Sweating the Small Stuff

At the Half

Well, tomorrow is the day.  Super Bowl Sunday.  Our nation's winter celebration of the 4th of July.  The day that we come together as a country to...watch television at the same time (and, really, what could be more American than that?).  It's quite a feat, if you think about it.  Gone are the days when we all had only the three networks to choose from (and PBS, if we were lucky and got good reception).  Gone are the days when the Nielson's could accurately predict that, on any given Tuesday, the better part of 1/4 of the country was at home watching "All in the Family" or "MASH."  Who, back in the 1970s, could have ever predicted satellite TV, DVRs, Hulu?  Who could have possibly imagined skipping the commercials, or watching an entire season of a show in one afternoon?  That was the Orwellian stuff of the dreams of Madmen (which you can now, incidentally, watch in just one afternoon). 

No, the times, they have a changed.  But on this one Sunday each year, we as a nation revert back to those times, if only in a nostalgic sense, when we are all doing pretty much the same thing at the same time.  Not all of us, of course.  If you're like me, you couldn't give less of a shit about pro football.  Frankly, I don't even know which two teams are playing in the Super Bowl tomorrow.  But it's never been about the football.  It's about only two things: the ads, and the halftime show.  Here, I'd like to focus on the halftime show.

In the beginning, the halftime entertainment was pretty much standard football fare--marching bands, flag brigades, you know.  The usual.  I vaguely remember some mish-mash of performers ("Up With People?") who reminded me of the albums I was listening to in the early 70s ("Free to Be You and Me" comes to mind).  Then there were lots of Disney productions, and lots of military salutes.  But then, in the early 90s, there was a shift.  In 1993, Michael Jackson (yes, leave it to Michael) made his appearance, and began a trend (sometimes good, sometimes not so good) of halftime "performances," or "extravaganzas."  Acts like Aerosmith, Prince, Diana Ross and Boyz II Men began to replace "Up With People," and the cash started flowing.  

Wikipedia tells me that last year's Super Bowl halftime performance (by Madonna) was the most-watched performance of all time.  114 million viewers world-wide (about 3 million more than who tuned in for the actual game).  This year, it's Beyonce's turn, and I have no dubt that she'll do well (in lieu of her lip synched performance at the Presidential inaguration a few weeks ago).  It'll be stellar.

But, if you know me, you know that my favorite Super Bowl performance was way back in 2002, when U2 were summoned to rally us as a nation in the aftermath of 9/11.  Yes, U2, with their jumbo-tron screen of the names of each victim, scrolling behind the stage.  Sure, they're a bunch of smarmy Irish dudes, but who better to bring us together, as "One" (pardon the U2 pun).  And bring us together they did.  I dare you to watch the video and NOT be moved.  From their opener "Beautiful Day," to the dream-like interlude that is "MLK," to their triumphant "Where the Streets Have No Name," the audience was whipped into a frenzy. And then, THEN, when Bono revealed the American flag stitched into the lining of his rockin' leather jacket, well...I was sold.  Just one more reason why they remain my favorite band, doing what rock bands SHOULD do, and doing it with style and grace.

I won't be watching the Super Bowl tomorrow.  If it's Sunday, it's Sarah's ski lesson day.  But I will tune in to Beyonce's performance on the Web, to see how spectacular it is (was, by then).  I doubt that it will be able to match what I witnessed in 2002, but I guess that's not really the point.  Maybe the "point" is that as we as a nation become fragmented around so many divisive issues, disappearing behind our screens and our bunkers, never really needing to come up for air anymore, this annual event gives us an excuse to remember who we are and what we stand for.  (And maybe that what we stand for is just an ode to unfettered capitalism and the entertainment industry.  In that case, never mind...) Just watch this.

 

Getting High on Church

"In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth."  --Genesis 1:1

Either that, or the continual processes of subduction and uplift over the past 8 million years (with some advance and retreat of glaciers thrown in for good measure).  All I know is that the North Cascade range is relatively young, and sharp, and steep, and pointy--and yesterday, was heavenly.

[Can I get an AMEN up in here!]

Church Mountain.  Aptly named due to the craggy spires that comprise its true summit.  For years I've seein it listed in all the hiking guides, but always dismissed it, based upon various trail descriptions that I had read.  For example, "The view is straight up, nearly a vertical mile, yet the green is so vivid and appears so close a person cannot but wish to go there.  A person can readily do so, but must be a sturdy person and carry much water, because the climb is longer than it looks..."  (Spring & Manning).  The forrested part of the trail is described by McQuaide as, "2,200 feet elevation gain in less than two miles of steep, forested switchbacks with almost no letup."  He's right.

All tolled, the Church Mountain trail gains nearly 4,000 feet of elevation in 4.2 miles, with a high point of 6,100 feet.  It just sounded too intimidating for a puffy, Midwestern girl like me...

[Can I get a hallelujah up in here?]

But alas, fears are meant to be faced, and challenges are presented to make one stronger, so with one of my intrepid hiking buddies (and all around dear friend), we decided to, as Nike would say, "Just Do It."  We stragetized that we'd take it slow.  Stop at every other switchback for water.  Support each other when the chinks in our mental and physical armor threatened to allow fear and doubt to trickle in.  And so we began.

[Yes, Lord!]

Up, up, up, and more up.  Steep.  Relentless.  Just like the books said.  Stopping.  Drinking.  Breathing.  Up, up, up.  

Then heavy footsteps coming up behind us.  What the?  Yeah, we had to step aside and let a kid (well, college student, but still) who was RUNNING up the trail pass us!  RUNNING!  He swiftly passed us with a "Hey," and kept going, going, and was soon gone.  About 15 minutes later, a very fit man in his mid-50s approached (at a quick but more acceptable pace) and asked if we had seen a kid run by.  Apparently, there was a group of Western students (biochemistry) up on the mountain for the day, on a field trip,and this particular student is training to be a Navy Seal (because isn't that what one would wish to do with a biochem degree?).  We said that, indeed, we had been swiftly passed, and the professor (Spencer) thanked us and proceeded on.

At about 2.5 miles, the switchbacks momentarily eased, the trees were behind us, and Kathy and I found ourselves in the Deerhorn Creek Basin--the bottom of a bowl surrounded by waterfalls and wildflowers, and a fast-moving creek that would ultimately feed the raging North Fork of the Nooksack River below.

It also offered us our first glimpse of where we were headed.  Up, up, up.

More switchbacks now, but this time more exposed to the sun.  Luckily, there was a breeze, and the wildflowers urged us along.  At this point, I started getting tired, and the doubt started creeping in.  "What do you think you're doing?  You can't do this?  You're not capable of doing anything physical!  You were always the last one picked for kickball at school!  You always had to walk your bike up hills!  You're not strong enough!  Stop now!  What are you thinking??"  These messages were mostly coming from my legs and my lungs, which felt as if they were about to explode.  I imagined what REAL mountain climbers must feel like, on the way to Everest, or even Rainier, for that matter!  Technical climbers.  Climbers who had to carry ice axes and crampons and wear helmets.  This was just a "day hike."  Get a grip!  Kathy and I fell into a groove, and kept on slogging.  Whenever I'm getting really tired, the song from "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" always pops into my head:  "Put one foot in front of the other, and soon you'll be walking out the door-or-or!"  Yep, me and the Abominable Snowman.  Up, up, up.

Then, nearly 4 hours after we started, there it was!  Our destination!  We had arrived!

[Praise be!]

Now came the decision.  Do we stay where we are, happy to have made it this far, or do we attempt to scramble the last 400 feet or so to the top?  We had seen the group of Western students do the scramble so effortlessly!  We both were scared, but we knew we HAD to do it.  We hadn't come this far (and this high) to stop now.  Besides, if we fell, surely the college students would save us, right?  We went for it:

[Lord, have mercy!]

Here we were, on top of the world!  (Our world, anyway.)  360 degree views of all the rock stars (get it?) of the Cascades: Baker, Shuksan, Tomyhoi Peak, the Border Peaks--all greeted us with their icy grins.  We had definitely arrived:

But here's the thing.  While we were triumphant in our short ascent, we were both secretly terrified of our short descent!  We could barely enjoy our lunch knowing that what goes up must come down.  How would we ever do it?  We both have kind of crappy balance, and we were already so tired!  We tried not to think about it.  The group of biochem students was sitting nearby, whooping it up, talking about beer and the Honey Badger.  How could they be so relaxed?  So oblivious?  Didn't they realize that they, too, had to get back down? 

After about 20 minutes, the biochem students began to leave.  They waved goodbye to us and simply skipped down the steep, rocky, 400 foot "trail" to the platform below.  Like nothing.  Nothing!  We could hear them laughing and squealing in the distance, like so many pre-school children at play.  "Fuck," we thought (apologizing soon after for cursing in church).  

Wanting to get it over with sooner rather than later, we faced our fears and began our slow descent.  Mostly on our bottoms, as the "trail" went straight down.  It was funny, because going up didn't seem quite so difficult (of course, we had gravity on our side).  Going down, gravity was mocking us, pointing her bony finger at us and screeching, "Try and use me, now!"  

[Holy, holy!]

But you know what?  We did it!  Inch by inch, rock by rock, we did it.  Slow and steady.  Nervous laughter all the way.  And waiting at the bottom was a group of extremely rugged, 60-ish year old women, eager for their turn at the top.  Among them was "Pickles," named because she was munching on a home-made baby dill.  She had the demeanor of a pirate.  "Argh, that looks pretty steep!  I'll climb it if I feel like it.  Gonna have my lunch first..."  You go, Pickles!  She set her lunch aside long enough to take a picture for us, jubilent in the fact that our likelihood of returning home safely had just increased to 98%.  I can still hear Pickles now, "Argh--move your feet in closer--I hate it when my feet are cut off in pictures!"  Yes ma'am, Pickles!  Whatever you say!

The way back down was long, and sometimes silent.  We were spent.  We were also in awe at what we had witnessed at the top.  Two triumphs, actually.  First, we felt so blessed to be in a position to witness such extreme beauty.  How lucky we are, we thought, to live where such an outing is classified as a "day hike."  Easy breezy, lemon squeezy.  We live and walk among beauty, and were reminded of that on this day.  The smell of the pine forest, the warmth of the sun, the cool breeze mediating between the two.  It's nothing short of a miracle.  Additionally, we felt blessed that we were physically up to the challenge.  No, we were't running up the trail (we're not training to be Navy Seals), but we walked.  And we reached our destination.  And it was good.  

[Preach it, sister!]

Almost as good as the Mexican food we devoured at Taco Lobo when we got home.

 

 

Obsession

The topic of obsession has always been an obsession of mine.  I consider myself to be a pretty obsessive person.  Not obsessive-compulsive--that's a completely different animal.  I mean obsessive in terms of once I get an idea in my head, it stays there, eating away at me until I've done whatever it is I need to do to ease that particular craving (for lack of a better word).  Lately, my obsession has been the need to get outside and not squander this amazing stretch of weather we've been having.  I've done a number of hikes recently, as this year (unlike last year), many of the higher elevations are melted out and ready to be visited.  LIke Cascade Pass above.  Or like Blue Lake:

Insane, right?  (The water really, truly is that color.  There's a reason for it, but it's too science-y for me to remember.)  Or how about this picture from my recent foray up into Canada:

(Yeah, that water really was emerald.)

Then there was this earlier trip to the North Cascades National Park:

And to Sauk Mountain,for the insane wildflower show:

And did I mention the Sequim (pronounced "Squim") Lavender Festival?

Here's the thing.  Most of the time, our weather out here really is crappy.  Now, I happen to like crappy, because as I've addressed in this space before, crappy weather gives me permission to stay indoors and get things done--laundry, school work, reading, writing--you know.  Things.  But when it's nice, well...

When it's nice, I feel completely obligated to enjoy it--to literally soak in as much sun as I can, because once it's gone, it tends to stay gone for quite some time, and you can never predict when it might come back.  Add to this self-inflicted mix my obsession for taking pictures and, well, you've got yourself the perfect psychological storm!  

For me, taking pictures is more than just taking some simple snapshots.  I'm the person who judges entire events based upon whether or not I got good shots.  "So, how was your trip to France?"  "I'm not sure yet--let me edit my photos and get back to you!"  For me, photographs are, quite literally, my external memory.  Unless I have photos, how can I be sure that it happened?  What?  Rely on my real memory?  Not a chance.  My real memory is mysteriously horrific.  I'm seriously concerned how I'll know whether or not I'm senile--there's no baseline for measurement.  My horrific memory causes me counless instances of embarrassment, from my work life to my personal life to my inner life.  Colleagues at work will as me what was discussed in a meeting, or what the specifics of a document are that I helped to create, and nine times out of ten, I look at them as if they have just asked me something about discrete mathematics.  My response is typically "Um...I don't know.  I can't remember.  Can I get back to you on that?"  Followed by drooling and limping away, slowly, from the scene.

This is not hyperbole.

At least once a day, I walk into a room and can't for the life of me remember why.

This explains, in part, my obsession for documentation, namely visual.

I do, however, think that this combined obsession with not squandering good weather and documenting life events can be a good thing.  Imagine how glad Sarah will be (hopefully) when she's an adult--her entire childhood displayed before her in copious images.  And I do have some nice photos hanging on the walls.  Some of my photos have even sold, so others have my photos hanging on their walls, too!  But the problem is I always want more--more pictures, more outings, more variety.  More, more, MORE!  Sure, I have 300 shots of that same lovely vista, but not at SUNRISE!  Or not in NOVEMBER!  Not on a WEEKDAY!

It never ends.

Sometimes I wonder if I need professional help.  I'm quite serious.  I literally get anxious if I can't get outside and take pictures.  I'm anxious right now just thinking about it...

I also wonder what will one day become of all of my pictures, obsessively shot on unspeakably clear, Northwest days?  I certainly can't take them with me, and I doubt that anybody else would be particularly interested.  Will all of my external hard drives and DVDs be tossed out with the rest of everything else that goes when I go?  Kind fo depressing to think about, really, so I won't.  Instead, I'll continue to obsess about the sun and the out-of-doors and the taking of the photographs.  It's not like I'm using film, right?  

 

Is it me?

Today is the third day of summer.  Summer.  That word is a paradox to me.  On the one hand, it connotes a sort of freedom--freedom from the routine of the academic year, freedom from mental and physical confines of snow and ice, freedom from the routine and the mundane.  But on the other hand, the flip-side of that freedom, resides obligation--obligation to feel free, to have fun, to be outside, to go, go, go!  

Is it just me, or is that too much pressure?

Here's one of my many, many dirty little secrets.  Ready?  I'm not a fan of summer.

There.  I said it.  Go ahead--judge me.

But before you do, allow me a brief explanation.  If you've known me for any length of time, you know a couple of things about me.  I absolutely, positively refuse to go on (or near) roller coasters.  If my mother's funeral were scheduled on the same day that U2 was performing nearby, I would legitamately have to think about it.  And I absolutely, positively HATE hot weather.  It's like my body simply shuts down.  It says, "Nope, not in the contract."  I literally cannot move.  Or think.  I can barely breathe.  The years I spent living in North Carolina were among the most repressive in my entire life (physically as well as metaphorically).  No, I do not like the heat.

Interestingly enough, I'm not a fan of extreme cold, either.  Winters in Ohio were brutal--the steely cold that would stab you each time you stepped out against it.  How the tiny hairs in your nostrils would instatntly freeze, how your eyes would water, and no matter how many blankets you piled upon your frigid bones, the warmth would never come.  Bone-chilling, they call it.  And it was.  And I hated it.

This is why I like the Pacific Northwest so much.  She's indecicive.  She can't make up her mind.  She's somewhere in-between.  I like that in a place.  She's a lot like me.

The photograph above is emblematic of early summers in the PNW.  This photo was taken yesterday afternoon; it was 55 degrees.  The (heated) pool was steaming.  It was like a big bathtub.  A womb.  The children inside were doing what children do--flailing about, learning to use their bodies in a new way--a way that they have forgotten, but will eventually remember.  We are born of water, and we will return to water.  We are water.

I think that's part of why I love living in this corner of the world so much--why I MUST live here.  Everything is reliant on water.  It rains here.  A lot.  And when it doesn't, people worry.  We talk about watersheds and water tables and water policy.  We understand that water is integral to life.  Our life.  Here, where we live.  This past week, I was fortunate enough to visit the North Cascades Institute, a learning center nestled deep within the North Cascades National Park, two hours from my home.  While there, I was surrounded by water--the turquoise gleam of Ross Lake, the wide, winding Skagit River, and the waterfalls that feed them all:

When it's cold and misty outside, I have permission to stay in.  I have permission to read, to write, to think.  I have permission to linger in bed, reading with my girl, or just sleeping.  I have permission to do the laundry, to wash the dishes, to tidy up.  When it's sunny outside, I don't have that permission.  The pressure to get out and DO things is too great (after all, the rain might move in again tomorrow, so get out now, now, NOW!).  Forced outdoor activity.  That doesn't always work for me.  Don't get me wrong--I LOVE to be outdoors, but I just don't want to be obligated.  

I'm not a fan of obligation.

I asked a friend yesterday what his perfect life scenario would be--place, job, partner, the works.  He said simply, "To be free of obligation."

I think he's on to something.

I love my family.  I love my work.  Both provide structure and meaning in my life, and without either, I would be lost.  But my GOD, the obligation of it all!  Oh to be a trust-fund baby, to be able to jet off whenever and wherever I pleased.  To not have a balance on my Visa.  To be beholden to no one.  Sounds equal parts scary and exhilerating!  

Give me the in-between space.

In the meantime, I'll take my cold, misty June days.  I'll linger in my bed and read and think and snuggle with my girl.  Last night, we stayed up as late as the twilight, while she read some of her writing to me.  My heart was literally bursting.  Outside, the rain was pelting against the window pane.  

An Open Letter to the New Year’s Resolutionists at My Gym

Dear New Fitness Enthusiasts,

Happy New Year!  I understand that, every January, we are encouraged to take stock of our lives, encouraged to take a look at what’s working, and what’s not, where we’ve been, and where we might like to go from here.  I understand this—really I do.  It’s culturally embedded into how we identify ourselves.  I do it, too, this taking stock.  I think about things that are working well, and things that might need to change.  Inevitably, many of these life-changes concern diet and fitness.

I have, on and off, been a member of various and sundry gyms since my early twenties (I seem to have been born without what some people refer to as a “working metabolism”—I need to do some research on that someday).  Currently, I am a member at Gold’s, mainly because they offer me a discount based upon where I work.  Win-win.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  Under no circumstances could I be considered a “gym rat.”  I am a woman in my mid-forties who goes to the gym six days a week out of sheer habit and an unwillingness to stop eating French fries.  My workouts are hardly challenging, but they are workouts nonetheless.  Because of them, I allow myself unfettered access to the aforementioned fries.  It’s a sickness.  I’m not working on it.

Typically, I do cardio (either the elliptical, stationary bike, or hill climber) on Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays are for weights (alternating upper and lower body, respectively).  For the past 8 years, I have been a part of the “Morning Crew” at Gold’s, the crowd who shows up at around 6:00 and is out by 7:00.  We all recognize one another, and sometimes exchange a nod, or a “good morning” as we pass from machine to machine.  We are familiar with one another’s routines, and generally do a pretty good job of staying out of each other’s way.  We don’t like waiting around for equipment to open up.  It’s early.  We’re grumpy.  We haven’t had our fries yet.  We want to get home.

Imagine, then, our frustration, New Fitness Enthusiasts, when there is a line to use the machines on the cardio deck!  We are happy for you (really, we are!) that you have decided to take your health more seriously.  We are happy that you are realizing that lying around watching “Property Virgins” and eating Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches (sugar is sugar, folks) isn’t serving you as well as it once might have (assuming that, unlike me, you used to have a “working metabolism”).  

This happens every January.  In fact, those of us who comprise the Morning Crew at Gold’s are used to it.  We anticipate it.  But that doesn’t mean we enjoy it.  We take umbrage at having to wait to use the newer elliptical machines (the ones with the television sets built right in!).  We resent having to play “shark” around the better equipment (I, personally, like the Cybex).  We don’t like being closed out of our fitness classes. 

So for now, we will be patient.  We will toss one another knowing glances as we watch you circle the gym, clipboards in hand, making sure you record every rep at every station.  We’ll wait.  We were there once, too.  We’ll show you our utmost compassion, because deep down, in our heart-of-hearts, we know that by mid-February, you’ll be gone, and we can have all of our stuff back.  

So for the next few weeks, enjoy your workouts.  Go forth and sweat.  The Morning Crew will be watching, and waiting.  Patiently.

Sincerely,

Lauren

 

No Expectations

"If you expect nothing from anybody, you're never disappointed."

                                                     --Sylvia Plath

 

This quotation may seem a bit bleak for the beginning of a new year, but for me, personally, it presents a solid challenge, something that I very much need to address in this new year.  Let me provide an example to illustrate what I'm talking about.

Yesterday, Sarah and I headed out into the wilds of the Chuckanut Mountains to tackle the Fragrance Lake Trail (my very favorite local trail--challenging yet doable).  Now, normally, I like to time myself, estimating how long it will take me to hike the two miles (and 1,100 feet) up to the lake.  But today, since I had company with shorter legs and a lot less focus, I had to give myself a pep talk.  "It's okay if you don't make it all the way to the top.  You've been all the way to the top dozens of times.  It hasn't changed.  Nobody is watching.  Nobody is judging."  But even still, even with the self-imposed pep talk, I was worried.  "I'm not going to get my exercise!  I shouldn't have skipped the gym this morning!  Guess I'm done eating for the day..."

Really?

So up we went, my girl and me.  Every 20 feet or so, she would stop, noticing something new and different and fascinating.  "Hey, I wonder what this is?"  "Hey, I wonder who lives in this hole?"

Christ.  At this rate, I'll never get to the top.

And this is exactly what I'm talking about--about how expectations can ruin a perfectly good outing with your daughter.  Here I was, thinking "What's in it for me?" completely disregarding what this experience might mean/be for her.  Pretty selfish, eh?

The one forest item that caused Sarah to consistently stop in her tracks was fungi.  (Who doesn't love a good fungi?)  There were white ones and orange ones and big ones and tiny ones, all pleading to be paid attention:

Another time-consuming ascent activity involved Sarah transforming into a super hero.  She would "hear" a phone ringing, answer it, get the address of the emergency, and leap into action, describing what the emergency was (a fire set by a cat chewing on Christmas lights, or a bank robbery).  Here she is taking a call:

Finally, after nearly 2 hours and 1 mile covered, we arrived at the half-way point, marked by a rather dramatic overlook onto Samish Bay:

At this point, it was 3:00, and it became clear to me that we wouldn't have enough daylight to get us all the way up to the lake, and back down again before darkness fell.  And yes--this freaked me out a little bit.  I didn't get the strenuous workout that my holiday-sedentary body had been craving.  I didn't get any time to contemplate the year that had passed, or the year that was just beginning.  I didn't get to have it "my way."  

But that's okay.

See, that's the thing about me and expectations.  Mine are, and always have been, exceedingly high.  Because of this, even the best of events/parties/travel fall woefully short compared to the picture I had created in my head.  This problem goes hand-in-hand with my perfection tendencies.  Add perfectionism and high expectations, and you get a toxic cocktail of frustration and disappointment.

This has to stop.

We made it down to the bottom of the trail at around 4:00, which left us a little time to scamper across the street to the beach and watch the sun set beyond the Olympic Mountains.  To my pleasant surprise, the tide was out when we arrived, so we were able to investigate some tide pools and sandstone formations as we watched the sky become show-off-y:

Had I tried to race up the extra mile to the lake, we wouldn't have gotten to explore the rocks and tide pools.  We wouldn't have met a lovely mutt named "Charlie."  We wouldn't have seen kayakers and beachcombers passing us by.

And this is my point.  No matter what you plan for, what you "expect," I think that a force far greater than you or me has other outcomes in mind.  When I fixate on how something "should" turn out, I automatically close the door to other possibilities that might be equally as positive (if not moreso).  I could be purposefully closing myself from experiences that I need to have, all because I don't think (or don't even know) that I need to have them.  I need to trust that force more.  I need to be fascinated by fungi, and receive calls from people in distress, and look for tiny creatures inside of tiny shells beyond the surf line.  I need to not get my proverbial panties in a wad whenever something doesn't go exactly according to the way I had planned it.  After all, what do I know?

Last New Year's Day, my Word of the Year was "intentionality."  I still believe in intentionally, in doing things with clear intention.  However, I don't believe that intention necessarily needs to be saddled with expectations of what should happen.  What happens is what is supposed to happen.  That's what I'm going to focus on from here on out--with no expectation of ever perfecting it.

 

Here Comes the Sun

Today, I celebrate the return of the sun.  As a symbol of this celebration, I look no further than the doorknob to my bedroom.  Let me explain.

Today, the sun rises at 8:00 a.m. and sets at 4:15 p.m.  This is approximately 4 seconds more daylight than we had yesterday.  This is a big deal, especially when the sun is as scarce as it is around here. Although, I have to admit that, lately, the sun has been hanging around quite a bit.  I am grateful for this in so many ways.  Until I look too closely.  Until I notice the dust bunnies pooling and eddying underneath my sofa.  Until I see the haze on the outsides of my windows.  Until I notice the cat hair flying through the air with the greatest of ease.  The sun (literally) shines a light on these subtleties, and reminds me of what a casual housekeeper I tend to be.

But at this time of year, the sun also does some amazing things.  The angle of repose is so low that beams of light shoot straight through my kitchen, and highlight things such as crystal doorknobs (above). The beams of light also land on my sun catchers just so, sending explosions of rainbows throughout whatever room they're in.  That doesn't happen in the summer, when the sun is relentless and attacking me straight from above, taunting me at 4:00 a.m. and not relenting until nearly 11:00 at "night." 

You see, here's my dirty little secret: I like a softer, gentler sun.  I like a sun with latitude.  I like a sun that let's me know it's there, but by whispering, not shouting.  And here's another little secret: I like dark and stormy days.  The kinds of days where it's best just to sit tight, brew some tea, grab a book, and put off whatever needs to be done until the next day.  I like the coziness of it all.  No pressure.  

It's a good thing that I live where I do, because I get to have the kind of weather I want--the gentle winter sun, the dark and stormy days, and rarely a day above 80 degrees.  It's kind of like what I imagine living on the Irish coast would be like (with perhaps a little less charm and no national health care).  

So while I welcome the sun, illuminating my doorknobs and pointing out my casual housekeeping, I need time to prepare--time to prepare for the cacophony of light that is to come.  Give me this time to heal. Then bring it on...

Occupy Black Friday

I have never been one for crowds.  I don't much care for loud noises, either.  (The only exception to this personality trait would be a U2 concert or an Ohio State football game, both of which are made tolerable by my deep-seeded passion for them.)  The thought of voluntarily heading to a Big Box Store at midnight (really, not 5:00 a.m.?) the day after Thanksgiving holds about the same appeal for me as a trip to the E.R.  So, this year, I thought I'd try something different (different than just sitting at home and watching yet more football).  

I'd been meaning to head down to our local "Occupy Bellingham" site, but just hadn't found the time.  Well, I just hadn't made the time (because, really, we can make the time for anything we want).  The fact that it was a lovely day made my decision even easier--so off I went.  I wasn't really sure what to expect.  I knew that our crowds weren't exactly crowds--more like dozens.  I also knew that, for the most part, there had been no drama, which is always nice in a protest movement.

When I arrived, a fellow by the name of John, a commercial fisherman, was there to greet me (yes, I'm told that each occupy site has a "greeter").  

John told me that he sees his role as similar to that of a campsite host.  He knows who's staying where, and he's in charge of making sure that the camp runs smoothly.  He pointed to a "chore chart" that was hanging from a covered tent in the center of the site:

He also pointed out a list of items that would be appreciated as donations (food and blankets, mostly) and where the "kitchen facilities" were:

John told me that the crowds have gotten smaller since the weather started turning ugly.  In the days before Thanksgiving, we had 65 mph winds rip through the area, and more heavy winds Thanksgiving day.  He told me that tents were rolling down Holly Street, and lots of folks just decided to bag it.  Can't say as I blame them.

Then I got to thinking.  I wonder if this is the reason that protest movements don't last too long or accomplish too much in this country--because, generally, we don't like to be uncomfortable.  It's why fruit in California goes unpicked.  It's why factory jobs go overseas.  But this is not the case everywhere.

Take for example Leymah Gbowee, the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize recipient for ending the civil war in Liberia.  Here's a excerpt from her bio:

Leymah Gbowee shared the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize in recognition of her work to end civil war in her native Liberia in 2003. Gbowee left Liberia during its First Civil War (1989-1996), but returned with her children after living as a refugee in Ghana. In 1998 Gbowee began volunteering with a Luthern-affiliated peace effort called the Trauma Healing and Reconciliation Program, which sparked her interest in peace activism. Encouraged by mentors she met in West African peace efforts, Gbowee attended the first-ever meeting of the Women in Peacebuilding Network; shortly thereafter she became the coordinator of the Liberian Women's Initiative, which inspired her to start a nonviolent women's movement that crossed religious and ethnic divides to call for peace and civil rights in Liberia. The Women of Liberia Mass Action for Peace involved thousands of women working together, using prayer, sit-ins, threats of a sex strike and peaceful demonstrations to protest violence and oppression. Gbowee and her fellow activists continued to bring pressure on African leaders during rounds of peace talks in 2003, leading to the end of 14 years of war in Liberia and the election of the nation's first female president, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf. Her story was featured in the documentary "Pray the Devil Back to Hell," and in September 2011 Gbowee published her account of the Liberian women's peace movement in "Mighty Be Our Powers: How Sisterhood, Prayer, and Sex Changed a Nation at War."

She made an appearance on The Daily Show a few weeks ago, and actually mentioned the fact that Americans don't have the wherewithall to withstand the inconvenience of a prolonged sit-in (but she said it much more eloquently than that--see the interview here):

 

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart
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And, to a certain extent, she's right--I certainly am not camping out on Holly Street.  I have a job and a family to take care of.  But is that a good excuse?  Certainly, there are other ways that I could become involved, but would they be as effective as being there, over the long-haul?  (Side note: the documentary based on Leymah Gbowee's experinece, "Pray the Devil Back to Hell" is amazing--you should see it.)

I sometimes feel like an imposter, becuase on the surface, I'm all about living sustainably--it's part of what I do for my life's work, plus I garden, I recycle, and I talk to my daughter about creating a reverence for the earth, which can only provide so much for so many.  Yet, I drive an SUV, and I travel by air--a lot.  I like my laptop, and I love my digital camera.  I try to tell myslef that it's not an either-or proposition, that I don't have to cook by campfire, eating only what I can manage to grow or kill.  But still.

When I think about the top 1% controlling the vast majority of the wealth in this country, I get angry.  When I see scenes like I saw over the weekend of customers being pepper-sprayed at Wal-Mart just to get to cheap electronics, I get even angrier.  Where did we go wrong?  Who made the all-mighty dollar the arbiter of what is good and right in the world?  When did commerce replace relationships?  And why have I been sucked in to this crappy narritive, along with most everyone else i know?  

Whith Christmas on the way, I'm feeling edgy.  There are things I really want (several of which require an electric cord), but what do I really need?  Ah, isn't that the question?  Maybe the reason I detest the greedy 1% so much is that they force me to take a close look at the 1% within me--that part of me that I pretend doesn't exist, but is there, lurking beneath the surface.  

So here's to Bellingham's own, tiny occupy movement.  I will donate what I can to their cause (short of pitching my tent alongside theirs).  And I will try to go easy on myself, finding a balance between want and need, too much and not enough.  

During our Thanksgiving dinner, the topic of Black Friday came up.  Without missing a beat, Sarah chimed in and proclaimed, "Well, there are more important things than shopping."  Amen, sister.  Amen.

U2-y

 

When I was in graduate school, I made the majority of my money doing odd babysitting and tutoring jobs (and believe me, some of them were truly odd).  One of the standing gigs I had was for a professor in the English department (I think) at Ohio State.  She had a toddler who needed to be entertained for the majority of the day, but who was not allowed to watch any sort of screen (which I get, but these folks were harsh) or spend too much time outside (diseases and all).  The kid was nice enough, had a pretty even temper (probably due to lack of screen and outdoor time) and we got along pretty well.  One day, when we were playing "chase" (my least favorite game of all time, when you literally chase the kid around the house), he finally collapsed in a fit of laughter under the dining room table and proclaimed, "That was U2-y!"  

What?

Turns out that one of his favorite adjectives to describe something favorable or entertaining was "U2-y" (as opposed to funny or lovely).  Apparently, his dad (who I don't remember ever seeing) was a big fan of U2, and turned the band's name into an adjective of the highest order.  "My GOD, that coconut cream pie is U2-y!"  "Oh, baby, your abs are so...U2-y!"  It has a funny sound, doesn't it?  Sort of like "cutie-patutie," only with more of an edge (literally).

Anyone who has known me for more than five minutes knows that I am a hard-core U2 fan.  I can remember back to the "War" and "October" days, when U2 was considered edgy (literally).  You could hear the punk influence--the gritty, industrial sound of Dublin in the late 70s.  The Clash.  The Ramones.  The Dead Kennedys.  The Sex Pistols.  Remember that?

Then, in 1987, when I was a sophomore in college, "The Joshua Tree" arrived, quickly followed by the companion documentary, "Rattle and Hum" in 1988.  *Swoon!*  I was hooked.  These guys were for real, and I was completely seduced.  Not that Bono is technically sexy, but my, oh my...

I think what gets me all riled up is his swagger.  I'm pretty sure that I'm taller than he is, and frankly, he's not THAT much older than I am (re: he ain't no spring chicken).  And that mullet he sported in the 80s?  Really?  But honest to Pete, he just "does" it for me.  That confidence that borders on arrogance.  That total "rock star" persona.  What saves him, of course, is his philanthropic nature, which, if you're as rich and famous as Bono (and really, who's richer or famouser?), you're morally obligated to do. I like that in a rock star. He understands that he's a character in his own performance.  He's post-modern like that.

As a fan, it's tough for me to pick a "favorite" U2 song.  I mean, where would one even begin?  I feel like I grew up--really grew up--with these guys.  They came to me in college, and have been with me ever since.  I don't even know how many times I've seen them in concert--three?  Maybe four?  Most recently up in Vancouver, where they rewarded me with an amazing mix of old and new material.  (Thanks, guys.)  But if Bono were holding a gun to my head (which he wouldn't, but just for the sake of argument), it would be a toss-up for favorite song.  I'd have to choose between "Bad" and "One" (because, really, Bono is a bad boy, and who doesn't love a bad boy?).  If forced to narrow it down even further, "Bad" would come out on top.  

 

Yeah, that's right.  It's the long-haired, vest-wearing, wouldn't-hurt-to-get-to-the-gym Bono of the 80s.  Just the way I like him.

On Saturday night (October 29th), Showtime is debuting the documentary "From the Sky Down," which chronicles the making of "Achtung Baby."  When that album first came out in 1991, I must admit, I wasn't a fan, mainly because it wasn't a carbon copy of "Joshua Tree," (which many critics believed to be the apex of U2s discography).  But, because I'm a fan, I bought the CD (crazy new technology back then!), and you know what?  The songs grew on me.  "One."  "Mysterious Ways."  Good stuff, really, and some of the stuff I now look forward to the most at concerts.  I believe the point of the documentary is this was a transformative album for the band, where they set off in a new direction, and happily, their fans allowed them to do that.  And hopefully, they'll keep doing that for years to come.

When I'm on a long car trip, I like to play a little game called "Who Opens?"  The rules are simple--toss out the names of two relatively similar bands, and have your traveling companion decide which band is the headliner, and which band opens.  For example: Van Halen/Aerosmith.  Who opens?  (Obviously, Van Halen, but only if it's Sammy Haggar on vocals.  If it's David Lee Roth, it gets a little dicier.)  The Rolling Stones/The Who.  (I think The Who open for the Stones, but that could be argued.)  But who would U2 open for?  Answer: NOBODY, because they're the biggest band in history!  More influential than Elvis or the Beatles?  Probably not, but that's just timing.  For sheer...bigness, U2 simply can't be topped.  They've had some ups and downs (the Popmart tour comes to mind), but for 30 some years, they've been relevant.  Not a lot of bands can say that.

So, if you're looking for me on Saturday night (and why wouldn't you be?), I'll be at home watching Showtime, and reminescing about where I was 20 years ago, and where I might be going in the future.

Rock on.

 

Oh, Oregon...

Having barely recovered from my Great Mongolian Adventure, last week found me traveling down the northern coast of Oregon.  This is nothing new, as every September, my mother, daughter and I hit the road armed with our camping gear and state park guides to brave the elements of our Pacific Northwest environs.  For the past five years, we've examined every nook and cranny (and trust me, there are lots of them) of Olympic National Park, the-park-that-has-it-all (in my opinion).  This year, however, we decided to get a little crazy, and veer farther south--you know--see where the roads would take us.

Well, as it turns out, U.S. 101 takes you pretty much directly to Oregon.  With a quick stop at Cape Disappointment State Park in Washington (best, and most accurate state park name EVER), we headed south.  

Now, here's the thing.  One of my favorite films of all time is "American Beauty."  In that film, there's a scene that focuses on a plastic bag dancing upon the wind.  In this particular scene, the character (the creepy neighbor kid) is talking about how he filmed it because he wants to remember.  "There's so much beatuy in the world," he says, "I feel like I can't take it."  And that resonates with me.  It's the best articulation I've ever encountered for why I take photographs.  Part of it is because I do, indeed, have a shitty memory, and I want to remember things.  But the other part is because there really is so damn much beauty in the world--I want to caputre it and look at it again and again, and feel grateful for having done so.

 

Not that everything on these little mini-vacations always goes according to planned.  Ask my mother about the 20 stitches it took to sew up her leg after a mishap with a rock on a hiking trail.  Or ask Sarah about the agony she was forced to endure because her scatter-brained mother left her Nintendo DS charger at the motel room in Cannon Beach.  Ah, there's much drama, to be sure.  But the beauty always outweighs it.  Always.  (For the record, my mother is just fine, and we'd like to thank the good folks at the emergency room in Lincoln City, OR for their competency and concern.  Sarah, however, is not faring so well, and grows more jittery each passing day as she flows through the symptoms of DS withdrawal.)

Next week, I'm heading to Vermont and New Hampshire to visit some schools that have built their curricula upon the framework of sustainability, and place-based education.  I imagine I'll feel a bit overwhelmed with beauty there, as well (New England in the fall--just sayin').  

There really is so much beauty in the world.  All we have to do is look for it.  Perception is everything.