Sweet Dream Baby

After the Storm

2011-09-11T05:59:00.001-07:00

The sun shines most days here in Arizona. Day after day, the sky is first yellow behind the Santa Catalina Mountains to the east of us, then briefly pale green, then blue, blue, true blue, for the rest of the day until evening when yellow, orange and pink precede sunset to the west.

Ten years ago, September 11, 2001 was a perfectly clear day in Anchorage and for several days after, the evening TV weather showed those happy yellow suns all across the USA, from Anchorage to New York, Florida to Montana. I sat on the sloping grass in Elderberry Park looking out at the water and mountains across Cook Inlet, wondering "how can the sun be shining everywhere when the world has just ended?" Many people were out, just wandering around in the sun, perhaps exhausted from watching the Towers fall again, and again on the news, perhaps drawn by instinct into the sunlight that we so seldom enjoyed. I remember the clear blue sky and hungering for the 'normal' sight of a plane passing through it. The bright light of vulnerability shone on us; our naïve innocence melted in its glare. It was dawn; we did not know what that day, or future days, would bring.

It's hard to start over. We are young as a nation, and like any youth, we take ourselves so seriously. After ten years, I am like many Americans, still trying to find myself in the ashes of grief and powerlessness. That is my word for 9-11 – powerlessness. The powerlessness of the passengers on the planes, the powerlessness or the men and women in the Towers, the powerless of firefighters in the stair wells, and police officers in the streets who went to work that day, pulsing, free, living beings. And the powerlessness we all felt as we watched them evaporate and rise to heaven in the spiral of souls we called 'smoke.' We lost them. They disappeared. And with them, they took what we so innocently called "freedom."

We are still struggling. We watch in dismay as those we've elected devote their time to political gamesmanship instead of working together to help us move on. If the passengers on Flight 93 could vote to die to save others; why can't they vote on a debt limit increase? These are good people, who begin their careers in public service with high ideals. It would be easy to judge them, but perhaps compassion is more appropriate. We are still at a crossroads. Their struggle, as superficial and self-serving as it appears, is the heart of our dilemma. Which way do we go? Is there a place of safety? How do we get back to 'normal'? Is there a choice that will move us away from powerlessness?

Luckily, it's not just up to them. In the book 1861, Adam Goodheart writes about events that led up to the Civil War. He compares it to 9-11, an event that 'changed the past as much as the future; rewriting not only our expectations of what was to come but also our sense of what had gone before." His impetus for the book was a collection of letters written just prior to the War, in which a career officer in the US Army stationed in Far West Indian Country, wrestles with his decision of which side to choose in the impending battle that would determine whether we would maintain this union called the United States of America. Though these letters, and his research, Goodheart determined "history is decided not just on battlefields and in cabinet meetings, but in individual hearts and minds."

I think we are most powerful when we focus our hearts and minds on the Four Fundamental Freedoms Franklin D. Roosevelt said everyone in the world should enjoy in his 1941 State of the Union address. These are the paths back to Freedom.

Though our "Freedom of speech and expression" was buried by the dark convergence of electronic media and governmental proclamations of 'right speech' and dissent equated to treason in the years after 9-11, it can be reclaimed. I am a member of the last generation that will remember personal privacy – there are no secrets now. I am a member of the 60's generation that marched with fearless anonymity to protest racism and the Viet Nam war. In my heart, I know privacy and anonymity are gone; but not Freedom. My freedom is recovered if I simply accept that cost of acting on individual conviction is much higher now but the benefit of individual conviction turned into action remains the same.

Though "Freedom of Worship" has been suppressed by the resurgence of fundamentalism, it can be reclaimed. In my world, it's as simple as averting my eyes when I see a woman in Target bearing a burka, instead of staring. I don't need to judge her, or feel sorry for her. In my mind, I know that is Freedom for me, and for her.

Our "Freedom from Want" suppressed by the economic penalty of isolationism and unbridled greed can be reclaimed. My Freedom from Want is regained when I am generous with my time and give to those less fortunate when I can. I can do so because it's good for me, not because they are good enough to warrant it. In my heart, I know that is the true meaning of Freedom from Want.

Our "Freedom from Fear" has been suppressed, not just by the realization that we are not exempt from terror, but by an addiction to adrenalin fed by the media. My most sobering realization and most dramatic resolution during this month of remembrance is that I must turn off the news. Before 9-11, I admit I seldom watched or read anything but local news. Since then, I have checked three internet news sites several times a day – maybe hourly – not to see what was newsworthy, but as subconsciously assuring myself that we have not been attacked again. Words like "Car bomb", "torture", "evacuate", "flee", "victim", "suicide bomber", "molestation", "devastation", "destroyed", "weakened" and "genocide" are available every day to keep my adrenalin levels high. I suspect they are the key words that increase readership – not the key words that describe world news. These words and the evolution of 'news' into opinions speeches telling us how to think about them hide our Freedom. In my mind, I know Freedom from Fear is choosing my own thoughts and not being confused or controlled by institutionalized fear mongering.

A big storm passed through Tucson last night – layers of dark clouds rushed by; winds ripped branches off trees; rumbles of thunder rattled the dishes in the cupboard; water rushed down parched dry arroya. We even had a rare tornado warning. Roxy shivered and crept under the covers and I watched lightning flashes through the blinds before we went to sleep.

Big storms are frightening and it is hard to accept that storms (and war) are a natural part of our existence. They do not mean The End even though they can change what has been. I awoke in the night. The clouds had moved on and the full moon was so bright, I could make out cholla and prickly pears in the open space beyond our back yard. I imagined small critters out there saying "Whew! We made it through another one." Some were undoubtedly swept away by flash flooding, but others survived the torrent. And so will we. We are confused – not weak.

And today here in Tucson, the sun will shine – not because there will never be another storm; but because good times and bad are a natural part of life. Some things I can change and others not. If I hold that one small thought in my heart, and don't spend my day looking for dark clouds on the horizon, then I am free.

All Good, Sister

2011-02-20T09:39:00.000-08:00

I’ve been feeling a small anxiety associated with pending retirement. After so many years of thinking about the same big things, I’ve wondered what I’d do with all my time. Will I be depressed? Bored? Right now I’m practicing retirement on a six-week vacation just before my last 12 days of work, and, for all of you who’ve wondered, here’s how it goes.

By 932 AM this morning, I’d listened to the entire podcast of Terry Gross interviewing country singer Rodney Crowell about his new memoir on Fresh Air ; had a cup of coffee with my beloved baby brother, Pat, who’d miraculously spent two days with me before he drove to Phoenix to catch the plane home; stood in the back yard to take photos of rose-colored clouds that nestled on the mountain tops as the sun rose in the east and the full golden moon set in the west; listened to doves, a cardinal and a woodpecker; spotted bunnies with orange ears chomping grass on the golf green; taken Roxy for a 1.2 mile walk (the remnants of a technical career live in my iPhone GPS); enjoyed Greek yogurt and fresh blueberries at my new round dining room table; discovered that the high ceiling in my living room holds great acoustics when I sing “I Know Love is All I Need” along with Rodney; sang as loud as I wanted because I didn't have to worry about bothering the neighbors in a condo; cried a little because those cowboy lyrics told the story of the love I feel for my brother and my whole family, how lucky I am to share life with wonderful friends, the death of my parents, passing of my childhood and life in general; practiced hula dancing (I took my first lesson last week) and put a load of towels and sheets in the washer. There was time for all this before 932 AM.

It’s evening now, and the dark clouds that have been swooping by in the bluster all day are stacking up on the west side of the Catalina’s. The air smells rich and pregnant with possibility. And I wonder where the day went. Time, time, time. So far, what’s different about retirement is having the time to consider the love of family and friends, to breath in the softness of pink clouds and sunrise, to smile at bird songs in cactus and bunnies on the green, to sing along with country songs, and smell the promise of rain in the desert. If that’s all it is, then I think that will be good enough to keep me busy for a long time.

Tomorrow, I just might look for a used guitar on Craigslist so that next time Pat visits, we can sing together. Music was a big in our family because we were part of the pre-TV generation. It's also one of the things that I haven't had much time for in the past 25 years. Now I have time to practice up.

Time, time. Time slowed and stretched to encompass family and friends, memories and dreams, learning to hula (ha!) Time to think slowly. It feels like time for everything.

The cycle of pink skies and moonbeams in the morning, followed by dark clouds and wind at night, reminds me that life just keeps changing. As Rodney says in his song, change happens to us all. "Just like the sun will rise, the night will fall." But that also means that even in the desert, there is always the possibility of rain.

Love is all we need. And as brother Pat is so fond of saying, "It's all good, sister, it's all good."

Keep On Keepin' On -- Arizona, Louis Hastings and the Bill of Rights

2011-01-09T09:47:00.000-08:00

They were only 19. Fifty years ago this month, Charlayne Hunter-Gault and Hamilton Holmes, walked across campus at the University of Georgia, the first African Americans to enroll in classes. Imagine the courage it took for these two, whom I would today consider to be children, to walk past cruel and bitter voices of intolerance, to open the door of freedom for all those who followed.

"Vitriol" -- meaning either sulfuric acid or cruel and bitter criticism -- is written in headlines this morning, not related to civil rights, but about whether politicians are inciting violence through vitriolic websites and debates. This obvious question was prompted by a mad man in Tucson, an assassin who aimed for Representative Gabriella Giffords, and did injure her, and also killed John, Christina, Gabe, Dorwan, Phyllis, and Dorothy -- a respected judge, a small girl with great promise, a young man committed to public service, a retired man described as a 'jack of all trades,' a grandmother from New Jersey who sewed for church fundraisers, a woman who married her high school sweetheart who was injured in the shooting.

To attribute political intent to this crime is inappropriate; this killer is more closely related to Louis Hastings who in 1983, set out to 'kill' the remote village of McCarthy, Alaska (he did kill 6 of its 22 residents) than he is to Lee Harvey Oswald. But the question of the responsibility of leaders in their communications is valid. The power of words and their possible unintended consequences is a key element of leadership. I wonder how Arizona, which seems to have become the front line for debate about real and imagined issues related to the constitution, will step up to this new topic.

Turning this over in my mind, I realized I could second-guess our decision to move to Arizona when we retire. But instead, I read the Bill of Rights this morning. The right of assembly, the right to bear arms, trial by jury, cruel and unusual punishment, due process, search and seizure, federal vs. states rights, remain part of our national identity and national debate. And I recall the words of Charlayne Hunter-Gault quoted on NPR when asked how she would like people in 2011 — especially today's college students — to view the civil rights era.

"I think that the thing that we learned back in the day of the civil rights movement is that you do have to keep on keeping on."

I think I'll do that too, in my own small way. Rather than being cowed by vitriol or fear, I will put them in their proper place. When I look at the photos of Charlayne and Hamilton from 1961, I focus on their eyes, not the vitriolic expressions around them. I will keep my eyes on dreams and plans for a happy fruitful future in a wild and beautiful place called Arizona which at times is as prickly as the prickly pear in this photo; I will stand up for what I believe to be right and true but also respect those who see things differently; I will keep family and friends at the forefront, always.

If I keep on keeping on, I will live into the promise that Charlayne and Hamilton, and many others, had in mind when they acted. To do less would be to dishonor their courage and contribution.

Good Morning Starshine!

2011-01-03T06:54:00.001-08:00

Sunrise in December, originally uploaded by aryllascott.

Isn't it amazing how song lyrics from our youth just stick with us? I was listening to Oldies while driving around here in Tucson and was amazed that I could easily sing along with early Beatles and Rolling Stones songs that I hadn't heard in years. Lyrics emerged from musty brain-drawers closed forty years ago. How could it be? I could see the long play record spinning on my turntable.

And late last year, when I sneaked outside in my nightie in the cool morning air to look at this sunrise, I smiled, "Good Morning Starshine, it's so good to have you back again" even after just one night. I'm sure there have been many songs written about sunrise since Hair in 1967, but this is the one that comes to my mind. My teenage years are the imprint that defines the poetry of my life.

Good morning 20-11. I think I shall call this year twenty-eleven, not two thousand eleven, as I've done with 2010...there's something about that one extra syllable that makes me just want to drop it. A lot of things will drop away this year -- a long career -- I'm retiring, and my definition of 'home' -- we are moving from Alaska to Arizona. You gotta let go if you want to grab on to new things.

What will all these changes be like? Who knows. But good morning 20-11. Hurray for sunrise, and beginnings.

Forever Young

2010-01-12T21:32:00.000-08:00

Through the oval portal on the 737, I see that our destination is dawn. Stars overhead fade and from 37,000 feet, I see a clear and elegant distinction between night and day -- dense dark gray clouds beneath us, and morning’s clear blue promise rising above them at the horizon. Our north-south trajectory takes us out of the darkness and into the light.

Smooth sailing with a strong tail wind, the captain says on the intercom, only two hours, forty-nine minutes to Seattle. So far, so fast -- I arise from my warm bed, memorize the look and feel of Roxy and Walter, get on the plane, and really just moments later with no real sensation of moving, I am hundreds of miles away. It is almost like time travel; but more like life; so far, so fast, without any real sensation of what the journey requires.

I am headed to Vegas to see my cousin Mavis. We are double cousins really, because a few generations of two families, one in Canada and one in the US, made a habit of marrying each other. Her Dad Perry was my Mom Lois’s uncle and he married my Dad Lawrence’s sister Ora. I even once married Mavis’ husband Dave’s brother. This entwined family tree is another story but to sum up, we come from the same stock -- if I had a sister, I suspect she’d be like Mavis.

I don’t have a sister, and at this point, Mavis doesn’t have a husband. While our hearts and minds were preparing for the imminent departure of our mothers, mine in Saskatchewan and hers in California, her husband, Dave sat down in a chair one day at work, smiled, and went to sleep. Sixty-eight is not too young to die of a sudden heart attack, but it still caught us off guard.

I didn’t make it to any of the memorials. The call came the night I arrived in Louisiana to visit my new grandson, Zen. I had just attended Mom’s final hours in Saskatchewan, and I couldn’t make myself get back on the plane to fly west. I am celebrating Dave’s life by helping Mavis close out their home in Vegas, and driving with her to Sacramento to begin her new life surrounded by their children.

I’m not sure what this trip will hold, but I recall a conversation we had over twenty-five years ago while walking down a narrow dirt road carved out of tangled alders. We talked about what we’d do when our then-tween girls left home. Our lives as we knew them would be over, we imagined, and we should think of new things to do. As it turned out, this change in our lives took different paths. Her daughter married young, but continued to live in the family home for many years. My daughter left for college and made a life thousands of miles away in Louisiana. At 40, I found a career, got divorced, lived alone for many years. Mavis stayed the course, working side by side with Dave. They were what I call a ‘traditional’ couple, sharing everything.

I don’t imagine that one road trip will set a course for a new life for either Mavis or me, but it seems right that we will again spend time talking about transition. I too can feel myself changing. I’m still a year away from retirement, and I’m already starting to live differently. I once had such a strong connection to Anchorage that I wrote about feeling like I was tied there at a molecular level. When I was away from home, I got homesick and hungered for the view of the water out my front window. Too much travel in the last few years, for work, family and even a few vacations, has cured me of this homesickness, and left me self-contained, free to move without regret. These days, I do not consider it odd to think, ‘let’s see now, where am I?’ in the moments between awakening and opening my eyes.

So driving 300 miles to and from work and flying to Canada and back and then to Louisiana within the first two weeks of December didn’t feel like a crisis and being with my grandson, Zen right after Mom died was perfect. We humans learn so much about life through observation and mimicry. I watched my Mom, and I saw the grace and ease of dying. I watched Zen, and I relearned the beauty of being.

Under the covers one morning, I extended my right arm and one leg at the same time, stretching the right side of my body, and realized I was mimicking a gesture I’d seen Zen do the previous day. He stretched, and then he sighed with pleasure; I’d just done the same.

“That’s why people love grandchildren,” I realized. Not because they remind them of being a parent, but because watching a person who is too new to be cluttered up with complexity reconnects them with the pure pleasure of being. When we stretch, he becomes more like me, and I become more like him. In that few seconds we celebrate the verb ‘to be,’ and we are both new.

While Mommy and Daddy are still asleep in the morning, Zen and I wrap up in blankets and swing on the porch. His gaze settles on the edge of the camellia bush and only wavers if he catches sight of Katherine’s blue and green prayer flags that flutter above us. He contemplates these two things only. True to his name, I suspect he does not overanalyze; he just loves the sensations -- warmth, movement, sound and the elegant distinction between light and dark.

Some would say he hasn’t yet learned to think. I believe what Socrates said: we are born knowing everything, immediately forget it all, and spend the rest of our lives trying to remember. There is a light in his eyes that shines on a the future I will not see. I wish Mom and Dave had met him.

Instead like Bilbo Baggins in the Hobbit movie, they found themselves poised to begin the ethereal journey described by the poet Van Dyke:

Parable of Immortality

I am standing upon the seashore.

A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze

and starts for the blue ocean.

She is an object of beauty and strength,

and I stand and watch until at last she hangs

like a speck of white cloud

just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says,

" There she goes! "

Gone where?

Gone from my sight . . . that is all.

She is just as large in mast and hull and spar

as she was when she left my side

and just as able to bear her load of living freight

to the place of destination.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her.

And just at the moment

when someone at my side says,

" There she goes! "

there are other eyes watching her coming . . .

and other voices ready to take up the glad shout . . .

" Here she comes! "

After thinking, “let’s see now, where am I?” I’m guessing Dave looked around, said, “well, what d’ya know?” took Mom’s arm, and smiled as he guided her on board. They knew the journey, so far so fast, would pick up on the Other Shore -- not sequentially from the end of an earthly life -- but eternally in the clear promise of memory.

Smooth sailing with a strong tail wind to you, Dave and Lois. We loved the moments we shared with you. You are gone from our sight, but we have memorized your touches, smiles, and kisses. In our hearts, your beauty of being will always be forever new, forever young.

Just Before Sunrise

2009-12-15T07:08:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-06T13:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-22T19:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-10T14:20:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-18T12:42:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-25T13:31:00.000-07:00

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

2009-02-15T10:05:00.001-08:00

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

2008-12-23T22:56:00.000-08:00

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.

Learning to fly

2008-11-27T09:10:00.001-08:00

When my little grandson Rocket died, I knew immediately what memorial I'd like for him. I contacted Danita at DanitaArt and she courageously made this painting for me to hang in my home to remind me of him every day. She gave him dreds because his Dad has dreds and he did have lots of wonderful wavy hair. She dressed him a white gown and gave him a white teddy bear because he had those in the hospital. And she gave him red booties because a friend of my daughter knit tiny red fuzzy booties for him. This painting makes me cry but it also brings me joy every day. Thank you, Danita.

Her title, "Learning to Fly" also reminds me that after the death of a loved one, a whole family needs to 'learn to fly' again. When Rocket died, grief struck me out of the sky, and for a while I lay still, stunned, on the ground like a fallen songbird. Yes, my life went on, but my soul was silent, earthbound as I thought through the unthinkable. A grandchild symbolizes the future and continuity. What does the death of the future mean?

After six weeks (it both seems like yesterday and ages ago,) the chorus of confusion and sadness no longer fills my thoughts completely. I see that the future isn't fixed on any one person or event. It's much bigger than any of us. Believing, as I do, that one can survive life's sorrows, I see I will go on, not in the same way, but on. To rise above this moment requires that I reassert my belief in life as a persistent miracle. To rise above requires me to be present to see, hear, touch, taste and smell life's richness. To rise above requires that I plant my toe firmly on the foundation of my beliefs and push off, while extending my wings fully to catch the comforting current of family and friends. This sounds like a moment, but of course, it's not. It is a series of smiles, tears, enlightenments, hugs, false starts and struggles. But in time, I believe, I'll look out beyond grief, and see that once again, I have learned to fly.

Learning to fly, originally uploaded by Danita Art.

Now Showing -- Down to the River

2008-11-08T08:16:00.000-08:00

Life flows like a river and we, in our little life boats, drift around its winding blue curves, meander through sunlit flood plains, defy frothy rapids, and survive perilous waterfalls. We also needlessly race downstream, hopelessly struggle upstream, dive to great depths, hit bottom, drag bottom, float lazily in groups or drown alone.

In the end, we find there’s no escaping life’s journey. But we can face each day with dignity and grace. We can stand tall, play the hand (or instrument) we are given, and head Down to the River to embrace life on life’s terms. In these choices lie truth, beauty and blessings.

In My Heart

2008-10-11T21:17:00.000-07:00

My first grand child, I see you
Tiny fingers, tiny toes, hair in waves
Knees and eyebrows, perfectly formed
In my heart, dreaming.

My first grand child, I hear you
Giggling joyous and free,
Dashing around a sunny corner
In my heart, laughing

My first grandchild, I feel you
Warm in my arms, sweet baby breath
Cooling the tears running down my cheek,
Tears, tears, ripples in the pool
In my heart, breaking

My first grandchild, your whole life,
Your first smile, your first word, your first step,
Your first day of school, your first date, your first child,
All these dreams we had for you, I hold
In my heart, remembering.

My first grandchild, my little Rocket Man
I wish you’d stayed with us a while
But instead you shot straight up to the stars
on a beam of eternal sweet happiness
I love you, Rocket Perry Cambric,
And cherish you in my heart always.

October 10, 2008

Persistent Miracle

2008-07-31T06:45:00.000-07:00

Snow in July. A blizzard so thick, they can’t see the mountains across the valley. This news comes to me from the Brooks Range the day after I leave for Saskatchewan. Not surprising, of course, being so far north, but startling still – and a stark reminder that summer, and all good things, come to an end more quickly than we ever wish.

I was born in the middle of the middle of the middle -- June 15, 1950 -- the middle day of the middle month of the middle of the 20th century. What I hadn’t considered until recently was that in 1950, we still lived in the shadow of World War II. I also hadn’t realized that I was born a mere 85 years after the Civil War, and 65 years after my great-grandparents traveled by wagon train to Oregon. While in a previous century, these things happened quite recently. If you add to this history, events that have happened since my birth -- civil rights, John, Martin and Bobby, a walk on the moon, this war and that, my transition from a small farm in Saskatchewan to the edge of the Arctic Ocean, worldwide financial success and failure, the Polar Bear’s pending extinction -- an astounding amount has been packed into my short life time plus 85 years. A mere ‘Tick’ from the clock of time.

Life seems slow as I live it forward. I am not aware of time passing so much as I see things around me that have changed so dramatically I am forced to accept that I too must have changed. While I don’t feel old, I see that my daughter is 35 and my Mom who’s 81 is in poor enough health to require full time care in a nursing home. I am in the middle; we are each 23 years apart. I’ve lived 58 years, and there’s a limit to the time I have left before - Tock. And my end may come any day, just like a July blizzard north of the Brooks Range.

If I could freeze frame a moment in a snowflake’s life as it drifted through the middle of the sky in the middle of the valley in the Brooks Range, I would celebrate each unique, spinning kaleidoscope reveling in its bright moment between heaven and earth. The elegant forms of frozen water are a natural part of the largely unseen, but persistent, miracle we call the water cycle.

Miracles happen whether or not we are watching. So much of life occurs outside of our awareness, even those things that we see, we don’t really ‘see.’ This is also true for my days. While somewhat of a blur overall, I can seek out bright moments between heaven and earth. I am blessed by the elegant flow of family, friends, animals, flowers, clouds and sunsets that make up the largely unseen, but persistent miracle that is my life.

Dall Babies

2008-05-26T10:55:00.000-07:00

The other night, I stopped to watch the Dall sheep on my way home from work. There are many ewes and lambs high on the mountains; they look like little white dots until you focus on them. But if you pause for a moment, you can see tiny fuzzy creatures jumping across the rocks. The sight of these babies playing grabs my heart – a Mom is a Mom -- and just for a moment, I fear for their safety.

I’ve learned that motherhood is always intense and these days it washes over me, cleansing, moving, at times nearly drowning me. My Mom is dying down a winding path, and I walk with her on these days, not because I can save her, but just because I can share the time, and shine love on that crooked tired smile. My intent is to comfort her, hold her, touch her, take this last opportunity to be the best daughter I can. I found a string of pearls when we packed up her house, and I’m wearing them every day this Mother’s Day month. I might even keep wearing them when the month is over so that I can think of her every time I look in the mirror.

At the same time, my daughter is asking me how I’d feel about being a grandma. I am a little excited, but each step she takes in her normal life, I have to work through my concerns that she will be exposed to new danger or heartache. It’s a silly thing, I know, but this mother-daughter thing burns with selfish intensity and I wouldn’t sacrifice her even for a grandchild. Of course, I can’t save her from the pain or life in general. It’s her life – not mine -- I’ve done my part. But I think my body was programmed to defend her the first time I looked down at her in my arms, and I will struggle to accept that she will take chances and move to new levels throughout her life.

I wonder if those Dall moms gasp when their baby leaps from a rock high on the mountain. There are likely multiple generations up there – great-grandmas, grandmas, moms and daughters. In a few months, the lambs will be grown and from a distance they’ll be impossible for me to tell apart from the adults. It seems like a ‘natural’ connection for them – and I guess it is for me and my family too. All these mothers and daughters strung together like pearls -- scattered across a mountainside, draped around my neck, and inseparable through time eternal.

A Rosey Future

2008-05-24T16:21:00.001-07:00

, originally uploaded by aryllascott.

As I got up at 4 AM, I heard the heartfelt song of this robin. Pulling back the curtain, I saw him right outside my window in a barren bush --the photo is fuzzy because I snapped it through the screen.

I smiled at him because I realized that if robins sing before the snow goes then it must be true that hope arrives before the end of difficult times, and even sings a sweet song to keep us moving forward.

Amazing Grace

2008-05-22T09:11:00.001-07:00

Returning to work this week, I was amazed to see the explosion of wildlife. All those geese that we've seen flying by over the past month are sitting on the ground up here waiting for ice to melt so they can build their nests. The caribou are restless and they all seem to be walking north toward the caving grounds. I know it's just the normal springtime change, but after so many months of darkness and desolation, it seems like a miracle. And I feel so blessed to be a small part of such abundance. There aren't the many opportunities for one human to be in the presence of millions of other creatures.

Is that you T-Rex?

2008-05-21T16:32:00.001-07:00

Our travels through the John Day Fossil beds in Oregon earlier this month including seeing fossils of wonderful animals lived on this earth 45 million, 20 million, 10 thousand years ago but became extinct. It came to me that our anxiety about global warming is perhaps really a concern about the possibility of human extinction, for certainly the earth is not at risk -- but rather the conditions we need to survive.

Consider the smylodonts, cynodonts, Macrauchenia, Wooly Rhinos. They were amazing! And they're all gone. If T-Rex made it, he now looks like this sparrow. I guess extinction is actually not such a dishonorable end. If humans do cease to exist on this earth, we'll be in glorious company.

Good Morning Starshine

2008-04-18T08:49:00.001-07:00

Good Morning Starshine, originally uploaded by aryllascott.

Whenever I do a swap, I always try something new. This time, I used the sunrise photo as an inspiration and then created an abstract design. This is not easy for me, especially with all those straight lines. And then I thought the sun should be represented by a ribbon rose because it does rise like a beautiful blossom. I even added some 'flying geese' that I've been seeing heading north lately. What do you think?

starshinedetail2

2008-04-18T08:27:00.001-07:00

starshinedetail2, originally uploaded by aryllascott.

Snow Plowing

2008-03-30T09:00:00.001-07:00

The Hills are Alive with Caribou, originally uploaded by aryllascott.

Spring Fever

2008-03-30T08:50:00.001-07:00

Hi Neighbor, originally uploaded by aryllascott.

Yesterday afternoon, I was struck by my first episode of Spring Fever. The sun was shining in my window; the temperature was up to about zero; I’d been sitting here in this office trailer for hours and my mind just froze up – no transmissions between synapses. I put on my heavy coat and gloves, lowered the flaps on my down hard hat liner, and set out for a walk.

At close range, there wasn’t a lot to see but snow, snow, snow, a few brown plant skeletons from last summer, and tracks from previous visits by ptarmgian, caribou, fox and perhaps even the two wolves we’ve seen in the neighborhood this week.

But futher out, I could see rolling hills and acres of snowbanks cultivated by caribou pawing down to find buried lichen. A month ago, the slopes looked like they were covered by smooth white bed sheets. Now, they are all getting roughed up. The caribou have been hard at work and the evidence of their labors is building. There are few smooth surfaces left.

These caribou are just plain cute with their skinny little legs sticking out from the bottom of full coats that look like a nut brown parkas with white ruffs. They peer at us with lovely huge eyes. Right now, there are thousands of them scattered like herds of sheep on the hills but it won’t be that long until they gather up like they’re all headed for a rock concert, and march north to the calving grounds at a fast clip.

I wonder if they get Spring Fever. I imagine them pausing for a few moments on this glorious afternoon to look at the blue and white mountains and contemplate just how amazing it feels to have made it through the dark and cold of another winter. The sun has returned from its annual winter vacation below the horizon and the temperature is rising. It was -52 about ten days ago, and now look at that thermometer! I think they might say, “Yipee!” before turning their gaze back to the lichen showing at the bottom of the hole they’ve just dug, thinking (just like me as I return to work,) “Let’s see now…where was I?”

Blue Bayou

2008-03-29T16:07:00.001-07:00

Blue Bayou, originally uploaded by aryllascott.

I'm not sure why we celebrate milestones in the journey called life. Perhaps there is something built into the human nature that makes us stand back and cheer at certain intervals.

I'm no exception. This December, I'm celebrating 20 years since I graduated from art school with a solo show. This is a preview of one of the pieces.

Cruising Altitude

2008-02-15T18:00:00.001-08:00

When my friend Anne was 80, she told me the story of arriving at Galbraith Lake airport for the first time in the 70s. She said when she got off the plane and looked over at Sheep Mountain, she thought it was the most beautiful place in the world. Looking across that same valley this week while waiting for the plane, I can't help but agree.

Anne died a few weeks ago, and I smiled a sweet blessing to her yesterday afternoon as we taxied down that same gravel stip, took off and climbed to cruising altitude. Looking out on this scene, I gave thanks that she taught me that you can better yourself and have adventures all through your life -- once when embarking on a drive from Washington to Alaska with three small kids in the car, she took a side trip to Yellowstone -- and she went back to college in her 60s, got a degree and even worked a couple of years before she retired for good. She was a wonderful friend and role model.

The physical urgency of working in the far north makes each day new and immediate, and I can't believe it's been almost 20 years since I first got off the plane at Galbraith Lake. I'm a little surprised to find myself working out here again this year. It is hard to share the experience in words because there are so many superlatives. So cold. So dangerous. So beautiful. So dark, then`so light. So careful. So much kindness, consideration and caring.

I haven't really noticed that we've all been aging, but I feel it personally. There was a time when I could work 18 hours a day, day after day, but now I sometimes feel run down from long hours. I'm too old for this, I say with a laugh. I'm not done yet, but I doubt I will do it that much longer. I know I will grieve the day I leave for the last time. I draw great comfort from what I learned from Anne. It is pleasing for me to think that when I am 80, there's some chance I'll tell the story of being a young woman of 58 who worked in the stunning, violent, unforgiving, beautiful, amazing Arctic.

I will never forget Anne, or this mountain, or that how high you get in life is more about attitude than altitude. Happy Valentines Day (one day late) Anne, I love you.

Seeking Silence

2008-02-09T17:20:00.000-08:00

I spend a lot of time detached from the planet – in short leaps of course -- last year I got on a commercial jet nearly 100 times. I’ve become accustomed to standing in lines like a knot on a rope of patience; showing this and that ID, again, again; keeping my face and mind flat, still, what did the Borg say? Resistance is futile. I grieve the loss of my love of flying, exhale the tiny voice of fear in my head, and accept this is how it now is. It’s only as stressful as I allow it to be.

The one thing I do find stressful about flying is the whistle of jet engines. That noise vibrates my brain in an uncomfortable way. Even back when flying was a pleasurable part of my life, I wore earplugs. Perhaps it’s because I think physical stillness should be accompanied by silence -- not just a reduction in decibels, but mental and spiritual peace. If getting aboard felt less intrusive, if the seats were wide and reclined, if a jet was as quiet as a sailboat, I think we might all hug the flight attendants and turn to wave goodbye at the end of a flight, instead of crowding the door in anticipation of escape and dragging our bags in a quick march up the ramp.

My big picture view of this is that silence makes it easier to listen, and listening is restful. And restfulness brings peacefulness, and peacefulness restores my body and soul. In the busiest day, I can take a mini-break, by simply turning off my brain cells for just a few seconds to really listen to what another person is saying. Perhaps it is also my responsibility as a member of the human family to do so – but I do it to give myself a break. If I really look at them and focus on the sound of their voice – just stop for a moment and not try to solve even the smallest problem -- I feel momentarily refreshed.

The city where I live is rightfully filled with the whoosh of traffic and chatter of community. At the remote industrial site where I work, we use generators for light and heat. Sometimes during daylight hours, I wish they ran more quietly. Sometimes in the night, I awake and listen in the darkness for their sound, reassuring myself that they are still there to sustain my life. I do not long for a return of the quiet skies that followed 911. I am part of, and enjoy, the hustle and bustle. But I also crave silence, and I don’t mean just what I don’t hear.

I photographed an icefall last weekend, and now that I look at these photos, I see stillness captured in transparent layers and swirls. If life is a river then this is a freeze-frame snapshot of the eternal process of its comings and goings. Still. Waiting. Resting. Peaceful. Caught in the moment of listening to me inhale, then hold my breath as I snap this photo. Perfect.

In the Name of Love

2007-12-24T06:27:00.001-08:00

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

2007-10-21T10:07:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-07T12:14:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-07T11:52:00.001-07:00

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

2007-08-30T18:38:00.001-07:00

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

2007-08-26T16:13:00.001-07:00

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

2007-08-20T17:57:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-05T11:58:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-11T15:07:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-26T21:31:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-17T21:15:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-17T12:28:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-16T23:52:00.000-07:00

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.