting on straight wooden benches around the wall, while young girls like me, with shy glances and shining hair, waltzed platters of white bread sandwiches all around the room, offering up the mashed up egg? the bologna with butter? the ham of the devil? And then we’d slide giggling back to the kitchen to lead a procession of porcelain mugs, followed by men hoisting blue spotted pots of smoky boiled coffee, calloused hands gripping hot wire handles with greasy potholders. They threw back their heads and laughed.

Later, while they were all rising an eye-blinding polka, we’d sneak out back to catch glimpses of teenagers drinking in cars, and to stand silently breathing in miles of uncountable stars. Then, we all laughed at once and ran shivering back to join in the singing of one last waltz, “Good Night, Sweetheart, Good Night.”

Time Travelers

Sometimes I felt like we are time travelers. My earliest memories are so different from the way I live now, and they even come from a different century. I suppose every generation feels the same way, but it’s still hard to believe one family could have gone from horse-drawn sleighs to helicopters.

The long road forward has included all the pain and uncertainty it takes to grow up, but we can go back easily. Imagine we are driving down a dark summer road. Warm air rushes all of our memories in through open car windows; we hear, feel and smell them swirling around in the car. Many things flash by for an instant in the headlights, but on this journey, we only stop at bright spots – places that shine like welcoming yard lights at the ends of driveways.

We turn and drive up to the yard, climb out of the car, and stay as long as we want. We are welcome, no matter how long our journey.

The Art of Giving

Every year, I make pot holders to sell at our company United Way fundraiser. This simple act reminds me that I don’t have to do something extraordinary in order to do ‘good.’ It’s better to leave my ego behind and use my talents in simple ways.’

We Are the Stories We Tell

I heard on a podcast this week that a person is nothing more, or less, than their ‘story.’ We ARE the stories that we tell. I love the way this idea brings what’s really important into focus. When I tell my story, I don’t talk about my job, my education or my possessions -- those are boring details. I talk about what I think and believe, my hopes and dreams, my sweetheart Walter, my daughter, her husband and pets, my Mom, Aunt and brothers, the history of my family, friends, and people I’ve met, what I’m reading, silly little adventures in my life, and my sweet little dog, Roxy. I recall moments of pleasure and sadness, grandeur and absurdity. I recollect the times I faced enlightenment when the truth was so hard to bear. I laugh out my pain and weaknesses, foibles and failures. I tell these stories because I love to hear others’ stories about the same things. A story given for a story received is a reassuring echo that connects me to the human family. The well told tale celebrates a love of humanity. Of all the clutter that fills my days, stories are the raindrops of joy that guide my little life-boat in the sparkling river of life.

Dream Babies

Dream Babies are the retro-style toys I make. I can't explain why I've become so attracted to making art toys. Maybe it's because I've realized the importance of play to a happy life.

The Edge of Somewhere

For the past five days, I’ve been in the high Arctic, about a hundred miles south of the point where the furthest north rocky shore in Alaska gently touches the Beaufort Sea. I haven’t been up here for years and coming back, I find the place both remarkably the same and noticeably different.

The North Slope of Alaska is just that -- a huge plateau that begins at the Brooks Range and flows north for a hundred and fifty miles to a shallow icy sea. There’s a strip of land about 40 miles wide right along the ocean that it is really flat. Flat like Wisconsin without farms. But once you’ve drive an hour south, tundra covered hills roll out to the east and eventually these hills evolve into the stark rocks grey Brooks Range. There are trees here, a biologist showed me once, but they are short trees – two or three inches tall after hundreds of years, and at this time of year the groundcover of lichen, tiny trees and blueberry plants is like a rippling multi-color chenille blanket that stretches for miles over huge sloping swirls of land. The grandest superlatives can not define how huge the landscape seems when it is uncluttered with human artifacts. There is one narrow, gravel, winding, difficult road. There are no grain fields, cattle, power poles, gardens, clotheslines, children, or barking dogs. There is just a grand mostly-empty landscape, and clouds that hang so low the sense of perspective is pronounced as we drive into a receeding wedge of ground and sky. The land feels eternal. It is easy to look out into the misty distance and imagine herds of dinosaurs have just passed and are feeding just out of sight.

The big difference I notice after being gone is that there are more people here now. Back in the ‘old days,’ the road was reserved for long haul and other work trucks, and the only people I saw were like me, here for a week or two at a time to work. We weren't the first people here, of course, but we lived and work in concentrated small areas, restricted to them by rigid rules. Now there are brave and adventurous motorcycle riders with backpacks, hunters in campers and tourists staring at us from big white Princess busses. The other noticeable difference is that I see a lot less wildlife. I do see two loons, a few brown geese, gulls, a young brown eagle and a jaeger. Two ground squirrels run across the road, and we see a lone muskox on the bank of the Sagavirnoktok River. One friend tells me he saw a black wolf by Slope Mountain yesterday; another that there was a caribou last week.

I suppose this count is remarkable in comparison with most of the world. But I remember the days before the casual travellers came. Twenty years ago, there were huge white owls, wolves, falcons, foxes, grizzly bears, moose and hundreds of caribou right by the road. The herds of caribou are actually increasing in size, the biologists say, but it seems they’ve moved back from even this trickle of human contact. I’m told you can still see them in the distance sometimes, on the back side of a hill, grazing or moving in a fluid wave. Twenty years ago, they didn’t fear us because we were just trucks that drove by without stopping. Since then, generations of caribou have learned to stay out of sight of this ribbon of dust.

It’s a normal evolution I guess. The first wave of people are explorers, and they see the wonders of a new place. And they tell their friends, who follow in their tracks to the Last Frontier, the End of the World, the Edge of Nowhere. I understand these names, but I also realize that by the time it’s called that, a location is no longer what’s inferred. This is an edge beyond the reach of human comfort, but it is Somewhere – the edge of somewhere, to be sure, but somewhere nontheless. Nowhere ends when the casual traveller arrives. Nowhere ends when the abundance of other wildlife recedes.

Our windshield is tracked with gold streaks of mud. I’m watching the miles of green, gold lichen and red sail by. So beautiful, it seems wrong to call this “less.” My thoughts are not intended to blame, or to express shame, or support any political position. I accept human nature. It is what it is. I just feel a slight pinch of poignancy, looking out over the amazing curve of a faraway hill. I think of the dinosaurs, the caribou, and all creatures that have passed in this eternal migration. The surge of humans is coming into view; we’ll pass, and when our moment is over, some other being will emerge on the horizon, starry eyed to see such wonders.

Feels Like Home

We've been thinking about retirement, and more specifically where we might move when we retire. I've got a couple of more years to go, so at this point, there's no need for a quick decision, but the choice is on my mind.

To move, or not to move. That is the big question. On one hand, Anchorage is far away from everyone in my family, and it would be great to be closer. On the other hand, I've lived here my whole adult life and I'm not sure I can be happy anywhere else. We have friends, and a condo in a small neighborhood overlooking the water. What could be better than this?

While we were in Oregon this summer, we visited places where we might live. There was great scenery, great weather and great shopping, but no matter how much I love to travel, what I love most is that feeling of coming 'home.' I think Walt feels that in Oregon because he grew up there. I feel the same way when I visit Canada because that's where I grew up. I feel connected there even when we visit places in Canada where I never lived. But mostly, I feel that way about Anchorage, my home for over 30 years

I came to Alaska so many years ago when I was a wide-eyed 19-year-old, and from the first day, I had a sense of belonging. Over the years, electrons have ventured out of my body far enough to catch on to electrons from glacier ice, blue mountains, rich silty rivers, foraging moose, lines of geese, curious bears, dense blueberries and soft grey clouds. The connection I feel isn't just emotional -- it's physical at a molecular level. This is my place. There are no lines in nature -- it's all a blur.

Lots of people pick up and move. My ancestors climbed into small boats for the one way trip to America 400 years ago. I will never know why they fell so out-of-love with their homeland that they were willing to risk everything. Maybe they were naieve about how far in time and space they were going. They were called to come here and they must have found a new place called 'home' because they stayed. They do inspire me to be strong as I approach this crossroads.

I'm not even sure I'll leave. It used to be a 'rule,' that Alaskans retired 'Outside,' but nowadays, more of us are sticking around, or being SnowBirds. In any event, there's no rush. I've got the time for a well-savored decision, or two, and everything will turn out fine.

Art on the Road

When I was in art school, I used to spend a lot of time getting everything just right before I could be creative. A few years ago, I decided I had to adapt to a busy career and make art 'fit' into whatever else I was doing. I had to change the type of artworks I did -- from big paintings or sculpture to 'handfuls' of cloth and a needle and thread -- and I had to change the way I thought about art-making. Instead of being a 'special' state that requires separation from the rest of my life, I've learned to make best use of the 'spare' moments of my life. I make a lot of art on airplanes, taking advantage of quiet time in the seat when my hands are free and my mind is calm.

Completing the Wild Thing Doll Swap Quilt was a happy part of my vacation. It travelled with me from Anchorage to Fairbanks and back while I was still at work; from Anchorage to Portland on the plane and then on a motorhome trip around Oregon. I made the final stiches at East Lake in the Newberry Crater, Oregon -- 6400 ft. elevation and then we headed to sea level -- Siltcoots Lake by Florence, Oregon. We camped at Darling Resort where there were wonderful hydraengas and we travelled by boat to the post office at Dune City so I could put it in the mail to Lisa in Illinois.

I had two inspirations for the quilt. One is the waving sea grass on the Coastal Trail near my home in Anchorage. I've always wanted to include that design in a quilt. The other was a McCalls Pattern from 1943 of a series of stuffed animals. I am not sure exactly which animal this is supposed to be, but it's my favorite. It looks like a little Wild Thing in the grass to me.

I hope Lisa enjoys it as much as I valued having it as my travelling companion this past month. Small gifts bring great blessings.

In Praise of Things Un-sewn

During my first quilting class, our instructor acquainted us with 'un-sewing.' This, of course, is the same thing as 'ripping out' -- the dirge of the budding seamstress-- but she called it 'un-sewing' and she even said she would do it ALL for us. Whether or not we took her up on the offer, that made her seem like a goddess of quilting to us newbies.

I can remember a time when the end of a project for me was not when it was complete, but when I made a mistake and had to pull out the stitches and sew again. "Ripping out' is such a violent act! I just couldn't make myself do it. I find 'un-sewing' a much more gentle, natural process. I sew, and then again sometimes I un-sew. It's kind of like the tide.

I did a little un-sewing on the 43 minute flight from Fairbanks to Anchorage tonight. 43 minutes with a cold drink and a comfortable seat was just the right amount of time to clean up a little of the stitching I did on the Doll Quilt Swap Quilt over the weekend. I worked on it after I got tired, and it didn't really work out. Now I'm ready to try something else.

I've also learned that there are some things in life that I can 'un-sew' and redo. Not everything, of course -- some sewing projects and some things in life just can't be re-done -- but if I am patient and gentle with myself and others, it's surprising how often I can just calmly go back and pull out the 'stitches' of a little mess, and then try again when I am less tired, or less rushed. There is so much wisdom to be gained from quilting.

Good Grief

Nelda, Patty and I got to talking about grief while we were sipping our smoothies at Snow City Cafe this morning. Patty's dog Abbey is 12 -- pretty old for a Great Dane -- and she had a spell last week. Patty said she was in a panic, just to think she might die. Both Nelda and I grieved the loss of our pets in the last couple of years. Two years ago this month, my dog/friend Snoopy died and last fall, it was Nelda's black tuxedo cat Bill. Snoop died in the morning, and I took the rest of the day off work. I didn't cry much; we visited the reindeer farm, and Eagle River wetlands, and Eklutna Lake, driving around for most of the day. When Bill died, Nelda and I drank an expensive bottle of wine to celebrate his life. And we agreed that death sucks! And life goes on.

Grief seems so much more common to me right now, maybe because I'm at the age where loss becomes a part of life. In the past two years, Snoopy, my Dad, my niece Raenna, my friend Grace, all died. My Mom disappeared into the fog of dementia. We packed our family history into cardboard boxes and sold the house. My four girlfriends at work all quit in one week. Two bosses moved on to new jobs. So many losses. So many changes. Was life always like this and I didn't notice?

I've learned I can adjust to loss and grief. It no longer seems like the 'spike through the heart' event I once thought it was. It can become more 'normal,' more like a strong current, deep in the river of life, pulling us all past the glittering shore. It roots us in the reality, and necessity, of change. It doesn't drag me down, but it does hold me firm to my core beliefs. And when I least expect, it stirs up old roots, and leaves and silt that remind me of the moments, the looks, the warm touch, of those who have sailed on ahead. And I cry in those moments -- not for days, or even hours, but just for a few minutes. There is less drama than I might expect, but I'm surprised to learn, it doesn't pass. Grief stays with us, maybe forever, I guess, like invisible threads that tie us to our past.

Doubt

I am reading the History of Doubt. The author postulates that one role of the artist is to mediate the space between the harsh realities of an uncaring universe and feelings-driven life of the total believer. Reading that helped me understand the thought process of the 'abstract' artist, like my friend Nelda. Before I read this passage, I could see what she did -- looked at nature and then created works that represented the 'feeling' she got from the view -- but I couldn't really grasp the thought process. Now I have a better understanding

Doll Quilt Swap

I signed up for the Doll Quilt Swap and have started on my quilt. I've never made something to just give away to a stranger. I did this in part because I like to make artworks, but I don't really have a clear goal beyond the creation process. That means I end up with a storage problem in my small house!! I do put together a solo show every couple of years, but other than that, I enjoy the creation process much more than the marketing angle. Anyway, so far I like the feeling of this 'gift for a gift' swap idea and I wonder where it will lead.