To Walk is to Dream

 To imagine walking alone down an ice-covered gravel highway north of the Brooks Range when it's minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, one must consider fire. Human skin is comfortable in a relatively narrow range of temperatures and when we take it beyond its limits either through heat or cold, the feeling is similar. Extreme cold is as painful and deadly as extreme heat. Seeing this man walking north with nothing but a small cart is not a complete surprise as he's been preceded by Haul Road rumors. But I am startled.

Caribou, ravens and foxes have proved their mettle through generations, but few humans venture into the Arctic winter, even with good reason and a safety net. Here is someone who faces it alone, with nothing more than he can carry. I observe him from the comfort of our heavy warm truck. We've spent a lot of days hunkered down this stormy winter, not even driving, to avoid the possibility that we might get stuck for a few hours. He chooses to travel for days, on foot, alone and exposed. My brain chews on this enigma.

While common in some parts of the world, I'd venture pilgrims are scarce above the Arctic Circle. And this one is both rare and mysterious. Accustomed to peeking behind the magician's curtain with a quick Yahoo search, I am surprised to find little more than his name, Toru Yamaguchi, and a quick note in the Fairbanks NewsMiner that he started at the southern tip of South America five years ago and plans to finish at Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, the northern coast of North America. I didn't even know there was a Pan American Highway and he has almost walked its length. I found no Facebook page, no blog, no website where he posts daily snapshots from a satellite phone, but an article in the Fairbanks NewsMiner includes a quick quote from Texas in 2007.

"People think I need help," he says, "but I don't need help. I love to walk. This is my dream.

To walk is to dream. Toru Yamaguchi walks slowly and deliberately. Perhaps it is because of the weight of the cart he pulls, or perhaps it's simply that after five years, he's in no hurry. I reflect on what it might be like to have walked the world from stem to stern. First, I envy how much closer he is to these Arctic mountains than I will ever be, and then I envy the hours he has spent listening to the symphony of the Americas. Then I move beyond envy to consider that to an outsider, such a traveler might appear foolish or fearless, but he is more likely self-aware, self-confident and self-contained. He has experienced truths that were impossible to understand. In the steamy press of a jungle or a dreamy frigid Arctic landscape, his own breath has been a constant companion. He has tested his mettle, and found fear can be pushed back to reveal a world much bigger than most of us could envision. He is not bound by politics or geography. Life and death are his limits, each constantly within reach. After five years, I'm guessing it doesn't feel like a huge journey so much as one brilliant moment after another, each step a lifetime within a lifetime.

To imagine what it's like to walk alone down an ice-covered highway north of the Brooks Range when it's minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, one must take into account that each life includes personal pilgrimages. While most are smaller in scale, they take us beyond day to day existence, and allow us to breath in, breath out, and see the dream that is our life. An evening walk reveals a sunset more beautiful than we have ever seen. Love-lifted wings carry us through a terrible life 'storm.' The awakening journey of pregnancy connects us to our ancestors and human continuity. The death of a friend, parent or child leads our hearts into unknown territory. From these experiences, we constantly refine our limits, and learn that while we can touch the pathways of other lives, no one can save another from their life's truths. Like Toru Yamaguchi, we make our own way and we all walk alone.

I watch him in the rear view mirror as we drive away. We shared a few words, and smiled warm thoughts for his safe journey. He said 'thank you' when he grasped the apple and orange I held out the window and I felt grateful that he had accepted our gift. Perhaps his face lit up, thinking of fresh sweet juice streaming down his throat on a dry Arctic highway. I can only imagine. Like a true pilgrim, he remained a mystery. The mask protecting his face from the cold completely hid his features. We never even saw his eyes.

Between a Candle and a Mirror

When I walk south across the yard after lunch, the sun on my face feels warm, even though it’s minus twenty and the sun is so low, its bright beams slice through mountain tops.
Crunch. Crunch. My hard-toed boots strike dry snow. I don’t stop. Movement warms my legs and arms. It’s hard to believe that small white bulb shedding less heat than a candle is actually a blazing ball of hydrogen. I can still feel warmth on my left cheek when I turn west at the end of G Camp, and my face is definitely colder when I turn north at the next corner. I pull up the face mask and hurry along a little faster, heading ‘home’ to my warm office.

Looking north, I see an orange moon disk sinking slowly behind a snowy hill. It looks as big as the sun, but I feel no heat. There is no fire there -- it’s just a mirror, offering reflected light to guide me through darkness. As daylight arrives, it fades and retires, unable to compete with a star.

Of course, it is my egocentric nature that sees these celestial bodies move. In reality, I am the celestial body in motion -- not just walking, but also taking a wild ride through the universe on a spinning globe. I am so comfortable with this miracle that I seldom even think of it. Only when my heart and mind find it hard to let go of a moment do I remember, ah yes, the earth does turn and I must go with it. Time is defined by the candle and the mirror, and my life is defined by times when I move forward and times when I pause to reflect, before moving forward again.

In his book ‘Lightning,’ Dean Koontz says there is always hope because each night is followed not by another night, but by sunrise and a new day.

I do love sunrises more than sunsets – exponentially more.

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.