Future

Yesterday I went to lunch with The Future. He unpacked his computer, plugged it into the nearest outlet then ordered a mini pizza. The Future then smiled at me and our dialogue went something like this:

Me: So, my Illustration Friday word, are you ready for it? (Think word association.)

The Future: Go for it!

Me: Okay, the word is "Future"

The Future: (pause, eyebrows lifted, pause) Now!

Me: Now?

The Future: If we want a Future, Now is the time to do something. There isn't any time left to think about acting. We need to be radical..go BIG, way beyond recycling, reducing and reusing.

For the next ten minutes I listened to The Future talk about the present, and it wasn't a pretty picture. The Future has been quietly paying attention to dinner debates and current events. The Future has been engaging in classroom discussions on the environment. He is pissed at those in charge, and is cringing at the blatant hypocrisy.

The Future has the weight of the world on his shoulders, something I was oblivious to at 12 years of age.

He is right. The Future is Now. The Future depends on me. If I fail him, I fail the world.

Farewell

An unkindness followed Ms. Riley and I on our morning ramble.
Ms. Riley forged the stream, I balanced across the driftwood log, then scaled the first grass slope. From the sea stack behind us, the Ravens began their flight; the sound of wings forcing gravity to give way mingled with the rushes of wind that passed through the grass. Ms. Riley was startled as, one by one, the Ravens popped over the ridge riding the current. She eyed their stiff wings and extended legs as they veered off for a flight to study the tides. My wild pup resumed poking her nose into burrows; reluctantly she noticed I was in the lead and whirled past me across the pitted landscape. I turned into the wind and spoke the words of Lao Tzu, to see if they carried weight, to see if they held in the air: "I know the way of all things by what is within me." They did.
As we reached the base of the Cape, the shadows of the Ravens swooped up the headland. We watched them disappear over the lip, folding as they moved between planes. The weed choked track called to us like a Mother-May-I game. We took clumsy gigantic steps intermingled with tiny baby ones and worked our way up the steep route. The southern wind warmed our backs. We followed our unkindness upwards into the cornflower blue sky.
My blessed feet traveled the trail with ease, my spirit was busy balancing caution and courage, not dwelling on the mechanics of foot placement. The wind pushed us over the crest of the Cape. We stopped and watched the Ravens dip in and out of the contour of the moor. The Ravens turned their heads slightly in our direction, as if inviting us to share the wind, the field, and unmarked path.
I walked to the edge of the cliff, the ocean blinded me like a mirror tilted into the sunlight. With silent Ravens circling overhead, I said my farewells to the yesterdays I have been holding onto. I threw them into the wind.
Now, my unknown journey can begin.

"Courage is a willingness to act from the heart, to let your heart lead the way, not knowing what will be required of you next, and if you can do it." ~Jean Shinoda Bolen, Gods in Everyman.

Train

  It sounded feasible. Only two nights, three days, plus the drive to Chicago, the bus to Eugene, a flight to the coast, and then the drive to my parents house. The kids were young, I was capable, the price was reasonable for traveling across half of America. I bought three tickets on The Empire and crossed my fingers.

The train did not rock us to sleep like Utah Phillips preached. We eventually slept, restlessness even in our exhaustion, our clothes crumpled from slouching, messy things leaked, and sticky items coated our assigned seats.
The train was not as mysterious as Hitchcock illustrated. We studied every bolt, hinge and angle of our car. We rolled marbles down the aisle. We would have noticed if anyone disappeared. We noticed everything.
The train was not as luxurious as Duke Ellington, or President Truman touted. No long angled lenses for our photographic mementos. I handed my son the panoramic camera and let him record our ride. His snapshots make me smile: torso's attached to cut off faces; blurred landscapes; the door to the restroom; myself, slacker mom, feigning consciousness; the frigid winter landscape of a moonlit station in Montana; Grandma greeting us with arms open.
The train was not the speed of a Casey Jones adventure. We poked along, and the rhythm swayed us side to side, moved us like the sands, like the ocean tide, like returning, like home on the edge of a new day. The train delivered us.

Utah Phillips
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OOscaTfHLFs
The Bum on the Rods and the Bum on the Plush 

The bum on the rods is hunted down 
As the enemy of mankind 
The other is driven around to his club 
Is feted, wined and dined. 
And they who curse the bum on the rods 
As the essence of all that is bad, 
Will greet the other with a winning smile, 
And extend the hand so glad. 

The bum on the rods is a social flea 
Who gets an occasional bite, 
The bum on the plush is a social leech, 
blood sucking day and night. 
The bum on the rods is a load so light 
That his weight we scarcely feel, 
But it takes the labor of dozen of men 
To furnish the other a meal. 

As long as you sanction the bum on the plush 
The other will always be there, 
But rid yourself of the bum on the plush 
And the other will disappear. 
Then make an intelligent, organized kick 
Get rid of the weights that crush. 
Don't worry about the bum on the rods, 
Get rid of the bum on the plush.

Wild

There are only two sections to our local rag. No one who read the paper could have missed it. It made headlines, with full colored photos. My favorite hidden beach, in which I rarely see human traces, was exposed. I braced myself for the future moment when I will have to leash Ms. Riley down our sand dune spree.

Given the choice, my feet tread the wild and scenic routes. Today, I veered onto the mountain goat track and worked my way through the sprouting blackberry vines and blooming heather. Ms. Riley was lost in the undergrowth, her crash warning the thicket tenants, her nose twitched in ecstasy as she powered through the tangled roots. I paused at a hidden dip in the landscape. Ms. Riley sidles up to me, bits of shrubbery embedded in her fur. We are standing in a field of hidden wild iris, the petals waving purple tongues in the salt wind. Mason Jennings words filter through my empty mind...' you should know by now that someone's been there long before you, you're never going to be the only one..."

Calm washes through my pulsing veins. Despite trailhead disclosure, and stranded tourists who attempt to defy the tides, and local beer drinking yahoos who litter the sides of the trails like a sunset offering, I am alone, in a wildflower field, the ocean offering cadence to my ramble. The spongy ground, the forgiving soil will absorb my footprints; my spirit will always be primal.

Urban

"Denhole"

Normally, I would not get in a car with someone displaying irrational behavior, but I knew the driver well. As he muttered a fine string of curses, I heaved my backpack and haul bag onto the bed, crawled into his circa 1962 Volkswagen crew cab flatbed truck, and clutched the strap pretending to be a seat belt.

I knew why he was cursing, I was warned. 

We chugged onto the freeway, 

cars whizzed by, honked, 

gave us the finger, 

flashed lights and 

basically treated the bus, 

traveling at top speed 50 mph to their 70 plus, 

like an invitation to a personal road rage party.

It was enough to give anyone the right to be creative with profanity. My friend took the nearest exit traveling in the direction of my storage unit. I was swapping out gear and clothes then hopping on another plane. 

I had about three hours to catch up on almost a whole year, and then say goodbye again.

The Ride

I held onto the oh-shit strap as we whirled into an alley, flew down a street, then tucked tightly into another alley. My friend worked the steering wheel and clutch, sailing the bus like a tea cup ride at a county fair. His laughter over the horror displayed on my face was eaten up by the engine noise. Smiling and leaning into the abrupt turns, I held on fiercely, bracing my legs, my thoughts turned to my chauffeur.

The driver, my homeless friend, 

a self-educated urban survivalist, 

was the only friend 

who had time to pick me up.

Egg

rim cracked or flat cracked?

Sunday mornings are made for sleeping in, special breakfasts and reading the New York Times.
A few months ago, on a lazy Sunday, my youngest son was lurking in the kitchen while I was trying to decide what to make for breakfast.  My laptop was open to the food section of the Times, a video promising an omelet the 'Jacques Pépin' way was beckoning. We clicked and watched.

My father had one speciality dish. It was the omelet. I would find him in the kitchen with garden onions and chives, or rabe, and scrubbed new potatoes; the iron pan perfectly hot. My father, a true farm boy familiar with eggs, casually split their shells by cracking them on the rim of a bowl. My dad made a sight in the kitchen as he whipped the whites into the yokes with intensity. He added a splotch of water then winked, as if he just told you the family secret to velvety eggs.

Mr. Pépin convinced my son that I was failing to protect him from bacteria. Rim cracking pushes bacteria laden eggshells into the sanitary interior of an egg. My son insisted that we practice the flat surface egg cracking method Mr. Pépin demonstrated. It was not easy for either of us. Our eggs smashed, oozed whites, and tiny shattered eggshells eased into our bowls. We picked the shells out (using bacteria smeared shells), and whipped the eggs mimicking the video method. In the end, our lovely fancy chive omelets tasted a lot like my dads. So we added house salsa and yogurt.

Maybe the French always have farm fresh eggs, and the best of the grocery store variety I can buy just doesn't compare in quality. Maybe it is the American in me that I cannot manage to alter. Mr. Jacques Pépin certainly challenged me, and I have failed. I spent several months trying to perfect the Pépin crack, sadly, I am returning to cracking my eggs on the rims of bowls, for bacteria reasons.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/19/dining/jacques-pepin-demonstrates-cooking-techniques.html?pagewanted=all

Swim

I use to be a fish. My hair was tinged green long before the summer began. I was a dedicated swimmer and worked hard to become certified. I endured time trials, struggled with stroke perfection, performed safety standards and hauled endless amounts of bricks. Holding holding HOLDING my breath became habitual.
It was worth it. That summer I morphed into the dreaded Swim Instructor.

It set the tone when we read our t-shirts. AQUADICS STAFF. We never stopped laughing. Gut-clutching teary-eyed jokes and keep-on-your toes fun made long days and masses of kids tolerable. We were tough but fair swim instructors. We were a team of tortuously mean lifeguards. We grew fins and tossed in all we had along with Cat Stevens, Shel Silverstein, a bit of guitar picking, and friendship. It magically worked. Kids learned to swim.

Human babies have a strong reflex, the bradycardic response, which causes them to hold their breath and open their eyes when submerged. This does not mean babies can swim. In fact drownings rank fifth among the leading causes of unintentional injury in the United States. Every day ten people die from unintentional drowning. Of these, two are children age 14 and younger.

"Oh baby baby it's a wild world,
it's hard to get by just upon a smile." ~ Cat Stevens
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ihaOLOt29U

Eye Glasses

out of focus

It was not easy to shed the words that were shouted at me on my first grade playground by a boy named Danny. It was true. At the tender age of six I was vision challenged; nearsighted, shortsighted, myopic. I was instantly shy about wearing my new eye glasses. Danny's words, the words "FOUR EYES" stabbed me.
I blamed my Father. He is as 'blind as a bat'. As a child, I was in awe of his 'coke bottle' lenses. I would secretly compare my eyes to his. I read and re-read the Laura Ingalls Wilder book, the one in which Mary went blind. It horrified me. I spent hours contemplating desolate possibilities. To feed my vulnerability, my brother told me stories of people institutionalized for bumping into things because they couldn't see properly.
I began paying attention; to details, the edges, the placement of objects, light, and colors. My nearsightedness offered me two different perspectives to life, the clear crisp kind, and the soft, random  guessing one. Both have been worthwhile to focus on.
Oh, and Danny? In second grade, I threw up all over his desk during a movie. It really was an accident.

There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as if everything is a miracle-- A. Einstein

Yesterday

“Don't let yesterday use up too much of today.” ~ Will Rogers

I cranked my car stereo as I pulled out of my driveway. I was trying to let go of the fact that my new neighbors didn't pick up their spilled trash for the second week in a row. I sang along with Ani DiFranco:

Buildings and bridges are made to bend in the wind

To withstand the world, that's what it takes

All that steel and stone is no match for the air, my friend

What doesn't bend, breaks, what doesn't bend, breaks...

I guess I had to make a decision. Did I want to continue to clean up after my neighbor or would I take it to the duplex "association leader"?

Again, I belted:

I don't know who you were expectingProbably some bitch who does not budge with eyes, the size of snowI may get pissed off sometimesBut you seem like the type to hold a grudgeAnd in the end, I just let go...

I hate conflict, but I also didn't want to clean up someone else's trash on a continual basis. I decided to try and shift the neighborhood culture. 
Yesterday I spotted my neighbor who headed up the association, sitting on a chair in his front yard, facing the sun. Next to him, on a post driven into the lawn sat a juvenile Red-tailed Hawk. Stunned, I asked if I could grab my camera and take a few photos. As I studied the raptor through the camera lens, my neighbor talked about being a Falconer. It was fascinating, so intriguing that I almost forgot why I ventured over to talk to him. Bravely, I brought the conversation around to the garbage issue, and voiced my conflict.
And then I let it go, thinking about raptors and flight and learning to bend.

Talent

Yesterday after a sauna, I shared a pot of tea with a friend at Jessica's Cosmic Cafe. Every seat was occupied, the atmosphere held easy energy and the smell of delicious food. My friend and I read through a local rag looking for upcoming happenings. Excursion plotting and entertainment mapping are imperative for small town survival. Together we laughed about our lack of musical talents, and eagerly agreed that groupies were an essential key to perpetuating music; enhancing musicians egos, bringing sway and karma to the culture.

It has been said that the kids who grew up in the 70's were the first generation given the opportunity to artistically explore themselves. Friends, encouraged by their families, formed garage bands and tested out new sounds, new rhythms, new voices. Our high school hallways were filled with improvised songs from Broadway musicals or whatever the newest performance that was being hashed out on local stages. Our talent shows were stellar! We danced to the music that swept through the clubs. Casey Kasem recorded our steps to the hustle and Rock Lobster. Slam dancing and togas were in. Local bands became hot tickets; following a band became the rage. We drove long distances for the right sounds.

My friend and I looked up when we heard clapping and a voice asking for our attention. Everyone looked to the counter where Jessica, the owner, and a waitress stood. An introduction took place: it was opening night of Alice and Wonderland! and we were lucky to get a preview, a gift of talent, at Jessica's Cafe. Suddenly we were in the mad world of Alice, watching Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee banter in Lewis Carrolls twisted poetic language. It felt like high school again, where anyone could burst into song, for any reason, and it would not seem wrong to sway and sing along like a groupie.

Whisper

It was a whisper of snow, just enough to transform the dusty red landscape into a world of tones. Just enough snow to mute the morning desert sounds. Birds eerily warbled, a deaden sort of call. Heavy clumps of snow slid from bushes and melted into the motionless earth. The wind was rallying for a hushed blow. Like Egyptian statues, luminous walls of red rock jutted skyward from mesa bases. The glory of the horizon stunned my eyes into idolizing it; I imagined the skyline to be sculptured figures, robed in rich tapestries. A Carl Sandburg poem,  A Sphinx, ran through my mind...

Close-mouthed you sat five thousand years and never let out a whisper.
Processions came by, marchers, asking you questions you answered with grey eyes never blinking, shut lips never talking.
Not one croak of anything you know has come from your cat crouches of ages.
I am one of those who knows all you know and I keep my questions: I know the answers you hold.

I looked to the ancient skyline again, and I too, held my questions. In my silence, the answers came in waves of whispers.

Wool

Cotton Ken dumped my clothing stuff sack onto the lawn and divided it into two lumps. "This is a hypothermic, frozen limb, epic undertaking." He pointed to my mangled pile of cotton clothing.  "You have to repack. Cotton kills." I shuddered at an image of a motionless mound--me, in a vast white landscape, snow eerily blowing over my lifeless form.  I emptied my tip jar and bought my first polypropylene underwear.

The word "fleece" originally meant the coat of a wool bearing animal. Today,"fleece" is also a line of synthetic polymer lightweight cloth, with soft deep pile. Plastic fibers. In the last 50 years, the application of plastics into our wardrobe has exploded. It turns out that polypropylene yarn has good insulation properties and lacks water absorption. Polypropylene yarn can transport humidity to another absorbent layer, where it can evaporate. This is quite attractive to athletes; I opened my closet door to polypro. I wondered how we ever survived without it.

I met Phil while working in Moab. One early morning I walked into the kitchen where I was staying, every flat space held a thrift store pan filled with steaming water. Phil was working at a table, hands gloved, mechanically pounding his fingers rapidly into a steaming vat. "Shower not working again?" I chided. Phil grinned then gave me my first lesson in felting wool. Two days later, Phil was sporting a newly crafted hat; it is one that I still covet.
I learned to drop spin in Montana. I took up weaving in Michigan. A friend, who raises alpaca, taught me to wash and card newly shorn fiber. I learned about process. It is a long path from fibers to a felted hat.

I began to recognize the politics of my closet; the cost, process and sustainability of fibers, natural and manmade. A few years ago I pledged to be proactive in my purchases. Before I buy anything, I do research. I look at alternatives to new, I wonder if I can live without it.

http://pslc.ws/macrog/kidsmac/fiber.htm

Storm

I have a great passion and a reserved fear for storms.

I grew up outside; seasonal elements sanctified my playground. Snapshots of memorable storms in my life come easily: camping without tent poles in a hailstorm; heat lightning streaking sunny skies and thunder ripping through dry, thick forests; biking during an electrical storm with the sudden realization that my bike was an attractive conduit; high altitude afternoon ridge walks with the onset of instant thunderheads; climbing during spontaneous electrical storms, and blizzards and wind storms.

Extreme weather excites me.
It is chaotic, and unpredictable.
It requires attention. Sometimes we flee, or scatter, often it isolates us, stops us. A gratifying storm challenges our egos, our lifestyles. A mighty storm can reek of roiling Gods or vexed Goddesses and Almighty vindication. Storms shift the instinct for survival from a vagueness to the present.  Vile weather bonds strangers and neighbors. A good storm lends us adversity and demands our greater strength and ingenuity.


I have made a point in my parenting style, to not always have things perfect. I hope my kids have been caught in enough rain storms, and that we played in plenty of mud puddles. I hope that we have hiked a sufficient amount of sloppy trails, and that our buckle down moments have been enough to calm panic, and teach rational thinking.

I love to play those what-if games at the dinner table. Recently, I made my kids watch 127 Hours; the true story where Aron Ralston gets pinned by a boulder and cuts off his arm to live. My kids now call before venturing, they let me know where they are headed. And they keep an eye on the skies. It is always good to have a reverence for things unpredictable.

Wheel

I was only three, but I could tell the difference. I couldn't throw my bike on the lawn like my brother did. Mine stood slightly skewed to one side, balanced on training wheels.
It was so easy to nod my head as my brother unbolted my stability and freed my back wheel. I was still agreeable as he promised to hang onto the back of my seat as we ascended the top of the street. A predictable Little Rascals plot about to unwind.

I wasn't ready for a solo ride down the incline. He let go. As my speed increased, my straight line wobbled. I went over; it was a short flight abruptly halted by the scraping of my flesh on the pavement. Blood poured from my shins and hands and face. My wail was piercing, and I was rescued by my mother.
What was not predictable was that my first blood sacrifice did not deter me from future wheeled adventures. I clearly remember steering the Green Machine, a version of the Big Wheel, down our slide.

Wings

 

                                                 I have no doubts that love gives our children the wings they need to fly.

In a panic, I crammed my feet into my boots, grabbed my pack and bolted as my name was paged. I ran hard until I reached the loading gate. My shirt reeked of sweat, I wedged myself into the empty seat, calmed my breath and watched the inversion evaporate out the window. As the clouds lifted, my eyes feasted on the first and last view of the mountains; illuminated and shining with the pinks and purples of dawn. My eyes closed, and I smiled thinking about my past week.

I witnessed it. The whole shebang. A kid born, he was the cute kid in my wedding photos, then, bam, he turned into a man and was headed off into the wilds: the same sort of wilderness that my mom once freaked out over. I mean, serious world experience. This man-boy, this Adult, radiating confidence and excitement, was thriving! He stood taller than his father, and between them, it was simple to see that unconditional love was the foundation of his evolution. It was blanketed over his shoulders, like a robe of energy and strength and possibility. It was a beautiful feeling to absorb.

My own children teeter at the edge of the nest. I have little mothering time left. I am in the here and now, loving them as much as I can. Privately I practice my poker face so that I can fully embrace those words, "Hey, Mom! Look at me!", when shouted. It will be the most terrifying and magnificent day when my kids spread their own wings and take flight.

Myth

Most young girls fall in love with the idea of being rescued by Prince Charming. The legend of Peter Pan, was an obvious first crush for a girl like me; flying, Neverland, and the no rules bit was too much to ignore. I also had a love for the underworld when I was young: fairies, gnomes, elves, and trolls were alive and evident everywhere. The myth that I truly treasured was that of the Scottish seal maiden Selkie.

Ok. The story can still make me cry, but in an uplifting, hopeful sort of way...The Selkie, adventurous and curious about life on the other side, steps out of her seal skin and onto dry land. Lured by a passionate kiss, delivered by a handsome lonely fisherman, the Selkie enters into the hell of domesticity for almost seven years. Shortly before she turns mortal for eternity, she discovers her seal skin, abandons her husband and her children, and returns to her oceanic family in the underworld.  According to some versions, the Selkie teaches her children how to live in both worlds, in other twists she takes them with her, leaving only the fisherman. In the heartless, dark variants, the ones that make me weep, the Selkie only sees her children from the water after she leaves.

In my rendition, the Selkie shares the kids, follows her passions, and relies on her somewhat wiser nature to circumvent getting eaten by sharks.

I have read that to attract a male Selkie, let seven tear drops fall into the ocean. Hmmm, I could use seven years of someone else doing the dishes...

A musical version of the Seal Maiden, by Karen Casey:
http://www.allmusic.com/album/seal-maiden-a-celtic-musical-mw0000084156

Ocean

I have had two tenacious lovers in my life: Pablo Neruda, and the Ocean. Neither one has ever disappointed me.

Ocean 
by Pablo Neruda, translated by Alastair Reid


Body more perfect than a wave,

salt washing the sea line,

and the shining bird

flying without ground roots.

Edge

I stood at the edge of Glacier Grey in Torres del Paine, Patagonia, Chile, awed, my heart pounding from sheer beauty, tear streaks on my cheeks. The immensity, the greatness of the landscape was overbearing. I felt rooted, ancient, an adventurer, then modern and awkward, like a victim of an ah-hah moment, in which everyone knew the answer but me.  I breathed in the sharp icy air. My feet pulsed. My soul stilled, humbled by insignificance.

http://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/station/multimedia/grey_glacier.html

My kids left with my new National Geographic before I had a chance to read it. They had asked, excited, because of an article that described an ongoing conversation in our household; the 'genetics' of risk taking.  The article reads, "If an urge to explore rises in us innately, perhaps its foundation lies within our genome. In fact there is a mutation that pops up frequently in such discussions: a variant of a gene called DRD4, which helps control dopamine, a chemical brain messenger important in learning and reward. Researchers have repeatedly tied the variant, known as DRD4-7R and carried by roughly 20 percent of all humans, to curiosity and restlessness. Dozens of human studies have found that 7R makes people more likely to take risks; explore new places, ideas, foods, relationships, drugs, or sexual opportunities; and generally embrace movement, change, and adventure. Studies in animals simulating 7R’s actions suggest it increases their taste for both movement and novelty."
http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2013/01/restless-genes/dobbs-text
Cool. A sound reason for my adventure and restlessness. Great genes to have passed on to my kids, right? I am sure this is parenting payback time.

New

Ms. Caley Riley momentarily stopped shedding.
The white detached clouds of hair swirled out of the back of my car as Caley bounded out into her first deep snow. It was new, this cold rush of fluff. Ms. Riley thrust her head straight into a snow bank and snorted. She pulled back her head, eyes sparkling, nose dusted in crystals, and just smiled that knowing smile. Then she dove into the bank, ate a mouthful of snow, and rolled in the fluffy powder like kids do, making a doggie angel. She was in her element.

A new year always makes me reflect upon the path that I am living. It is suppose to. Culturally, this is the time to amend life, repair and patch missing or non functioning bits. Awareness, an inventory, a setting of my compass to true North again.

I am making no promises, no resolutions this year.
I want to be more like Ms. Riley, and just snort the new in.
I will just Be this year.

Glow

Hey the gift, Ho the gift!

Hey the gift on the living...

Happy Holidays!