Just Before Sunrise

When she was 79, Lois fell through the ice. It wasn’t an accident, but it was a surprise. None of us, not even she, knew she was walking on thin ice. She may have assumed she was ‘walking on water’ having just been wrapped in the love of her two youngest children during a pre-Christmas getaway that culminated in a scandalous prime rib dinner filled with laughter and cocktails. She may have assumed that the slips and falls she’d been having were due to a weakening heart or just plain old age. Whatever she thought, in just one night, after more than 28,000 days on this earth, she dropped through the ice on a river of illness, and never touched firm ground again. No one recognized the danger. One minute she was there laughing, looking forward to several more years of her quiet life surrounded by friends in a small town. The next minute, we watched helplessly as strong currents sent her tumbling through the darkness of an unknown affliction.

Her symptoms quickly evolved from fever to fear, paranoia to paralysis, silence to spasms and screams in the night. For five months, psychiatrists, cardiologists, physical therapists, and geriatric specialists pondered the mystery of a malady that struck so quickly and changed so often. Was it Alzheimer’s Disease? No. Was it Mad Cow Disease? No. Finally, the process of elimination pointed to Lewy Body dementia -- what I call the mean cousin of Alzheimer’s -- memory loss, pain, paralysis and nights filled with terror. No cure, no treatment, all we can do is try to make her comfortable, they said. She moved to a nursing home a thousand miles away from her home town. Her life, as both we and she knew it, was over. We could still see her there, under the ice, but she never emerged.

Before the ice got too thick, she had moments of hope. At times, she could even grab hold of the shiny sheet and try to pull herself up. She thought she might be able to play the piano again, but her fingers became rigid and twisted. She thought she might be able to walk again, but her legs stiffened and bent. She tried to strike up conversations, but she could only speak in a whisper. As the ice thickened, she froze in time and space like leaves, grass, and air bubbles trapped in a wintery lake. Strapped in a wheelchair, fed with a straw, she closed her eyes and faded from view.

The long dark lonely winter of dementia lasted four years. Finally, there are clear signs that breakup is coming for Lois. She lies on her right side, with one hand curled in front of her like a swan’s neck. She has two fleece wool pads (white and green) for comfort and a bright yellow bedspread. The white cloth pony I gave her is by her side, and her puppy dog blanket is folded at the foot. Behind me, a machine delivering oxygen whirs like a lawn mower. Her breathing is fast, shallow, and bubbly. As midnight approaches, we are attended by angels, nurses at this special care home. I call them all Mother Theresa’s because they consistently perform acts of compassion and kindness.

I journeyed through earthly blizzards for this emergence. Here we are in that precious space between darkness and sunrise, when the sky is a determined violet and the birds have started to stir. I am with her, watching life's horizon for her sunrise. She won’t need to chip her way out, or grab on to pull herself up. The ice will dissolve, and she will open her eyes, surprised to feel warmth on her cheek. She will find herself on a sunny shore, smiling with family and old friends. I want to be here when she rises.

Goodbye and good morning, Mom, I will love you forever.

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.