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.