Time Travelers

Too often, it seems, we get lured into keeping track of things. A disheartening byproduct of taking that bait is that we end up doing things in order to get other things, rather than to just do things.

Our cell phones vibrate or ding and we ignore everything and everyone else to see what's on the other end.  Our walk or run isn't just a walk or a run because we're logging in steps and miles to earn another digital badge.  We skip ice cream with the family because we're over our daily calorie count.  We binge watch Netflix series so we can finish them before anyone else in our clan.

I like summer because I get to just do things--walk or read a book or take a nap or ride my bike or lay on the hammock and stare up into the sky. One of the first things I did this summer was to take off my FitBit and put it on a shelf.  I'd grown tired of counting things in order to get something--steps, time of day, hours allegedly slept--so I got rid of the bait for awhile.

A funny thing happened when I put the FitBit away.  I began to care and to not care in just the right proportions.  I cared that I was spending time with my dog on a trail, but I didn't care how many steps I got.  I cared that it was sunny outside but didn't care what time it was.  I cared that I got to sleep in a great bed but didn't care when I got out of it each morning.

And then, just when I thought it was impossible to care and not care any more, I went to Hawaii, where I waved my care/not care freak flag with great joy and abandon.  Not that it mattered if no one noticed . . . .

When we left our house at 5:15 a.m. on the first morning of our trip, I could not even fathom what lay before me.  I only knew that it would be a long, multi-legged journey and--frankly--I was glad for it.  If something is beyond comprehension, it makes sense that it'll take a while to get there.  So, I didn't mind the short hop to Denver.  Or the four-hour layover.  Or the seven-and-a-half hour flight.  I mostly didn't mind the molasses-slow line at Hertz, although I confess to wondering what the heck a Nissan Armada was and how on earth I could possibly drive a a car that holds eight people?!

I didn't mind the rain.  Or the slow, single highway that doesn't even go all the way around the island.  Or the rooster that woke me at 2:15 a.m. on our first night there.  And again, at 3:30 and 4.  I didn't mind the heat or the humidity.  The $9 loaf of bread was a shock, but--hey!--we had to eat, so I didn't mind that either.  Plus, the checker said I could get a Safeway card "like that!" so I signed up--even though I usually mind putting another card in my wallet--and saved $31 just like that!

I didn't mind having to work a bit to get to those glorious beaches.  And I worked hard not to mind my body in a swimsuit. By Day Two, I truly didn't mind if I walked into a store, my body caked in sand and salt, a baseball cap on my head and my wet suit clinging to my body. I didn't mind that we walked up a mud-covered jungle path, utterly filthy by the end.  Or that there were chickens roaming freely in the food shacks.  Heck, I didn't even mind going straight from a wet and wild boat ride in the ocean onto a plane, looking like a sunburned hobo.

Magically, all of that not caring somehow made room for more caring.  And I cared a great deal about many things on that island.  Its ever-changing skies.  The way the light transformed the mountains in front of me.  The way the rain made new waterfalls appear overnight.  I cared deeply for the way the people were open and friendly and unconcerned.  The beautiful landscape, the warm ocean waters, the joy of diving into a wave, the pleasure of sharing time with our adult children, who were gape-jawed as well. I cared deeply that my last "event" in Hawaii was skin diving at the same beach where some of Andrea's ashes had been scattered.  And I cared that Eric and Allison had found good, good people to have in their lives.  Just as I have.

In Hawaii, I cared and didn't care in equal measure, and it made all the difference in the world.  The nice thing is that  the same is true back home, where I will continue to care and not care in a way that I hope leaves me happier, more peaceful, more present in my days.

Skywriting

I do not know if it is a gaping maw,

this place where once you lived.
My fingers trace a small,
scooped-out space,
walled in shadows and light,
and I wonder to myself--embarrassed--
Did you send the creamsicle clouds?
Did you rouse me with low thunder,  just to say 'hello'?

And then--just like that--the clouds turn wan again
Colorless canvasses clutching the hues of their former selves.

As I walk to the park this morning,
I cross into 1983 and I am at the Whitney again,
where I fall in love with Pollock and De Kooning.
Later, in its cafe, over a shared sandwich,
you sit, mesmerized by the dappled clouds that cover the walls.

For years, you come back to those clouds,
wondering how they did it,
those nameless artists who nudged the skies into a
concrete building.

This morning, under self-same clouds,
I think of you
and run my fingers along the edges of that soft space
that you once filled.

How on Earth?!

Is it possible to look at those clouds and to think nothing?  To not wonder "How on earth?"

I've come to believe that "how on earth?" is the most important question in our vocabulary, one that drives and feeds, saves and fills us, often all at once.

Today at 3, I'll be retracing my earlier steps from the Women's March, this time in support of science, a field of study birthed from the question "How on earth?"   That it's also Earth Day is probably no coincidence, even if the realization just occurred to me this morning.

Two celebrations--one for science, one for nature.  To borrow a word understood by both, it's a perfect confluence.  Science, after all, is the flashlight we humans shine on this universe.  And, ironically, the more shadows we cast out, the more as-yet-unnamed shapes emerge.  To me, it is an irresistible, unimaginably beautiful relationship these two have developed.

This morning's walk with Finn was peppered with "how on earths?"  As is often the case, the trees were the first to catch my attention.  Tracing their outlines, many now softened with newly unfolding leaves, I wondered where in their limbs lived the life-giving knowledge of shape.  How did each know just how best to grow in order to soak up the most sun possible?  And what ancient vibrations were their roots listening to today, so that they might map a new, thirst-quenching route for this upcoming season?

There are a thousand things--silly and serious--that I'd like to see in person someday, each fueled by my own "how on earth?" utterings.  Cashews in their natural state, for instance.  Where are they housed--a bush, a tree, the ground?  Sure, I could Google it and have my answer.  But I want to be there, to see it with my own eyes.  And then, afterwards, I want to stop by a ramshackle stand at the end of the grove (is that what they're called?) to pick up a few in their more familiar state--naked, roasted, lightly sprinkled with Himalayan sea salt, thankyouverymuch.

I also want to swim in a sea of bioluminescent creatures.  To lay on my back August 21st and look up at the moon's umbra (a scientific word for "umbrella!") as it snuffs out the sun for a minute or two.  I want to be engulfed in the bending light show of an aurora borealis. To ask a house wren how it learns its songs, and to see its throat vibrate as it calls forth a mate or chastises a neighbor's cat.  I want to know how my body--this radical community of things that have never bothered to introduce themselves to me--how this body moves, how the blood flows, how the synapses fire, how it fights the cancers that invade it and heals itself afterwards.

 How on earth could science ever be construed as anti-God?  I have no patience for people who are put off or threatened by the questioning.  Pity?  Yes.  But no patience.

There is no growth, no wonder, where the big questions go unasked.

Mercy Me, Little Hound!

There's a yippy, mean mop of a dog on M Street that likes to scare the pants off Finn and me.  Yeah, I know.  Dogs don't wear pants, but you know what I mean.  In the past few months,  Finn and I finally have gotten wise to him and cross the street ahead of time, if I see his porch light on.

Today, though, we stayed the course, dog be damned.  Porch light ablaze, his shag-carpet body quavering at the ready, I did my best to ignore the slathering hound and his ear-piercing bravado.  For me, it was a lesson in mercy.  Better for me to forgive the dog its annoying dog-ness than to keep crossing the street or cursing it.

Lately, I seem to keep bumping into that word--mercy.

Just last night, I finished Bryan Stevenson's book "Just Mercy," a sobering account of this country's imbalanced, incapacitating practices of incarceration.  Largely devoid, in equal parts, of both justice and mercy, our country's prisons are brutally hard on people who are not rich, are not white, are not desired.  Stevenson, whose law practice focuses on these under-/over-represented people, wraps his mercy in the form of giving voice and compassion to this largely forgotten, often demonized population.

Stevenson's brand of mercy is not for sissies.  His is framed in a relentless, demanding and, at times, demoralizing pursuit of returning the elements of humanity to locked-up humans.  His work reminds me to reach across, especially to those whose voices too often go unheard.

Notions of mercy are also coming at me from Father Richard Rohr, a Franciscan priest who founded the Center for Action and Contemplation in New Mexico.  Action and contemplation--in the same sentence!  Isn't that a kick in the pants?!  My friend Scott recommended I pick up a copy of Rohr's "Falling Upward," a book that focuses on this second half of life I'm in.  Rohr's also got a daily email he sends out and today's was focused on--you guessed it--mercy.


In the email, I learned that the word mercy (a word that can feel quaint and awkward in these times) comes from the Etruscan merc--meaning "merchant or exchange."  In this context, then, mercy is a flow that requires openings on both ends--in giving and in receiving, which makes mercy the opposite of a power play because it distributes its power--its forgiveness--equally.

Just like the name Center for Action and Contemplation seems ironic, Stevenson's book title "Just Mercy" pits together seemingly opposite ideas--how can justice and mercy possibly coincide?  Doesn't one knock the legs out from the other?

Back to Rohr for a little perspective: "Every time God forgives us, God is saying his own rules don't matter as much as the relationship that God wants to create with us."  Wait, what?  God isn't the rule-obsessed, letter-of-the-law, don't-mix-your-materials titan of Old Testament fame?!

Mercy, it seems, is a rebel clothed in soft fabric.  A nudger that puts us in unfamiliar territory, a desire that causes us to question the rules, an act that flies in the face of authority and fills all while emptying none.

Mercy is me bending down at the little white fence on M Street so that I might pet the snarling beast.  I'm not there yet, but I'm getting closer. 

7:15 Sunday at Holmes Lake

7:15 Sunday at Holmes Lake

Sometimes, the grid is laid with gravel.

But, today, I want to be silent.

So I shift my feet off path, to soft soil,

my presence now muted.

Is it a denial of self to want to be absorbed by

everything around me?  
To long to lay down among the morning-light miscanthus

and look up?

Maybe it is something quite the opposite

--a blossoming of self in the presence of others.

Pressed against the warm earth, I disappear,

watching skeins of geese stretch above, noisily recalibrating.

My ears awaken, tickled by the chit-chit-chit-whirrrrr of red-winged blackbirds.

Agitated and full of sex, red-breasted robins circle,

swirling upward like angry dry leaves in the wind.

I am awash in this beautiful, this perfect science

--the audaciousness of a crab-apple blossom breaking through

--the sweet, iron-tinged scent of a rain cloud as it moves overhead

--the umber flash of fox, trolling for voles along the dam’s backside

I love my people, to be sure.  

But, some mornings, I love the wild world even more.

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.