Heroes Just for One Day

Susan Sontag wrote "courage is as contagious as fear."

I have felt equal parts of both this year.  On levels both cellular and societal, my world has burbled and burst open, time and again.  And the resultant exposure has been intense.

Cancer and death, politics and personalities have made me both brave and bedraggled.   Often in the same day.  And these odd bookends end up blurring the good and ordinary things that exist between them, which sometimes leaves me feeling unanchored and isolated.

How is it that I have found my voice and lost it, too?

It is April and I have only written 7 of these.

It is April and I have seen Sandhills Cranes and the English Beat, the Gutenberg Bible and a Pileated Woodpecker.

It is April and our president announced his commitment to the coal industry.  While standing at the Environmental Protection Agency.  

It is April and I don't like what my cancer meds are doing to my body.

It is April and I am a 55-year-old woman, invisible to many, and empowered by that fact.  Nothing to lose.

It is April and the earth reminds me that it is hard work to nudge spring to life again.

It is April and the rains have slaked our thirst.

It is April and I am alive.

It is April and I shall be courageous.

Hope Springs, External

Those two folks on the left?  Yeah, they're pretty terrific.  And not just because they acted excited when we got them aprons for Christmas.   Honestly, if I were seeking some praise right now, I'd point to this photo--like, maybe a thousand times in a row--and say "I helped make them.  And you're welcome."

But something funny has happened to me in the past few months.  Maybe it was the cancer.  Or the weird pills.  Or my mom's death.  Or DT, though I'm loathe to give him credit for anything but the Tums in my cabinet.

Whatever the reason, I don't find myself needing as much praise as I used to desire.  I mean, it's not like I made a business of it, but I have always liked to keep the peace and, if possible, I like for people to think mostly positively about me at the end of the day.  But now?  Now, I'm okay if we have our differences.  And I might not even lose a lot of sleep if it turns out I've ticked off a person or two.  I've told myself this is a sign of real personal growth.

Back to those kids in the photo, though.   After all, I'm just retirement-in-waiting.  But they are the future, thank God.

Let's start with Eric Carlson Holt, the older--and hairier--one.

Eric, first of all, I'm sorry.  Dad and I knew crap when you were born.  I mean, two days after we took you home,  Paula Buckner had to gently tell us that the reason Dad was doing three loads of laundry a day was that we hadn't bought plastic pants to put over those cloth diapers.   So much for saving the earth!   But--to your credit--a few months later, Paula also said that you'd had too many Happy Meals. And that was true.  You were calm and steady and  joyful.  And--thank God!--you slept like a narcoleptic on Benadryl.

Given that I knew absolutely nothing about bringing a human into the world, you were the perfect person to learn on.

And now?

 Oh, my God.

You are creative and deep and smart and so very compassionate.  And I kind of feel bad that you became a teacher.  Not because you aren't good--you are very good.  But because you feel this world so intensely.  And teaching is such an intense job.  Sometimes, we worry that its intensity takes a toll on you.  I suppose that, in our own fumbling, inadequate ways, dad and I still want to protect you.

But we also want to set you free upon this earth.  Because you make it such an interesting and better place.

And your sister?   Yeah, we love Allison Shepard Holt deeply, too.

Allison, you and I share something in common that you may not have realized.  Because young spirits died before both of us came along, we share a template set in luck.  To be born of luck that is set upon the back of hardship is no small thing, believe me.

Beyond the luck that accompanies you, Dad and I are nuts about you.  I love the stupid things you and dad do together--I think it's awesome that you two have routines, interests and joys that you share.

Smart, diligent, and weirdly funny, we like seeing what you bring to this world.  We also like that you don't suffer fools. And--full disclosure--we're really glad you don't take a lot of naps any more.  Or at least that you don't take them at our house!

I am so happy, daughter,  that you love this earth as much as I do.  Who'da thunk such a beautiful woman wouldn't hesitate to hop into a creek or eat a bug, just to delight and horrify us?!

And dad and I love that you want to be a storyteller for a living.   You have learned how to use the tools of your trade to tell beautiful stories.  And believe me when I say that this world has never needed beautiful stories more than it needs them now.   So, go and tell them.  Hundreds of them, if you are up for the task.  And we are certain that you are.

As for the rest of you?  You're welcome.

The Galumphing Beast and the Wacky Army of Good: A Fractured Fairy Tale

Generally, I consider myself an optimist.

So how to explain my recent, occasional bouts of envy while scanning the day's obituaries?

 (Yes, I know this is not the kind of thing to discuss in public.  Or in public writing.  Or possibly even between very close friends.  Still, that strange spark is there and I wonder if maybe there is some value in exploring the why of it.  Besides, this is the Facebook season of Unfriending, so what's the harm?)

It started happening a few weeks ago.  There in our back room, with daytime still wrapped up in the stars, I would stumble upon the death notices and find myself sighing a bit.  A longing kind of sigh. . . . even though I knew that these obituaries represented deep loss for someone.  My gosh, my own mother died just a few months ago, her absence still echoing in my days and nights.

So what's up with me?

As a very traditional  front-to-back reader of the newspaper, typically I've already scanned the national news before happening upon the announcement that there are fewer of us today.  Or at least that we are now a bit younger.  I suspect it is in this orderly approach to the day's news that I can locate the source of my own disorder.

I read the national news.  Then I read the obituaries.  Then I sigh.

The strange political beast that lurches and galumphs--wildly unhinged and uncivilized--has unhinged me, as well, it seems.

Even my sleep patterns have changed.  While hot flashes and full bladder still rouse me from time to time, they are nothing compared to the endless, dark hours spent sleepless and staring at my ceiling, heart pounding and mind spinning as I wonder what is happening to us.

Maybe this explains the not-so-proud thought that occasionally seeps into my head as I read about lives no longer lived.  At least they won't have to witness this mess, I mutter.  And then, I scan the small room to make sure that nobody has heard me.  Because I am kind of ashamed for thinking that.

So, what does an optimist do with a chapter like this?

Well, an answer came to me while I was walking with Finn the other morning.  It's possible it's kind of a lame answer, but it's a start.  And I could use a start right now.  Be warned, though, I'm pretty sure it might be kind of lame.

While I've always generally been a fan of God--though not a fan of every chapter of his books (some of which are downright weird and violent)--I've never really understood or been attracted to the idea of eternal life.  I just get kind of tired thinking that the gig is ongoing.  At least for me, personally.

Still,  because I am very comfortable living with ridiculous contradictions, I also like to think that my loved ones who've gone before me are somewhere in the ether, still alive, winning at poker and eating great food (while I'm also hoping that they aren't checking in on me when I'm not at my best).

Enter optimism.

What if. . . what if all those good folks who have died before us and who loved us despite our worst sides are now, in their new forms, able to do things for us that they couldn't have, while still on earth? What if they have been transformed, in some sort of super-cool, ultra-galactic way, into awesome interceders, able to bonk some sense into knuckleheads and buoy us up, as well?

Frankly, I like the idea.  I like thinking of my funny, smart brother and mom and dad and  step father and father-in-law as wispy superheroes, able to see much better than I can, so that they know where to swoop down and do some good.   I like thinking that we are still a team, even if the rest of us, still stuck to the earth, are like the second-team benchwarmers.  But I know that we'll all get some playing time.  Because that's the kind of coach God is.  An awesome one who plays everyone.  And who has some plan that will probably put the W in our column.

Plus, our awesome uniforms and teammates.  How can we lose with uniforms and teammates like that?!
  

Feeling the Heat

When I first started taking classes so that I could work in a library, we were called "media specialists."  It was kind of a mixed-blessing thing.  While I was glad to not have people call me "Marian the Librarian,"--a stodgy term whose mere utterance aged me 50 years--I wasn't so thrilled about being called a specialist, either.  Lots of pressure in that term specialist.  Now that I am more than 50 years older, though, I'm grateful that the pendulum has swung back in the direction of "school librarian."

Glasses on, pressure off!

I face a similar conundrum with my title of master naturalist.  Truly, I am a master of nothing.  And I like it that way. Sure, after two seasons of feeding tiger-beetle larvae, I got pretty good at capturing refrigerated fruit flies.  But does that really qualify as mastery?

Indeed, the reason I love the master-naturalist program so much is that I feel no pressure whatsoever to limit myself to things that I know. That's why, in the past three years, I've fed beetles, counted fireflies, inspected milkweed plants, learned about bats, seined for fish in a river, laid on virgin prairie and started fires.

Oh, boy!  Starting fires!  Now that is a real kick in the shorts (although they recommend you wear cotton pants and steel-toed shoes).

 The above photo is of my master-naturalist friend, Emilie.  Two years ago, we got an email from a local landowner looking for help with a prescribed burn.  The fact that I knew nothing about lighting controlled fires was irrelevant.  I was fascinated that someone would invite a person as green as me to help out.  We drove to the Bohemian Alps, where the landowner, Sue, had gathered all kinds of people to burn a few acres of her property.  It was nothing like my ants-under-magnifying-glass days.

There, on a cloudless afternoon, a handful of people took readings of everything from humidity to wind direction. Nothing was left to chance, aside from the fact that the infants Emilie and I would be helping out in some mostly incapacitated capacity.  It was decided that she and I would be flappers. Had I known that this was going to be my job, I would have put on the awesome, spangly 20s outfit I wore to that one college party.  Alas, the heat would have incinerated my sparkly skirt.   And God knows what would have happened to my headband. . . .

At a prescribed burn, you see, a flapper is a thick, floppy slab of plastic sitting on the end of a broomstick.  Our job was to use the flappers to tamp down the edges of the fire so that it wouldn't move out of its prescribed area.  I was beside myself with excitement.  My face bandana-ed against the swirling smoke, there were times when the fire burned hot enough and close enough to me to make me wish that I'd left Mark a note to let him know where my body could be found.

For a couple of hours on a perfect spring day, this eclectic gathering of people--farmers and neighbors, Game and Parks personnel, grad students, master naturalists and members of the Tri-County Burn Association--used our feet and our trucks and lots of equipment provided, in part, by Ducks Unlimited to clear Sue's land of weeds and cedars so that it could breathe freely again.

 Emilie and I returned, last spring, to another part of Sue's property, to help with the prescribed burn.  Still green, but less so, they even let me ride in the utility vehicle and light fires for awhile, listening to the crazy man behind the wheel tell wild stories of falling in love with a flight attendant somewhere over the South China Sea.

These were two of the better days of my life, doing something I'd never imagined doing before, but knowing that I was in good, capable company doing small but important work for someone who'd become a friend to me.

Today?  Today, I long for a flapper and a ticket east, where perhaps I could do a little good, tamping the fires that consume us.

A Fine Sunrise Service

Up early, Finn and I decided to go to the Sunrise Service at Holmes Lake this morning.  Like most early services, it was poorly attended by the bipedals.  In fact, there was only one other car in the parking lot--my neighbor Mary Kay's.  And I was pretty sure we weren't going to sit together, given that she was halfway across the dam by the time I got out of my car.  Fine by me, since one of the reasons she and I love that early service is because the few humans who are there are mostly silent during it.

Atop the dam, I began scanning its backside, hoping to see Mr. Fox at the lectern.  He's a great reader of the holy texts, succinct in his retelling of God's great commands.  Halfway across the lake's spine, I finally spied the fox, who was clearly distracted by voles in the tallgrass. Given that today's reading came from Obadiah (yawn!), Finn and I whispered our silent prayers of thanks for the tiny vole that had disrupted it.

By the bridge, the congregation broke into the service's first song--"All Things Bright and Beautiful"--led by a rather undisciplined choir of geese.  A mallard family, gleeful to have found  a wide swath of open water, hung close to the bridge but refused to join in.  Recalling my own stressful days of bringing young children to church, I withheld my harsher judgments and walked on.

Halfway through the service by now, my mind had started to wander.  Even Finn was distracted, going off trail in pursuit of invisible field mice who'd slept in and were just waking up. My ears stinging from the chill air (I have always hated wearing hats at church), I was glad the sun had begun stretching itself across the sky.

Rounding a corner, Finn and I startled a flock of juncos that were prepping their music for the 10:30 service.  As much as I like their subtle songs, I'm no fan of mid-morning church, preferring instead the comfort of my home's small library, where the Sunday crosswords tempt me.  Though not in a biblical way, of course.

By the second bridge, we caught a glimpse of the guest preacher, a lone blue heron hovering silently over the treetops.  Or, I suppose, it was possible he was hovering over the golf course, wishing for warmer days and a decent chip shot.  Regardless, I appreciated his minimalist approach to this morning's Good Word.  In fact, he uttered not a single one, to which I might have said "Hallelujah!"

Plodding through the final few minutes of the service, Finn and I took note of an eagle-eyed Swainson's hawk, one of the stodgy avian attendees who was making sure we didn't leave early.  The Bluejays weren't deterred, though, heading for the exit, and none too quietly.

Despite the absence of readings, the sloppy singing, the silent preacher--or perhaps because of all of these things--Finn and I left Holmes Lake heartened and lighter in spirit, glad for our time on this earth and our company of creatures, both great and small.

Can I get an "Amen?"

Amen!

Hiding in Plain Sight

I just saw "Hidden Figures," a terrific account of the black women who helped make NASA fly.  That it has taken 50 years for this story to find daylight does not speak well of this land of ours.  And yet. . .

And yet, it happened.  Thanks to courage and grit, smarts and drive, this story happened, even if most of us didn't realize it until just now.   And that, I think, is the point I'm taking home today.  Good does not need the spotlight to legitimize it, although it will blossom when the light finds it.

Three days before a thin-skinned, self-obsessed, pre-Copernican man becomes our president, I have been tempted to turn off the lights and pretend nobody's home.  Tempted to wear my hackles high and pick fights with strangers.  To assume that good will no longer be part of the day's menu.   But "Hidden Figures" reminded me that most things happen behind the stage, away from the bright lights, and that many of those things beckon from very good people doing very good things, often very quietly.

And so, I will hold onto all of the folks who, without even meaning to, have reminded me that there is an abundance of good in this world.  Folks who checked in on me this fall, those who've fed hungry students, tended to tall-grass prairies, stood on the Capitol's steps, fostered tough kids, helped register people to vote, showed others the wonders of thin places, made people laugh and dance and sing, those who've sat with the dying, given their money to causes they believe in. . .  All of these people I know who act quietly and do good in the shadows are part of an abundant tribe, a vibrant throng. And they will still be doing all these things, come Friday and beyond.  Which is why they give me strength and joy and hope, these hidden figures.

And in 50 years, when some stranger discovers one of these small, good stories and shines a light on it?  I am confident that its goodness will sparkle, lifting and sustaining that stranger, just as it lifted and sustained us through these odd days we find ourselves in.

What's Cooking?

Something happened in my kitchen yesterday.  Granted, it wasn't as pretty as the meal I'd made a few months ago (see photo), but it was pretty beautiful, nonetheless.  With the low angle of mid-afternoon sunlight coming through the window, I was watching the cardinals at the feeder while peeling potatoes over the sink. Neat piles of diced onions, sliced carrots and slivered celery awaited their starchy cousin.    

It was a small, quiet moment and I was overcome by the feeling that I'd been there before.  In this place, with these things, happy in my prep work.  

I don't know much French, but I know that I love mis en place--putting everything in its place.   And everything felt like it was in its place, myself included. 

I've made hundreds of weekend meals over the years, working alone in the kitchen with some good music playing and Finn watching from his corner.  It is an easy, well-loved routine of mine.  And that routine found me again, on a bone-chilling Saturday in a brand-new year.

Swimming in the familiar, I somehow couldn't remember the last time I'd made potato soup.  The last time I'd stood at the sink on a Saturday or a Sunday and assembled a meal.  The last time I'd been awash in a beloved routine.  

It made no sense, this feeling.  I make meals all the time.  I'm in my kitchen, at the sink, opening the fridge, looking out the window several times a day.  But there I was, putting on the familiar feeling of deep contentment, wondering how it'd fit as I slipped it over my shoulders.  

The whole weekend, really, has been like that.  Feeling an old, happy groove,  finding a rhythm I'd been missing, synching up with my old self.  The last few months have been like watching a television show where the speaker's lips don't match the words.  I'd been off just a little and then, yesterday, with cardinals fluttering at the feeder, I caught up with me again.  

It was a mis en place moment I hadn't realize I'd been waiting for. And it was delicious.