In This Moment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Learning to fly

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

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

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

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

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

, 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

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?

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

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

starshinedetail2, originally uploaded by aryllascott.

Snow Plowing

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

Spring Fever

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

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

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

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.