Runnin' on Empty

A misanthrope walks into a bar . . . . 

There were far too many humans on my walk this morning.  Too many cars and trucks and buzzing chain saws.   Too much loud music from the boom box at the swimming pool.  And the three kids shooting baskets at the park (a surprising sight at 6:15 a.m.)?  Even they tested my patience.

For whatever the reason,  I could not seem to escape my species this morning.  And I really, really wanted to.

I blame Terry Tempest Williams.  Her damned book "The Hour of Land: A Personal Topography of America's National Parks" has seeped into my veins and now I can't quit thinking about Big Bend National Park, a place Williams turned to when she was "seeking a different kind of circuitry, the nervous system of rivers and deserts and mountains born of fire."

Hey, I'm not anti-human.  More often than not, people fill me.

But nature?  Nature empties me.  And when I am emptied, all kinds of things have a chance to make their way inside.

We could all do with a little more emptying these days.  By chance or by habit, we Americans are overfull.  We take in too much news and eat too much food, we spend too much money on things and too many minutes on phones. It's as though we are scared of the pause, of the silence that punctuates the in-between.

When I spend time outdoors, away from people, other things move into the center of my narrative, and I wake up to the freshness of their stories.  I can't help but notice the bejeweled wings of the beetle at my feet and wonder what it was that stopped its heart.  Held by the eyes of a young rabbit, I stand still and imagine we are exchanging stories, telepathically.  Cooled by an early-morning breeze, I listen as it wends its way through the stand of pines I'm walking under.

Just writing about nature calms me.  In fact, the only thing I don't find calming about this blog entry so far is that I titled it after a song that I didn't like much the first time around!

Besides, the title isn't even accurate.

I'm not running on empty.  I'm running to it.

Cry Me a Rivulet

One of the most amazing things about Kauai was the way that new waterfalls would magically appear some mornings.  Birthed by overnight rains, they'd show up as thin, long fingers running between the ancient ridges of the mountains that abutted Hanalei Bay.  One morning, I counted eight of them, where there'd been just three the day before.  It was quite a way to start the day.

This morning, 3,834 miles from Hanalei Bay, I'm thinking about those new-born waterfalls and how they relate to me.  Although maybe an arroyo would be a better image for what's on my mind.

I've got a 10 a.m. mammogram this morning, which probably explains my off mood, as well as the feeling that there is a little river running through my brain that wasn't there the other day.

I forget, sometimes, that this whole cancer journey really is a journey and that I'm still on its road. It's tempting to think of it only in the past tense.  Surgery?  Check.  Radiation?  Check.  Pills?  Check.

After my Sept. 9 surgery, my daughter Allison asked if I no longer had cancer.  It was an excellent, strange question, one that I posed to three people.  My surgeon's nurse practitioner said a surgeon would say, post surgery, that I no longer had cancer.  My radiologist said he'd wait until after a month of treatments to consider making such a claim.  My oncologist said he'd like five years to pass until making such a claim.

All those experts, kind of disagreeing with each other.  It's no wonder that, on occasion, I'm aware of a rivulet of concern that runs through me.  Most days, I don't notice it.  But there are times when I realize that my brain, as well as my breast, has been changed by the news that came to me last August.   In those moments, that rivulet becomes something a little larger, a little harder to ignore.

One morning this spring, I realized I'd forgotten to take my Letrozole, the pill that keeps the estrogen-hungry cancer at bay.  Poof!  Rivulet becomes river!

Two nights ago, I could barely move, my joints aflame--a side effect of the Letrozole, which strips the body not only of estrogen but also of calcium and Vitamin D.  And there it was again, that occasional river, reminding me that I'm still on the journey.

And this morning's appointment?  It, too, has spawned the rebirth of that river, not in the form of tears, but in the form of a subtle reminder of the power of the "C" word.

Last week, my physical therapist (another expert, another reminder of the journey) said that radiation changes things at a molecular level.  She said that the tissue itself has been transformed by light.   Just like the rest of me, transformed by this weird combination of light and darkness, joy and journey.

And so, I try to make peace with this river, sitting on its banks and watching its many iterations, a new element in my landscape.

Three Cheers for the Red, White and Blue. No, Really!

We Americans love a good who'da-thunk story, don't we?  In fact, I'd argue that this story form is at the base of this country's entire mythology.  So much of our flag-waving pride has roots in this belief that everyone, regardless of circumstance, can turn things around and surprise folks.

Six months ago, our current president became one of the latest, though far from greatest, who'da thunk story written on U.S. soil.

Hey, everyone makes mistakes. . . .

Here's the thing, though.  That whirling dervish in D.C. has generated all kinds of who'da-thunk spinoffs that represent what is truly best about people.


A year ago,  how many of us could have imagined that, on January 21st, millions of people worldwide--from Lincoln to London, Gatlinburg to Greenland--would gather in groups to take a stand for each other?

Who'da thunk?

Six months ago, how many of us would have thought that we'd start planning our evenings and weekends around protests or postcard-writing campaigns at the local pizza joint?

Who'da thunk!

Five months ago, I sat gape-jawed as I watched a spontaneous protest break out at LaGuardia Airport as anti-immigrant rhetoric butted heads with airplanes filled with people from everywhere.  There, in the airport, pockets of lawyers met with people who do not look like me, who wondered if they had a place here.  Outside the terminal, thousands held signs and uttered chants, in support of the melting pot.

Who'da thunk?

In January, National Parks employees pushed back against politics that threatened their livelihoods along with the well being of the parks, plants and animals they protect.  What erupted what a joyful noise--300,000 initial followers and the rebirth of Smoky the Bear in his finest version yet.

Who'da thunk? 
 
On the verge of another Fourth of July, one that I could easily talk myself out of celebrating, it's good to remind ourselves that, each day, there are innumerable iterations of the who'da-thunk tale--some tiny, some significant and some incredibly beautiful.   And to remember that, sometimes, the best ones have their roots in the most inexplicable head scratchers that we could imagine.  For me, that happened one morning last winter, on a day when the weird future started to make itself known to me.  It was on that day that I began to change, transformed by a who'da thunk story that I was lamenting.

It's good to remind ourselves that this country was formed by folks who pushed back, who thought we could do better.

The Librarian and La Vida Loca

It was October, 2009.  I remember flying into Rome, the last leg of our first European adventure.  I looked out the airplane window at a land that was both familiar and foreign to me.  I'd had a night of strange, fuzzy half-sleep and was waking up in a place that was unknown to me.  It was an odd, dizzying feeling and I realized I'd better get myself together soon, because we were about to land, and I didn't know a lick of Italian.

I have had that same disorienting feeling these days, even though I'm writing this not two miles from my childhood home.  It is a strange thing when home feels like something far away.

In my most cynical moments, I hiss hateful laments at a bunch of rich white men in worsted suits who have not, as yet, brought out the best in me.  Yet, I continue looking for solutions, even though it seems I don't know the language just yet.

But I will learn it, because I sit on a secret stash, a powerful collection of bridges and bandaids, solvents and solutions.  I work in a library, after all, a place that, every single day,  lives up to its Latin roots--libre--and sets people free.  I know because I have seen it happen.

So, while my representatives in Washington--those henpecked, party-possessed, power-pleasing people who don't seem particularly interested in the poor or the passed over--play nice with a man who cares not a whit about peace or other people, I will flex every one of my secret-weapon muscles, reaching out to all of the "others" that I can find.  I will provide students tales that reflect their own lives, find them stories that connect them to folks who are not like them, and feed them books filled with ideas that expand their understanding of what it means to be a human.

I also will teach them how to sniff out poison and how to find gold.  And I will make sure they have somewhere simply to be--to hang with friends, to study for a test, to play a game of chess.

And--even if they don't live like, look like, think like or love like I do--I will be kind to every single person who walks into our library, regardless of what we have or do not have in common. I will love and celebrate them all--the acned, multi-colored, mysterious masses of almost-adults whom we so desperately need to be better than we are.

Because that is the way of the library, setting people free, one person, one story, at a time.

An Ode to the Firefly

The other night, Mark said I should blog about fireflies.  Fireflies?! Who wants to read about fireflies?

And then I realized that people desperately want to read about anything as long as it's not politics. So why not fireflies?

And he's right about the fireflies. For whatever reason, it's a particularly awesome year for them. The other night, after dinner at our friends' house, they gave us toothpicks to prop open our eyelids so that we might stay awake for a post-dinner, post-sunset walk through Trendwood Park.

By the time we got to the lower areas of the park, it was like we'd walked into a regional speed-dating event.  Seemingly thousands of randy male fireflies lit up the space, each trying to outdo the others with his pulsing behind.

Apparently, Trendwood Park is the place to be a firefly this year.

But our neighbor's yard is a close second.

I don't know if the Schwabs even realize their corner plot is an international airport for all things that fly and glow.  But I'm pretty sure they are curious as to why Mark and I keep standing on their sidewalk each evening, staring ga-ga eyed across their well-coifed lawn.   True, their lawn is impeccable.  But it's those fireflies that are calling us.

That beautiful photo above?  I took that last summer while attending a Firefly Count behind Sheridan Lutheran Church (A firefly event?  I'm guessing they're not Missouri Synod. . . ).  Before pretending we could count and identify the oodles of fireflies that live among the church's wetlands, we learned a bit about the insects.

Some intriguing facts:
•There are 2,000 species of fireflies, all of which are, in fact, beetles, not flies.
•The females usually watch the evening floor show from the ground, while the males of each species put on a light show specific to that species.
•One species, in the Great Smokies, is synchronous, meaning they pulse in unison, kind of like a when a household of women all have their. . . , oh, never mind.
Here's a video of them in action (the fireflies, that is): FIREFLIES IN THE SMOKIES
•Femme fatales from one species imitate the pulse of other species, luring in a hapless male from time to time in order to eat him.  Otherwise, scientists don't really know if adult fireflies eat much.
•Fireflies are bioluminescent from the egg on up.

Bottom line (because, when it comes to fireflies, it's always about the bottom)?  Fireflies make life better.  Way better, some days.  Don't believe me?  Look on Facebook during the evenings in early June.  People can't wait to share that they've seen the first firefly of the season.  Post something and you'll get a dozen happy responses. . . shared experiences, people longing to see one themselves, folks relishing this lovely symbol of summer.

Whatever our age, we all celebrate the arrival of these gentle companions that lope trustingly in the air, often resting on a fingertip along the way.  They are magical in the truest sense of the word--nudging the curious child from each of us, as we hold our collective breath and wait, transformed.

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.