your dreams are always coming true.

It's that time of the month. Soul Matters time, that is. I have my meeting with my group tomorrow, and, of course, I've left most of my reflection and work for the last minute. I meant to look at it this weekend, but I ended up blogging about other things. So, back to Possibility. Let's see what I can work out.

First of all, the spiritual practice that they wanted us to do was, in my opinion, dumb. We were supposed to read a poem by Robert Bly every day. And it was a dumb poem, saying that instead of expecting the ordinary, we should imagine that a moose will come out of a pond carrying your unborn child in his antlers.

???

My point exactly. So we were supposed to read it every day for two weeks and see what sorts of things we would start to think were possible. It's meant to get us out of our routines. Personally, I don't think this would help my spirit, so I didn't do it.

However, if I were to explore this concept without the dumb poem, I think I would start to understand that a lot of the things I'm most proud of doing seemed like really crazy ideas at the beginning. Some of the wildest things I've done have been the most worthwhile. And while I'm looking for a job and trying to shape what my life in Rochester with Adam will look like, it's important to think big, not small. There, lesson learned.

The next part is the challenge. I need to brainstorm all the things I think are impossible. I've already listed these things, and I'll say now that I did NOT succeed in creating a home yoga routine, nor did I fast or do anything else, really. Not even close. I did yoga once. And I attempted to fast once. So, there are some improvements I can make. And I have decided that those things are big leaps, and I need small steps. That means meditating regularly, and mindful eating. The point is, I've figured out what my long term goals are, and now I know what small steps will lead me in that direction.

The other little trick I've learned is modifying my dreams. At this point, I think it's pretty unlikely that I'll go back to the woods to work as a trail laborer. And frankly, I haven't been convinced that I do actually want to. But...I am planning on going back this summer to visit, and hopefully see people from my crew. That would pretty much satisfy that dream of mine, but it fits into the reality of other choices I'm making in my life. I probably don't want to spend 6 months in the woods without Adam and without a phone to call him. So I'll go for a week or two, sleep under the stars, hike some trails, and that'll be that.

I don't mean to say that I should compromise my dreams for things that seem more reasonable. I just mean that I will never accomplish what I want if I will only accept one hypothetical result. Part of realizing your dreams is understanding that your dreams are coming true all the time. Even if they don't arrive in the exact package you expected. And that is the heart of possibility. The ability to see everything as an opportunity, every new experience a gift and every new acquaintance as the potential for something grand.

Living boldly means that we embrace all the little moments that will lead to someplace fabulous. Rejoicing in our small accomplishments acknowledges that every step brings us closer to our goals.

I used to feel like I was such a poser because I "pretended" that I practiced yoga regularly, when really I had only been practicing for a few months. I wanted so much at 17 to be a true yogini. But I knew that it would take time. Because I stuck with yoga and still practice, however sporadically, no one could tell me today that I do not understand the fundamentals of yoga and have a true foundation in the philosophy. And so there is no reason that I should have let that keep me from feeling like I was a yogini. My path led me here, and no one can disprove that those few classes I took as a junior in high school helped me along the way. Even at our beginnings, we are undeniably bound for success. That is the whole power of the future and the unknown. No one can really say "You'll never be a true yogini" or "You'll never become a doctor." Because they don't know the future. Maybe today is the first day of your 20 years as a massage therapist. Maybe all that journaling you've been doing for all these years will be a best-selling book in 3 years. Maybe yesterday was your first day as a lifelong bike commuter. The possibilities are truly endless.

This entire month I have been avoiding the theme Possibility because there is really only one thing that I want to be possible: getting this research job. I want to believe so much that it will happen, and I think I've done everything I can to make sure that this dream is realized. But since I don't know the future, I don't know if tomorrow will bring an end to this job search, and the beginning of another, or the beginning of 5 years with a health project in the Dominican Republic. I want to believe that it is possible. But if it doesn't work out, I have to imagine something equally acceptable to do with my life.

I firmly believe in listening to the messages that life sends you. For example, on a date with a guy that I liked, I got hit in the head with a sign. And that sign happened to say "Sign." That made it pretty clear. I also think that the job with St. Joseph's Villa did not work out because it wasn't right for me. When you have to work hard to make something feel good, it's probably not that good for you. I'm also hoping that it didn't work out because I was meant to have this job with the University of Rochester. And if not, I'm going to spend a lot of time working at a coffee shop and re-imagining my future.

I'll wrap this up with a little story from my friend, Brian Andreas. This has always been one of my favorites, and I think it fits pretty well with this evening's thoughts.

Everything changed the day she figured out
there was exactly enough time
for the important things in her life.

And, because I can't help myself, here's another:

In my dream, the angel shrugged & said,
If we fail this time, it will be a failure of imagination
& then she placed the world gently in the palm of my hand.

breadmaking.

One of the things I have been doing to stay active while I search for a job is--and this is so cliche--bake. I've never really been much of a baker, since I don't like following recipes, but lately I've had such a sweet tooth, and I don't feel like bundling up to get some store-bought overly-processed cookies. Since I've been unemployed, I've made several wonderful batches of snickerdoodles, ginger cookies, scones, and even coconut cupcakes and shortbread. I've also made more than a couple of delicious loaves of bread, including French baguettes. I made those today, and they are delicious! The catch is that once you have some fresh out of the oven, the cooled bread just doesn't taste as great. And Adam surely can't get enough!

Anyway, I'm glad that I've had this time to get to know baking, and, especially, to make some delicious vegan treats that people simply adore. Brianne told me that the ginger cookies were hands-down the best vegan cookies she's ever had, and Charlie said that the coconut cupcakes were perfectly moist. I'm very proud to share these cruelty-free treats, and to have them enjoyed by all!

Baking bread used to be a mystery to me. The power of yeast seemed to be nearly godlike, having the ability to turn water and flour into gooey, expanding, airy dough. My mom used to put her bread dough in her KitchenAid mixing bowl with a towel over it in the front of our minivan to rise. It was pure magic. "Learn to bake bread" appears on my List of Things To Do alongside "Learn French" and "Hike to Machu Picchu". It's THAT huge for me. I feel that when I'm kneading dough, I'm connecting with millions of women over centuries and millennia who have mastered this art of nourishment. If I have nothing else in the house, at least I have a few cups of flour, a tablespoon of yeast and some salt, sugar and oil if need be.

I happened to have that same sensation of connecting with women when, in the backcountry, I would wash my clothes on the rocks in the cold river. Nothing makes you feel more indigenous than standing naked in the rushing water, rinsing the dirt from your day's activities off your clothes and letting them dry on the rocks while you scrub your shivering body. I used to throw everything in my sleeping bag case and hoist the heavy load onto my head to hike up the big hill back to camp. It really is the easiest way to carry such a load.

When I get fed up with life's complications, I like to think about simple, sustainable practices our species have carried on since the birth of our history. Despite the fact that we demand phone interviews, letters of recommendation, writing samples, electronic AND paper applications, and freaking NY State Drivers Licenses, life for human beings is really much simpler. We are not meant for the bureaucracy of this modern age. We were meant for more earthly purposes:

Create a home, create a community, bake bread, break bread.

We make things so much more complicated than they need to be. You can, of course, extrapolate and use these things as metaphors. Buy a house, start a family, make dinner, eat together. But I would encourage preserving the former and ignoring the latter. Except that you can eat more than just bread! I wonder sometimes how I can live in this world. It's hard to drive a car, take a hot shower, live in a house too big for its occupants, mow a lawn and send text messages when I have known another way. I have known what it's like to move exactly at the pace of my own footsteps. I have known cold dips in wild rivers and soothing baths in natural hot springs. I have lived in a tent with the wilderness as my living room. I have maintained trails and restored meadows. I have sat for hours around a campfire, writing songs and talking dreams with people who loved the mountains as I did. It's hard to take these things for granted.

Most days, I just want to move to a farm in a place that grows food year round. I want to "make a living" by building a life. Provide for my family by growing food that I then cook for them and serve. Put in a hard day's work and actually know what the weather was like that day. I want to move at the pace of my footsteps.

There are lots of reasons why that is not going to happen, at least not anytime soon. First of all, it's horrendously cliche and idealistic. And very privileged. I do believe in urban population and keeping the wilderness wild. I think cities are horribly designed and once cars become obsolete (okay, scarce) I will very much enjoy city life. There are great things that come from putting community within walking distance. I'm getting off track.

In the end, I'm thinking today about what is important in life. And I'm thinking about bread.

Baking bread is grounding. So is eating it. And washing clothes, and taking naps, and sitting still, feeling the earth between your toes. What have you done today that really grounds you? That makes you remember that you are a human being, with a long history of living off the earth? What makes you feel the stillness? What makes you feel whole?

I'm asking myself all of these questions, and thinking about the next good thing I will put into the oven...

Sun Challenge

Another one of my resolutions (that I've been kicking around since August) is to begin writing short stories using the prompts from the Sun Magazine. They have a Readers Write section, and give topics 6 months in advance. I would love love love to get a story accepted, but even if I don't, it's still a great way to start writing more regularly and seriously. Here are the next few topics:

The Last Word
Beauty
Slowing Down
Teenagers
The Office
Medicine

The Last Word is due February 1, and I'm pretty sure I could get something in by then. I can't think of a story at the moment, but I'll work on it. Right now, I'm going to get back to reading this month's issue and pay special attention to the stories they include.

It should also be noted that only non-fiction is accepted. Which is fine by me. Fiction baffles me. I don't know how people come up with entire worlds that are not their lives. I'm pretty good at finding a way to make my stories fit into any category, and I'm sure I'll be able to write about Beauty, Slowing Down, and Teenagers. We'll see about the rest...

resolve.

Words color my world.

I don't think I ever could have imagined the poetry that would weave my world together and make it dance in my memory for a lifetime. From journaling as a pre-teen and teenager, to livejournaling as a young college student and then to blogging in The Real World, writing has been my way of making sense of the experiences and adventures that compose my life. No matter where I've been, be it the confused darkness of a family paralyzed by divorce, or the bonnie Highlands of Scotland, writing is compelling, necessary, and important. She is my good friend, and my most trusted therapist.

My love of language, then, is the natural progression of my friendship with the written word. To learn to express myself in more beautiful and exotic words was like discovering a secret garden. I could use these new words with new people, and they would take me to places like San Sebastian, Vieques, and Chefchaouen. I learned more about grammar than I ever had known, and so I became more confident in using my native language to express myself. I find I am always curious about what one word means, and I am fascinated by the posse of other words needed to define one. And so, another etymological lesson:

Resolve. Re-solve. Solve again.
to bring to an end; to settle conclusively; to reach a conclusion.
Resolution. To make a new solution.
finding a solution to a problem.

It's a new year, a new decade. Time for a fresh start. Time to go back to those old decisions and remake them. Resolve to do what is good for us, for our health, for our wellness and our future. We forget that behind every resolution is a decision we made that something was BAD for us. Losing weight really means that we don't want to overeat or to remain sedentary. Quitting smoking, obviously means we KNOW that cigarettes are bad for us. Buying too much, spending beyond our means and wasting beyond our allotment are good reasons to save money and to be thrifty. Part of making a resolution means looking back at all the ugly moments from the last year and finding a new way. How do we make change? How do we start over?

The truth is, New Years is a farce. It is a scheme to force everyone to operate on the same schedule of putting off our resolutions until one day in January. Months in advance, we talk about how we will make changes. "My new year's resolution will be to start running again." "I'm going to finish all those projects I never got around to." The problem is, we can start doing that NOW. We don't have to wait until the ball drops to begin the race toward our dreams. It's like Dick Clark is holding the toy gun, and we're all at the starting line waiting for his signal. As soon as he says go, we can all begin again. But not until he says so. Are we insane?? Dick Clark didn't even say "13" in his countdown! It's time to find a new starter for the race.

What happens if we fall of the wagon in February? Or worse, January 2nd. What then? Is it all over until next year? We're fooling ourselves if we think we only have one chance at this. Personally, January is a horrible time for me to make plans for my future. I'm cold, depressed from lack of sunshine, and generally walking like a zombie till March. I'm hibernating. So I don't need Carson Daly telling me that it's time for a fresh start.

However, I do feel hints of inspiration as I walk mummified through these frozen streets. Yesterday, on a frigid bus ride home with Adam, I suddenly thought about our garden, and what I want to plant this year. Even though I can't put a darn thing in the ground until April, I can still look through seed catalogs and draw up designs for the garden.

The point is, every day is a new day. So hallelujah for that. Maybe yesterday was awful, but today can be completely new. And we should allow our dreams and goals to evolve with the fluidity of each passing day, instead of it all hinging on one cold day just past winter solstice. New Years always creeps up on me, and I find I've had no time during the holidays to imagine the possibilities of the new year. And so I leave that for February. Sometimes even June. No matter what, I give myself the power to decide ANY day that I want life to be different. And if I fail one day, I just go to bed early and let the world remake itself as I sleep. When I wake up in the morning, the day is new, with no mistakes.

That being said, since this is the time of confessing our resolve for change, here are some ideas I have been chewing on:

1. I need a solid, regular, committed relationship with my yoga mat. It seems at this point that the only way that is going to happen is with an unlimited pass to Tru Yoga. So as soon as I have a paycheck, I am going to be spending at least 4 nights a week glued to my purple mat.

2. I need a paycheck.

3. I have been thinking about some lyrics by Ani Difranco, and they've been digging in, so much so that I can't shake them anymore:

"I had to leave the house of self-importance
to doodle my first tattoo
realize a tattoo is no more permanent
than I am"

I think I hold much too tightly onto the idea of what I am instead of oozing with the beauty of who I am. As silly as it sounds, this obsession is currently manifested in the terror I feel in contemplating chopping off my long hair. I have been thinking about it for months now, and still haven't done it, even though I actually found a photo of exactly what I want my hair to look like. The problem is, cutting my hair short feels like such a permanent act. It takes years to grow it long. But I have to remember that it's not a tattoo, it's not a wedding vow, and it's not an infant. It's my hair, and I have the earthly right of doing whatever the hell with it that I please. Yes, it is pretty when it's long, but I also only shower every three days because I hate waiting for my hair to dry. And, as long as it is, all I ever do is wrap it up in a little bun at the nape of my neck. But it's long and pretty, and sometimes I feel like it is a huge part of who I am. If it's gone, who am I?

All that being said, I have a hair appointment today at 3:00. I wrote this because I'm afraid I'll go in and say, just trim it, please. And I think that's cowardly.

More than a few experiences over the past few months have made me realize that this life is really all we have, and the more we sink inside ourselves, the less we will ever know about the possibilities of this world. Having the courage to do such a little thing as cut my hair is part of a huge awakening. If I can't get myself to part with these curly locks, I will never be able to do the wild things I imagine for this life.

When I was little, I used to lie in bed, paralyzed, trying to get myself to get up to go to the bathroom or get a drink of water. I was afraid of the dark, and monsters under my bed, and I would wait for more than 20 minutes, telling myself "Now!....Now!....NOW!" And I wouldn't lift a finger. This went on for months. Maybe years. Until the day I realized that if I had to tell myself to jump, I would never do it. So now I jump before anyone can say "Now!" And it works. That's how I get myself to jump off 20ft. cliffs into freezing cold water. That's how I buy plane tickets (and gear from REI...so bad). But seriously, I deliberate too damn long. I need to trust myself, and know that, as long as there are no rocks at the bottom, I'll survive any jump from any cliff I set my mind to.

So today, my resolution is to chop off my hair. If it's long enough, it will get donated to Locks of Love. The point is, I'm the one saying "Now!" Life is too short to waste on self-importance and fear. So here's to today, and all the possibilities that the rising sun brings.

Memory

i've always liked the time before dawn because there's no one around to remind me who i'm supposed to be, so it's easier to remember who i am.
[brian andreas]

This month's theme for Soul Matters is "memory." The first part of our assignment is simple: What is your first memory? I've thought about this before, and I always go to the moment when I walked into the living room of what was our new house on Douglas street. I was about three, and I was very impressed by the dark red shag carpeting. The only problem that I have with that memory is that I'm pretty sure it's not mine. My mom used to always tell me that, at that moment, I exclaimed that I wanted the living room to be my room. And so I'm not sure it's authentic. While I thought about this last summer, I remembered the time when I asked my mom how to spell my name. My backcountry crew was asked to recall when we first realized our individuality, and that memory really stands out to me. Understanding that each person has a different name (generally) really confirms that we exist within our own identities. So that's my first memory.

The next part of the assignment asks us to rediscover a memento from the past that has disappeared on the mantle, one that we want to dust off and display once more. I'm not sure yet what I'll choose. I assume it would be some memento from my travels, but perhaps not. I'll have to go through my things and see what I can find.

The third part of our assignment is passing on our memories. That's where this blog (and the other two I have) come in handy. I have plenty of stories that I've accumulated over the years (again, mostly from my travels) and I am looking forward to reading them over and finding ones to share. I also hope to spend a lot more time this month recording my memories here. I really have so much that I need to write about. This is good motivation to do so.

Rev. Forrest Church said, "Who we are today is in large measure determined by what we choose to remember and how we choose to remember it." I think it's important to remember that we are making a legacy of our lives, and that we need not only make wild and beautiful memories, but we need to remember those moments with the dignity and imagination that they deserve. All my most beautiful memories come from moments when I felt awed or inspired by what I saw, heard, smelled, felt and even tasted. Opening to the magic of the moment helps us remember better.

We all have stories, and we should all be story-tellers. What's your story?

Deep Listening

This month's topic for my "Soul Matters" group is Deep Listening. There are three parts to our assignment, and I really haven't done much with any of them. One is to listen to surroundings, to be in a familiar place like the supermarket or the park and to listen to what is going on. The next is to listen to someone close to us, to really listen to what they have to say and to keep them talking, rather than waiting for our turn to talk. The last part is listening to something we don't really want to listen to, be it conservative talk shows or a voice in our heads that has been persistently nagging us. I'm not so good with fitting into every assignment, and prefer to use it as a guide for my own experiences.

I should say that I have listened deeply to someone close to me. On several occasions I focused quite a bit on talking with Adam and Betsy about various things. It's a good reminder to be present during all of those everyday moments. And I do try.

The conversation, though, that really sticks out to me came from the day that I volunteered at our Project Homelessness Connect event in Rochester. AmeriCorps members participated that day in helping the organizers bring social services and agencies to homeless Rochesterians to assist them and provide them with services they need. It was, in general, a very uplifting and heartening experience. But one thing that really bothered me was that many people felt they needed to cut in line or push people around so that they got what they needed. That is totally normal, when so many homeless people have to compete for a place in line for food, clothing and shelter EVERY NIGHT. I just wish that the organizers did more to make sure this was not a "survival of the fittest" type experience for anyone. But it was, and here's my story.

I was an escort for different individuals to help them find the resources they were looking for. Later in the afternoon, I walked around with Mike, a retired Marine who was going through a divorce. He was nice enough, though pretty suspicious of me (or a least uncomfortable walking around with me). It was strange to be helping a man that truly reminded me so much of my dad. We were waiting in line for the barber for over an hour (!!), and had been chatting with another man in front of us, when a 19-year-0ld kid cut in line. Now, we had been waiting for a long time, but there weren't many people in line and it was taking SO long that I can understand why the man in front of us got upset. But he grabbed the kids arm and told him to get back, that we were all waiting in line and that it was rude of him to cut. He was quite angry and the kid got angry too. Eventually, they were yelling at me to do something because I had some kind of authority. But I did not know what to do. So I said nothing. They kind of eyed each other for a while, muttering things, the boy not moving from his spot. The man looked to me again and said I had to do something, and the boy came over to talk to me. He was flipping out, yelling that he was bi-polar and that he blacks out when he gets angry and starts punching people, so that man definitely did not want to mess with him. And I simply said to him that everyone was waiting patiently and would he be okay just waiting in line with me instead. He was a bit hesitant at first, still insisting that he could definitely hurt that guy if he touched him again. But then he just started talking. He told me all about his mental health problems, about problems in his life and past, and he started to settle down. I asked him questions about his life and issues he had, and eventually he was fine. We talked a lot, and he told me everything. Everyone got their hair cut, and no one threw a punch. It was scary, but once I knew what to say, I was in complete control. And I have to think that in a small way I help that boy.

I know that a year ago I could have never stepped in on this disagreement, and I would never have known how to talk to this kid. But after a year of working with teens, I really do know how to talk to them, and, more importantly, how to respect them. They mostly just need someone who will listen to them, not judge them, and offer them advice, not a lecture.

And so, although I make an effort to listen deeply to all aspects of my life, today I am proud that when it REALLY counted, I was there to listen. And it really helped.

<3

signs from above

I used to wait for a sign, she said, before I
did anything. Then one night I had a
dream & an angel in black tights came to
me & said, you can start any time now, &
then I asked is this a sign? & the angel
started laughing & I woke up. Now, I think
the whole world is filled with signs, but if
there's no laughter, I know they're not for me.

[brian andreas]

the whole world is filled with signs. i've always believed it, but this wisdom passed on to me by my mother has never seemed so true as now. a million signs have gently guided me on journeys small and grand, helped me make decisions and choose from a thousand paths that could have taken me anywhere in the world. signs are everywhere, and the more you listen to those little nudges from the universe, the more fun you'll have. i promise.

last night i spent the evening after work with a good friend, savoring food from my favorite little restaurant in rochester and enjoying pleasant conversation. once again i was reminded that, although i loved edinburgh and being with claire, it was good to be back home. home in rochester, with people and places that really make me feel like i belong in this strange new life.

as we were leaving dogtown, we stopped by teen city to get my bicycle. adam laughed at betsy's silly cruiser which i have adopted for the time being, until i can buy my own sweet ride. with headlamp strapped to helmet and handlebars sticking out like bug antennae, he said i was adorable. i'm sure it was closer to ridiculous. i took the compliment anyway. to put it into perspective, adam's sweet ride has bumper stickers, a back seat, speakers for cruising to good tunes, and flashing lights. it's kind of like comparing a harley to a crotch-rocket. without all the macho baggage, of course...

anyway, back to the signs!!! once we were sufficiently equipped with safety gear and had some good music flowing, we took off down monroe ave. i began to pass adam on the sidewalk, only to be completely bombarded by an enormous yellow sign that fell from the storefront 10 feet up. it clipped me in the head (thank goodness for my helmet!) and fell to the ground with that sheet-metal-thunder sound. shocked and simultaneously amused, i dismounted to inspect my attacker. this enormous yellow plastic sign that fell from the sky and hit me in the head, in fact, had the word "sign" on it. so there you have it: a "sign".

the reason why i was certain it really was a sign is that, upon our evaluation of the situation, adam and i fell into stitches of laughter, amused and befuddled by the irony of what had just happened. i was completely unhurt, and could only keep repeating "it's a sign! it's a sign!" as adam took pictures and laughed heartily. he strapped the sign to his back seat and after recovering from our fits of laughter, we resumed our night ride through the rain, still glowing with smiles. he rode home with me, presented me with "the sign" and gave me a nice hug. he rode away, and i brought the sign inside to show betsy and charlie. they were impressed and perplexed, which satisfied me.


i'm not sure what the purpose of this sign was. i know that we really had a lovely time together and it served to reinforce how much joy i think we both felt for the moment. it's not every day that a real sign bashes you in the head, and when it happens, you have to stop and think about what the universe is trying to tell you. i know for certain i will always wear my helmet when riding, and that i will continue to accept invitations to adventure with adam. it seems they are always rewarded with the most curious and mysterious of events. and lots and lots of laughter...

begin again.

it is suddenly march.

the beginning. and the end.

last wednesday was ash wednesday, and now we are past the threshold of winter. we may be pummeled by snow storms yet, but winter is losing its battle. the time to start over has come, and there is no stopping it.

in less than 10 days, i will be boarding an airplane, destined for scotland. it will be my first international travel in two years. i won't be there long, but it will be enough. i am so unbelievably excited to see claire. we will get to celebrate her birthday early, visit the highlands and walk and walk and walk and talk and drink coffee. i'm looking forward so much to seeing this new life that she has in edinburgh, and maybe to give her my blessing to stay.

i would like to continue this entry, but i am about to get picked up on my vegan, animal rights, fellow UU-churchgoing friend's bicycle. details later :)

home, sick.

searching boxes underneath the counter
on a chance that on a tape i'd find

a song for
someone who needs somewhere
to long for

homesick
cause i no longer know
what home is
[kings of convenience]

last night there was a confusion between me being home, sick, and homesick. there is a difference, wide and deep, between the two, but i wonder if i can bring them together. i'm intrigued by hearing "homesick" by the kings of convenience today, after that confusion, because the song talks about some feelings that i have about my work that i'm doing and where i want to be. and i know i'm not homesick for michigan, but i could be homesick for california. well, i mean, i'm absolutely homesick for the stanislaus.

so, let's talk about being sick at home and homesick. the former is somewhat antithetical to the latter because if you're home, sick, then you're obviously at home, wherever that is. it is definitely more literal, and doesn't require much of a definition because it is tangible. both being sick and being in a physical space called home are objective (for the most part). but being homesick is entirely abstract, because you are missing a place that physically does not exist. in a way, you can't prove that that place exists because you cannot see it, and whatever your ideas about it, you can't define what it is or what you miss about it. being homesick is in your head, while being sick is entirely within your body.

so at this moment, i suffer from physical sickness. i suppose if i felt like pondering it, i would admit that i miss a place in my memory that no longer exists for me in any physical sense. now that i'm thinking about this...does what i think about place also apply to people? are friends that live thousands of miles away any less because of the space between us? perhaps that is the beauty of communication, because i can still verify their existance through our phone calls and letters. i can't really check in with the trees and deer in the stanislaus to make sure they're still alive and well. i'm tempted to bring in the old addage, "if a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound?" just because i have no contact with my mountains, does that mean i can't remain connected to it? is it all in my head? who knows.

this is what happens when i take the day off to recover from illness. i make no sense and try to grapple with things beyond my brain's current functioning capacity. i shouldn't drink coffee when i'm this sick...

wild rivers, steep cliffs and storm clouds on the horizon

in early july, i had an itch to get back to upper relief valley. we had worked that trail up and down, from relief reservoir down at 7,000 feet all the way to the whitesides meadow junction and back. the steep climb to upper relief became routine, and i had enjoyed our daily hike through a patch of mountain sagebrush. now as we turned toward the lunch meadow trail and inched our way closer to our final camp at emigrant lake, i felt the urge to return to something familiar.

we left in a group of six, my friend grace and i the only women. our supervisor, brian, also joined us on this weekend trip. we made the easy, familiar way through hot, exposed granite stairs and cool, shaded ponderosa pine paths. john, our foreman, had described how to find an old ccc camp, down in lower relief valley near the base of granite dome, and we found it easily.

the next morning, i woke to a crisp clear sierra nevada sun. it was early, and the light was still blocked a bit by the mountains that rose up around us in all directions. checking in, i saw that i was the first one up, as usual. i grabbed my journal and my turquoise beanie and scrambled up the granite rocks near our camp to get a better view of the rising sun. i knew i had at least an hour before anyone else awoke, and so i began some sun salutations. my body was sore from a week of trail work and a fast hike with all my weekend gear, but it felt good to stretch out my tired muscles. it had been two months since i joined the crew at our strawberry camp, and i'm sure if i could have looked at myself in a proper mirror, i would have been shocked by the tanned, muscular girl in front of me. nothing can make a girl prettier than abundant sunshine, fresh mountain air and miles and miles of hiking for months on end. that morning, stretching and breathing the crisp alpine air, i felt beauty emanating from me, from the depths of my soul. it was time to write.

as often happened on our weekends, i was soon joined in my solitary morning by owen, or professor ridings as we like to call him. in fact, there were many times when i was startled by his presence; he had awoken and was meditating twenty yards from me on another rock. sometimes our eyes would meet and we would simply smile, and return to our private thoughts and meditations. this morning, he sat in silence for a long time. he had suffered and fought so much in his life; i thanked the universe that this morning he knew peace.

after a quick breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, and my failed attempts not to wake everyone else up, we all slowly made our way to the river, and those magnificent waterfalls.

the water was freezing cold. snowmelt. it fell fast over several pools that were walled in on both sides by steep rocks. we played in the crisp cool water for more than an hour, swimming under the falls and taking pictures as the water pounded down around us. it was slippery and the whole time i was there, i felt on the edge of danger...deliciously risky. life in the wilderness often feels that way. we are wild creatures in our deepest core, and survival instincts begin to show themselves in the face of wild rivers, steep cliffs and storm clouds on the horizon...

as the morning slowly crept towards noon, justin, mike, owen and i found a small plateau of brilliant white granite on which to sunbathe. i had spent so much time with these boys that i felt only a bit bashful in stripping completely and lying fully nude on the hot rocks. they did the same. we lay there for an hour, drying off and warming up after our exhilirating time in the waterfalls. sometimes the wilderness gives you too much time to think. especially on a saturday afternoon smack in the middle of a summer in the mountains, i blissfully thought about nothing. not a care in the world...

eventually our stomachs beckoned us back to camp. the boys headed down the rocks to follow the river back, but i had to cross over the falls to get my towel. i made it across the water without too much trouble, but i found myself in a tough position. the spot where i had left my things was a bit downstream, and although i had climbed down from this point, it was much more difficult to climb back up. in my sandals and underwear, i scrambled up a few rocks, grabbing roots and small cracks in the granite to help myself up. eventually though, i was almost entirely cliffhung, sliding on an angled platform. there was barely enough room for me and my sandals did me no good on the sandy rocks. precariously, my heart beating fast and thoughts of imminent death racing through my mind, i loosened my sandals and slung them around my wrist. using my bare feet for better grip i awkwardly reached for a handhold on the rocks above me. somehow, thanks to my survival insticts, i made it up to the top of the rock face, and sat panting in the hot sun. and for the second time that day, i thanked the universe for her mercy and saving grace.

gathering my things and carefully climbing the rest of the way down the granite rocks, i noticed some dark stormclouds building up. we would not escape this storm, i knew.

the rest of the afternoon was spent under a tarp, in sleeping bags, listening to music and laughing at dumb jokes and silly stories. grace, mike and i had become pretty close and we had fun waiting out the rain in our makeshift shelter. not much rain fell that evening, but by the next morning the rain was inevitable, and we wondered when we should head back to our camp.

rain fell around ten in the morning, and by noon we figured there would be no break. loading our already damp packs on our backs, we started out on the relatively short hike home. by the time we reached the stanislaus river crossing, the rain had been falling for hours, and the river had risen significantly. it was too high and too fast to cross. we waited by the river, heating some water for hot chocolate and using what dry wood we could find to make a small fire. we had no idea what to do. john had advised us to wait it out if ever we found a river too high to cross. it would be better to return late than to attempt such a dangerous crossing. but it was pointless to wait. besides, we were hungry.

at brian's suggestion, we swung on our packs and hiked back about a mile and half up the trail to a wider point in the river. it would be slower and shallower, for sure. but would that be enough for it to be safe to cross? brian, our resident "captain america", dropped his pack and inched out into the river, testing the current to decide whether we could cross. he determined it was possible, and we prepared to cross. the boys went first, with very little trouble. then it was my turn. at five foot two, the river was more than waist high on me. the boys made a sort of assembly line to pass my pack over to the other shore. we sent across grace's and brian's as well. as soon as i stepped into the swift river, my feet went out from under me. by this point i probably weighed no more than 115 pounds, and could not get a grip on the slippery rocks beneath me. brian grabbed me and tried to straighten me out, but it was hopeless. i could not get a firm stance in the river, so the men passed me down the line, gripping me by the lapels. zach yelled, half jokingly, half worriedly, for me to stand up. i laughed and looked at him hopelessly. there was no way i could. they safely passed me off until finally i reached the other shore. they saved my life. and we all were in fits of laughter. grace fared a bit better, though not much. finally we all gathered on the opposite shore, tried to dry off and then began the cross-country trip back to camp.

it was a rough hike, scrambling over rocks and slipping on slimy, mossy logs. at one point i was lost in a patch of tall bushes next to the river, stepping into deep pools and getting caught on pokey branches. we were all tired and wanted to get home, so we scattered and then got frustrated when others went in different directions. at last, we made it to the trail that would take us back to camp.

despite the danger, despite the setbacks and despite the unforgiving nature of the wilderness, we managed to live through these trials not only safely, but laughing all the way. we survived because of the intense commitment we had to each other, and because of the individual fires that burned inside each one of us. we had a personal desire to survive, and a collective desire to succeed.

i never made it all the way up to upper relief valley that weekend, nor anytime for the rest of the season for that matter, but i made peace with that reality. the first moment i had seen upper relief was etched in my brain forever, and no doubt it would never again be as beautiful. you can never go back to those moments. especially if you're looking for something that was there before. we must live each day to the fullest and take what we can from the time we have. no use looking for what was there before.

i finished desert solitaire today, and i'm happy and sad, feeling empty and full, all at once. it was wonderful, albeit tough for me to get through. mostly because i didn't want it to end. i didn't want him to have to leave arches, to go home and wonder, when he goes back, if he goes back, will it be the same? will he be the same?

i sat in a cafe for an hour, eating a croissant and sipping on delicious coffee with lots of cream, and i pondered these questions. of course, i don't plan to return to the backcountry to do all the same things, to be with the same people and see the same sights. i know it would be different, just as i would be different. but in some ways, the wilderness that i left behind is more dependable than anything i could hope to find here in civilization. and the girl that left the mountains was more confident, more energetic, more alive than the one sitting here now. if i did return, i would be older, wiser. i would look at the time i have there in a different light, knowing how precious it really is. if i returned, i would know better than to ever leave again...

if only...

my saving grace (which is also the bane of my existance) is my routine commute by foot around the city of rochester. today, i tried to catch the bus home from teen city, but, realizing i was really early for the bus, i decided to walk part of the way. that turned into ALL of the way. it was just easier, faster, and cheaper than waiting 20 minutes in the cold for a bus that would take 2 minutes and cost me a dollar. my hands weren't numb, so i continued on. i'm proud that i walk everywhere. it's actually not as cold as riding my bike, i've found, since the wind blows so cold on my face. and it gives me time to think. too much, maybe.

i, like ed abbey, like to be alone. my sister is gone with charlie to seattle until next week, and i'm starting to savor my solitude, and the silence it brings me. in silence, in solitude, i have room to stretch my brain. to think long and hard, and sometimes to think of nothing at all. mostly to daydream, a skill i honed from needing something to distract me from 2000 ft climbs up a mountain with tools on my back. i had lovely daydreams while hiking. when it got REALLY bad, i would just think of those damn sheep that surrounded gage and me and woke us up on the morning of the summer solstice. the thought of those sheep would make me smile and even laugh, even on the most grueling hike to work. now, i think of a lot of memories of the backcountry, and dreams of returning to the sierras. i plan wild escapes in winter to warm places with no people, just me and the sky. i can almost smell the sagebrush and juniper and cedar, hear the wind blow through the canyons and taste the dust from the trail in my mouth. i can feel the mountain air. i also think a lot about trails we worked for weeks at a time. i go over in my head every turn in the trail, every incline, switchback, obstacle and view, picturing each step as if i had taken slides of the whole way up the mountain. i don't think i could ever get lost in that part of the stanislaus. i probably know it better than the back of my hand (who ever studies the back of their hand, anyway?)

i started out just wanting to mention that i finished desert solitaire, and that i wished ed abbey had offered me a better handhold out of this hole i find myself. "a hole as deep as my regret." i wish he hadn't left me hanging on the hope that he would return, so that i might return, and find things not necessarily the same, but more familiar than this strange world in which i find myself now. i wish i didn't have to read about all those beautiful arches and rivers and sunsets, and then return to this icy white jungle. i wish i didn't have to wake up at 4:00 in the morning tomorrow. peace...

let there be peace and peace and peace

have i mentioned that i love sunday mornings? i really love them. today i'm thinking about a lot of things. i'm listening to andy mckee, a favorite from this summer. one sunday morning, one of our last at our relief reservoir camp, and the last time that we saw peter, we all sat around eating breakfast in near silence, drinking tea or coffee and listening to andy mckee's happy acoustic guitar instrumentals bouncing off rock faces and enormous pines. the fire was down to a low crackling and clouds drifted slowly across the sky. we hardly EVER had clouds, and it would eventually rain that day. but at that moment, in the clear july sun, we were completely at peace.

i sit here this morning with my coffee (made in a french press, not cowboy coffee) and listen to andy mckee stream through my laptop. i am alone, and indoors. but i am still happy. i'm about to go to church, and i can't wait. kaaren is preaching today and it's sure to be inspiring. the theme for this month is "think", and i'm looking forward to this challenge. i'm glad that spending time with this church is turning out to be everything i hoped it would be, and more. i love the ministers, and feel inspired in everything i hear and see in my beautiful little church across the street. i couldn't be more blessed to have found these people at this point in my life.

i'm going to finish my coffee, get dressed, bundle up, and take a little walk up to church. i love sunday mornings...

grace.

i have stood in front of impressive cathedrals, awe-inspiring paintings and gigantic skyscrapers.

but nothing will ever compare to the moment i stood in front of a three thousand year old juniper tree, and watched birds flit from branch to ancient branch. when will we ever learn that the only true beauty in this world is a gift of grace, something we don't deserve or expect? it is an ancient conifer, a weather-worn mountain peak and an anthill. it is nothing we can create. it is nothing we can imitate. we can only stand in the presence of grace and soak it up like light from the sun. isn't light the ultimate gift of grace, anyway?

rant from the wilderness

ben evans, fellow americorps volunteer and occasional email correspondent, asked me recently to rant about the wilderness. i mentioned that ed abbey in desert solitaire does just that, and he was interested in knowing more about it. what follows is a flow of consciousness that i wrote in a cafe, tweaked out on caffeine and with a few precious hours to kill in between jobs. some of it is based on, or, let's be honest, flat out stolen from the pages of, ed abbey's most beloved memoir. a bit comes from my other dear mentor and favorite agricultural essayist, wendell berry. some of it is from my personal experiences living in total wilderness for 11 weeks straight. some of it comes from my imagination....

"rant from the wilderness"

ed abbey says "they" are pushing us into the cities to prepare for the imminent authoritarian regime. "they" will trap us in the cities, surround us, mechanize our agriculture, take away our guns and make it impossible for us to survive without complete submission to the government. no more guerrilla warfare, for there will be no more jungle in which to stage a rebellion and to hide from our enemy: the industrial authoritarian. but we've arrived at this point and don't even realize it. we can't grow our own food, we are flooding the cities and cannot fathom wilderness survival (that is the stuff of experts seen on the discovery channel, certainly not your everyday joe). industry has the ultimate authority over our entire existence and we are listfully passive about all of this.

some things i have learned:
1. any person can build a fire that is capable of cooking food...even meat.
2. with the right equipment and in moderate climates, any person can survive entirely outdoors.
3. it takes a surprisingly short amount of time to get in tune with nature and to sense changes in the weather and seasons.
4. showers, and especially soap, are entirely overrated.
5. when left without cds, mp3s, i-pods, computers, and other sound devices, humans will make their own music.
6. community agriculture is one of the most rewarding and unifying social endeavor. so are community cooking and community eating.
7. nudity is not shameful.
8. obesity would cease to exist if cars did too.
9. children should absolutely participate in subsistance farming and all household chores. that is not child labor, it's socialization.
10. we all deserve to see the sun rise or set, or both, every day.

while we're at it, i might well describe the problem i have with the word "wilderness," which implicitly separates itself from civilization. we know the word to mean "that which is untouched by humanity." therefore, it is not our place. how are we to feel at home in a world that is expressly scary and unknown? better to stay in the safety of our industrial cities, where we have "reliable" water, heating, and food supplies. who wants to risk bears and unexpected thunderstorms, drought and black flies??

the natural world must be revindicated by humanity, but not in the traditional, patriarchal, dominating way. it must not be conquered, partitioned and lorded over. we must humbly return, ask for forgiveness, and listen to the heart of nature to begin again. we must sit quietly for a long time among cedars and does and ground squirrels and yarrow, and learn from them how to behave.

i am disgusted by industry, manufactured materials and "good deal" (the-cheaper-the-better concept). we are poisoning ourselves with our cut-corners and our mindless complicity. we don't care where our food comes from as long as it is cheap. we don't want to pay for the hidden costs in this global economy, and yet we feel betrayed by those who drove us into our impending depression. we don't want to earn anything, we want everything for less, and the less time anything takes, the better. so that we have time for celebrity gossip, self-absorbed primping internet comas, sport stats and one more beer, bartender.

numb the pain, nurse the wound, alienate others, forget about that earth-shaped hole in your heart (an earth-shaped hole in the universe). and whatever you do, don't got out alone at night. bad things might happen to you...

a few times this summer, i had the chance to bathe alone at sunset. most days i did it in the afternoon after work with some of my crew, sometimes naked but most often with underwear. but those few times at sunset, the water was warm on my bare skin and the sky was pink beyond the mountains in the west. silence surrounded me as i slipped quietly into the blue water. there was only me in all creation, performing ablutions, a sacred cleansing ceremony, among my friends the junipers and ponderosa pines.

i was not lonely. i was not hurting. i was at peace with my body, at peace in my mind, heart and infinite spirit. i felt whole and healed by the simple act of washing myself clean after a hard day's work. the water cradled me in the womb of Mother Earth, and i floated in the stillness of that infinite moment. back in the womb of my Mother, safe and warm and complete.

in the city, the pavement is hard and cold under my feet. i can feel the heartache of industrialism through the sole of my hiking boots. i feel strange wearing them in this urban setting, soiling them after hiking hundreds of miles in them on backcountry trails. cars with their cold, hard, steel shells separate me from every human in view. they whiz by, hardly noticing me and my hiking boots, and all the others around them. we do not acknowledge our kindred, earthly connection. we are estranged or long-lost and never-found sisters and brothers, unaware or indifferent to our universal familial bond. we are afraid of contrived dangers and insecurities, an alleged failing economy and increasing risks of terrorist attacks, and yet we have created these scary scenarios through our own capitalism and nationalism (love of money and love of boundaries, respectively. both divide and neither unites). we choose to believe the illusion of business and individualism instead of the universal truths of cooperation and community. the city is a giant corpse still pumping oil through its disintegrating heart and is falsely dictated by a mechanical, money-hungry brain.

our souls are hiding in the trees, waiting for us to retrieve and restore them. we have only to look in earnest, and the world will reveal itself to us. and we will hear the music to which we have been deaf all these years, the music that resounds through our liberated, naked bodies when we commune with the wild. one day, we will come home.





i'll end with a nice excerpt from desert solitaire, one of many brilliant and inspirational passages in his beautiful book:

"we are obliged, therefore, to spread the news,
painful and bitter though it may be for some people to hear,
that all living things on earth are kindred."