Phenomenal Women Passing

Here’s how I process and here’s how I love.  I look for words.  I have been reading Rebecca Solnit’s A Field Guide to Getting Lost for the past couple of days.  She says, “Lost really has two disparate meanings.  Losing things is about the familiar falling away, getting lost is about the unfamiliar appearing” (p. 22).  I have been wandering in a new space where the unfamiliar has been appearing to me daily, reminding me that the world is vast and awesome, that the unfamiliar awakens my spirit, inspires me, and allows me to walk through the world in a more spacious way than I have for a while.

"I've learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision." --Maya Angelou

This same spaciousness and space has led me further from family during a time when I have also been confronted with a true loss, of the familiar falling away, and I mourn.  A death at 93 is not a tragedy, but it is a loss.  A phenomenal woman who shaped me, loved me, and who is a contributor to both my wanderlust and my spirit, has moved on from this world.  My grandmother shared a generation with another woman who inspired us with her words and her passion for this life, and they left this world within days of each other.  I'd like to think that Maya Angelou's words and spirit can help me process the loss of someone I have loved so simply all of my life.

"The ache for home lives in all of us.  The safe place we can go as we are and not be questioned."  --Maya Angelou

I am from everywhere and nowhere, but I come from a family of oil rigs, football, and chicken fried steak.  I am from a world of Baptists and big families.  And, although I've never lived there, I am of the red dirt soil that is south central Oklahoma.  I am born to gentle accents and catfish.  I know that black eyed peas are for good luck.  I know that okra is damn good fried.  I know that there are highways so flat you might lose the horizon.  Where I come from is love.  It’s not easy love.  It’s not lazy love.  I come from people who know, without a doubt, that this is the reason that we are here in this world.  I come from hardscrabble folks who have become more and more "comfortable" with every generation, but I believe that there is a scrappiness and a persistence, a grit, that runs in our lineage.   I am grateful, because it is this grit that has allowed me to run far and wide in this world.  

"I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself."  --Maya Angelou

With the loss of my grandmother, I have lost another connection to family and "home." I have also been recollecting the experiences and influences in my life that allow me to walk inside of my own skin.  I hold the memory of the woman who regularly reminded me that I am enough, that I am loved, and I know I was generously afforded spaces where there was nothing to do but love.  I settle into memories of chicken frying in the kitchen and hands of gin rummy, and the smell of perfume and lipstick kisses on my cheek.

The fact that this world has held the hearts of women as phenomenal as these two who have come before me is worth celebrating, and with this is the recognition that there are many of us mourning, rejoicing, inspiring, loving, and fully embracing who we are because of women like these.

I am a Woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal Woman.
That's me.
--Maya Angelou

Lessons and Observations from the First Few Days in AK

What I’ve learned in my first five days in AK:

1.     Daily views of glaciers can help your mind rest.

2.     Even when you’re exhausted, seeing an eagle swoop down in front of you is something to take notice of.

3.     When the sun comes out, and it’s 60 degrees, it’s warm.

4.     The shape of the state of Alaska can be replicated with your right hand:  pinky, ring, and middle finger fold in at the middle joint; pointer and thumb remain straight.  I live at the thumb joint.  (So glad to know that there is another state besides MI that does this…I always wanted to be part of a tribe that could point to a place on their hand to represent where in the state they lived).

5.     There are five kinds of salmon in the area.  These are "easily" remembered by their correlation to fingers (at least for 2^nd graders, apparently)…I can only remember the following:  Thumb=chum; pointer=sockeye; middle finger=king; ring finger =silver; pinky=???  There is no finger for “farmed” in this land.  J

6.     I come from “down south”...  As in “I have Lisa Richardson here in my office.  She just moved here from down south and wants to begin her home loan process.”

7.     There is a section of town called “Out the Road.”  When you drive “out the road” there is a sign that says, “Road ends: 24 mi.”  And the road, indeed, just ends.

8.     Bear scat in your driveway just means you should make a little noise and be “bear aware” as you move about.

9.     People swimming in a glacial lake in dry suits is kind of novel.

10.  I don’t need to add any extra time in my daily commute for traffic, but I do need to be aware that I might have to add time for “random chats with very nice strangers” along the way.

11. A ten o’clock sunset at the end of May makes me stay up WAY too late, but, thankfully, the gentlemen doing construction on the house I’m renting are un-phased by my bed-head and bleary eyes when they arrive with their power tools at 8 a.m., and as I scramble to get out of their way.

12.   There do seem to be an awful lot of men here.  And they all seem to be wearing Carhartts and doing quite manly things.  I think of this as nice icing on the already amazing scenery cake.

13.   Yoga might take on a different meaning in this setting.  Meditation might as well.

14. I haven’t heard a siren in five days.

15. I have heard a waterfall.

The Art of Losing in This Wild World

This evening I suddenly had a craving for some vintage Cat Stevens.  Listening to "Wild World" as I walked to meet a friend:  "If you want to leave, take good care.  I hope you meet a lot of nice friends out there..." I smiled because I have been so lucky; I cry for the same reason.  It's hard to keep saying goodbye to people I care about.   It's a hell of a lot easier to get by when I am surrounded by beautiful people in my life, sharing lovely experiences, but then there's the rub, right?  And although I know that there will be reconnections, maintained connection from a distance, and more and more exciting adventures to have together, the ease of walking down a street together?  Or dancing alongside one another on a random Sunday evening?  Not as much, or at least not as often.

Elizabeth Bishop writes, in her poem "One Art":

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent 

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

And, as I contemplate leaving behind yet another household of "things," I recognize that this is an art that I have mastered.  The loss of yet another couch or chair or end table is no disaster.

I lost two cities, lovely ones.  And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

Saying goodbye to place is not so difficult either.  There are more.  There are so many places filled with undiscovered sights, sounds, and adventure that it's difficult to bemoan the moving on from one space to another.

However, her last stanza?

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture 

I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

I understand that Bishop is referring, most likely, to a romantic partner, but the same can be said for friendships.  Saying goodbye?  Even when you know you'll see one another again?  Even when you know it's by no means a forever sort of thing?  It's not disaster, but there are tears to be shed, partings that tug at my heart, and a reminder that these moments are worth savoring, that these people are what keep my heart from breaking in two.   I've seen a lot of what the world can do, and I've seen friendships conquer most every harsh reality that can be thrown our way.  "Ooo, baby baby, It's a wild world."

Through lines and Themes

I think about all of us stumbling through...looking for through-lines, for the theme that emerges in the patterns, while also trying to be attentive to where we are at any given moment.   As it is so often in literature, it is in life:  the theme emerges slowly and often down a plot line that we were reticent to follow.  It takes some time to put together the pieces, but once you do, it washes over you as if you had known it to be true all along.

We're all walking different stories, and hopefully owning each and every one.  The first post I made in this blog, referenced a conversation between characters in Lorraine Hansberry's A Raisin in the Sun in which two characters were discussing life as a long line that reaches into infinity, "and because we cannot see the end, we cannot see how it changes."  And I remember thinking how very terrifying this is at times.  And I've revisited these same fears again and again.

What has emerged in the past weeks, however, is the realization that in our shared humanity, we will each feel moments of trepidation, uncertainty, and, yes, fear.  And, in our best moments, we know these will pass.  I rejoice in those moments of synchronicity, when the theme emerges, and all of the seemingly disparate details, symbols and images align.  I am grateful to be the author of the story I'm walking in.  And I'm grateful for all of the characters in this grand adventure.

 I recognize that I don't want to be walking any other path, and that sometimes, the path you didn't even know existed, is the most right.  Funny how that works.  I'm good with a "protagonist learns to listen to her heart" theme interspersed with "honesty and love are all there is" and maybe some "resiliency of human nature."  Yeah.  All of those would be lovely.

Fear Landscapes

"Becoming fearless isn't the point.  That's impossible.  It's learning how to control your fear, and how to be free from it."  --from Veronica Roth's Divergent.

I've made a decision.  It's an exciting one.  I want to simply feel excited about it.  However, this week, I watched anxiety and fear rear up as I tried to wrap my head around the logistics of my next move.  I watched myself lose the clarity that had led to the decision.  I realize that as much as I love new adventures, new possibilities, and new challenges...a big part of me is ready for a space and time to exist for a bit without "new" always being an adjective that I need to use.  It's coming.  It's just not now.  There is "new" waiting for me, yet again (and, yes, I know that there always will be, but I wouldn't mind a few things remaining more familiar).   I walked through my own fear landscape this past week (in which there is truly only one fear, but it's a big one):  a fear of choosing incorrectly.

I'm grown up enough to own each of my choices, but still childish enough to wish that I could have everything play out just as I'd like it too.  However, I'm also wise enough to know that the ride will offer up possibilities I never even knew existed.  Hell, the past few years have proven this to be true over and over again.

George Eliot says, "It is never too late to be what you might have been."  There is something about the phrasing of this statement that is not quite right for me, maybe because I would prefer it to say:  "It is never too late to be who you are," but I appreciate the underlying sentiment.

Here's to possibilities that we never knew existed; here's to recognizing that no decision is all right or all wrong, and acknowledging that if we listen carefully, we can move forward in ways that are more attuned to how we want to move in the world (literally and figuratively) than they might be otherwise.

Sustenance and Awe

I heard silence this past weekend.  I saw expansive spaces inhabited by no humans.  I saw icy sculptures that nature had made glowing a luminescent blue.  I breathed deeply.  I was alternately terrified of the prospect that was in front of me and awed by it.  Now I am only awed (and deeply hopeful). Annie Dillard, in all of her brilliance, wrote:  "How we spend our days, of course, is how we spend our lives."  I've been thinking a lot, as I consider how I want to move forward in my life, about how I want to spend my days, and where I want to place my attention.  What I do know is that much of the man-made world is wasted on me.

If You Lived Here, I'd Know Your Name:  News From Small-Town Alaska was my airplane read as I returned to the bay area Sunday.  Heather Lende writes, "Wild places are reminders that the world doesn't revolve around us.  It doesn't care about our little successes or smashing failures.  The tides ebb and flow and the seasons change regardless of how we live or die" (p. 146).  It is with this in mind, that I reframe how I want to move through my "little successes" or "smashing failures."  I want to move through these in a landscape that alternately terrifies and awes me.  I have done a good job of grounding myself in a space that occasionally terrifies, but rarely awes me, and I'm ready to see if awe and comfort can exist simultaneously in my life.

Friday night, I sang along, as Ruth Moody sang, "Life is long, love, life is long...we have time, love, we have time."  And, Thomas Merton says, "Prayer may not be a conversation with God at all.  Maybe it is listening to that light inside you."  And maybe listening to that light inside each of us (whether we call it prayer or not) allows us to see all of the love and all of the time we have before us, while knowing that we are borrowing all of it, so we should probably go ahead and move toward what provides both sustenance and awe when we can.

A Good Reminder

I spent last week in the plains of Manitoba in the midst of (I quote a life-long Manitoban) "the longest, coldest winter I can remember."  And, it's a land that I love, for no apparent reason (this love is especially confounded by the sub-zero temperatures that didn't let up, and wind chills whipping across the improbably flat landscape).  But, I think the validity of my perspective was confirmed when the woman I was working with said, "Well, you certainly can't forget you're alive when you step outside."  These moments when you're acutely aware that you are alive, and when there is no hiding from or obscuring this awareness, are particularly powerful.  And there is a singular kind of power in such a rugged landscape.

Tonight, after a yoga class that has my legs feeling like dead weights, I am reminded of this again, as I am in every moment when I am asked to hold a pose that shakes: accept the discomfort, and simply be with it.  And I continue to recognize that there are things I'd love to shy away from, that I'd like to move through without having to feel (and, yes, there are times that I choose to escape so that I don't have to).  These are the moments that are worth paying attention to.   Obviously, we can reframe our perspectives any time we want, but the best work might be in the attentiveness to what's is right in front of us.

I've been teasing out some notions of purpose.  I've been recognizing the spaces in time when I'm offering up all I have to a situation that needs what I have to offer; these are the ones that make me feel most alive.  It's not that the work isn't hard; the poses (whether on the mat or off) are painful at times.  But, they are so much less painful than simply going through the motions.  I'm a grown up enough to know that there are times when we have to go through the motions to get to the "next thing," but I am also aware enough of my own mortality and the presence of time to understand that too much going through the motions is a waste of a good passion (and a good life).

[Sadly, the BeeGees' "Staying Alive" has now lodged itself in my head, but I will move through this (a good example of what it might be okay NOT to pay attention to).]

What I do know to be true?  No one magically landed in a "perfect life."  No one magically had a trajectory that was devoid of challenge or distraction.  The people we see who seemingly have all they need and wanted?  Well, I'm pretty sure they worked their asses off to create that space.  They decided (and formatively assessed, adjusted accordingly, ad nauseum) what to attend to.  They decided what was serving them, how to exist in the spaces and places they chose, they owned their choices, and they moved forward as they continued to listen deeply to what they heard from themselves.  And, since they're human, I'm pretty sure that there are still some really challenging life-events to move through. I'm pretty sure not one of them said, "Oh, well, society said I had to do _______, and now I'm thoroughly satisfied with my existence."  There's a deeper listening going on.