Land, Holt!

Weird things occasionally come to mind when I’m on my morning walks.  Once, I imagined an animal family living in an unoccupied house on M Street, right down to an elderly squirrel reading the paper by lamp. Another time, I saw Christmas ornaments covering a bare tree.  And more than once, I’ve imagined the razor-thin outline of a new moon as God’s toenail clipping.  

Yeah, I know.

On a recent Sunday morning, under a noisy sky of freezing rain, I started to think of my body as a microhabitat and me as its land manager.  And it kind of made sense.

Think about it.  Our guts are home to trillions of microorganisms, harboring 500 species of flora, and that’s before I sit down with a skunky German beer.  While it’s not always fun living with all those microorganisms, it is thrilling to imagine the wild west atmosphere down there--tiny gunfights and feuds, sultry affairs and children born out of wedlock, and all of it happening just behind my belly button! 

This time of year, despite my better senses, I invariably ponder the need for a new sheriff in my town.  Someone who is more disciplined, a person less prone than me to sugar-coated cereals with plastic prizes crammed halfway down their cardboard maws. 

My land, after all, has expanded a bit, while my eyes aren’t as sharp as they once were.  And, despite notching 56 years on this earth, I don’t think I’ve become even slightly more discerning than I was when I was a 13-year-old kid obsessed with Space Food Sticks.

What do I do, then, with this land of mine?  Where do I put up fences to slow the erosive power of wayward winds?  How do I encourage the wetlands to take hold once again?  

As a land manager, I’m constantly pressured to find a balance between doctor-ordered pesticides and my more organic tracts, to say nothing of outside pressure to expand ecotourism opportunities.  I know, for instance, that I should clear the underbrush from my overgrown trails, but it’s so cold outside and I’m not good working hunched over for long periods of time.  Just typing this makes me verklempt. 

I’ve got all those microorganisms to consider, though.  They depend upon me to seek balance, to set aside and till in the proper proportions.  They need me to embrace diversity while keeping a wary eye on introduced species.

It is a massive job, managing one’s land.  And I’ll do it best only if I learn to love it completely--a hard task for a not-quite post-modern woman. 

So here’s to a new year of tending to me.  To embracing my biomes--from tundra to taiga, temperate forest to desert lands.  To loving my neighbors inside and outside my gut and learning, along the way, how to better tend to this greater world, as well.

I Never Imagined. . .

"I never imagined . . . . "

How many times this year have my sentences started with those three words?  Well, basically, every morning that I picked up the newspaper. 

Who could have imagined all these dunderheaded politicians, the endless parade of  piggish men, such evil and rampant greed?  Who could have imagined so much rain, such horrendous fires, so many idiots drawing imaginary lines in the sand, as though this beautiful, precious life were some kind of a spitting contest?

Honestly, who could've imagined this world right now--at once aflame and under water? 

And yet . . . . 

. . . who could have imagined 8 million people from 81 countries walking out of their homes on Jan. 21 to gather with strangers in protest?

. . . who could have imagined 13,000 women expressing an interest in running for office?

. . . who could've imagined six transgendered Americans winning political seats this November?

. . . . who could've imagined Alabama voters--many of them black--saying "enough" to white men behaving badly?

. . . And, while it required no imagination among women to explain the tidal wave of #metoo moments, who'd have imagined the swiftness with which that testosteroned tide has begun to turn?

In my own small life, who could have imagined I would march for women and immigrants and science and education and aquifers?  Who could have imagined I would call and write and email Congressmen?  Who could have imagined I would wait 8 hours to talk with the Education Committee about charter schools?

When my tired and beaten imagination began failing me this year, it was in facts and faces, courageous stories and stunning push backs that I found myself once again imagining something new.  Something better than this.

As for the future?  I imagine a long-overdue revolution, much of it led by women.

I imagine that won't sit well with some . . . .

Food For Thought

About a dozen years ago, Thanksgiving supplanted Fourth of July as my favorite holiday.  And that says a lot about the November event, considering I used to tap into the kids' college funds, come July 3rd.  

(Did you know that it's possible to flip a Burley filled with a young child, if you are riding your bike furiously enough towards the fireworks stand at Hinky Dinky?  I am not proud that I know this.)

Yeah, I needed a new favorite holiday, and, aside from Flag Day, I can't think of another that is more basic than Thanksgiving--cook, eat, nap, repeat.  Like shampooing, only more delicious.

Still, for about five minutes Monday, I cursed the holiday.  Four days and four iterations later,  I wasn't sure I could do the same bird, seventh verse, a little bit fatter, a little bit worse.  And yet, at lunch that day, I bemoaned the end of our beautiful brined bird, the last slivers of its savory breast tucked between two slices of bread, transfigured by a dollop of sriracha mayo.

Bird aside, though, what's best about Thanksgiving is eating with people I love.  And therein is the real lesson: if we are going to survive, we need to eat with people--at every moment possible.

If you have never worked in school, then you don't understand the importance of lunch in a work-free staff lounge.  It is a place to gather--gallows humor and silliness in hand--where our motley crew can take a breather, break some bread and say some stupid things, often without reference to the work day itself.

In that most magical space known as the East High lounge, I have peed myself--happily--because of something funny someone said.  There, during my 30-minute duty-free lunches, I have made prank phone calls, learned about fat quarters (look 'em up!), giggled at a corny pun and been moved by an original poem that my friend Linda wrote the weekend before.

Staff lounges and my dining room aren't the only spaces where we can be transformed, of course.

Just last night, in my neighbor Lisa's lovely home, several of us gathered to eat and drink and laugh and bemoan the things that break us.  We also celebrated the things that we have in common.  And all of it was framed with food.  . . . and maybe a little alcohol, if I'm honest.

Always, it seems, where food is present, there is laughter and love and coming together.  Maybe, then, the thing our country needs most right now is a plate of nachos and an open door, a place where we can gather and be glad for those who are in the room with us, framed in a glorious outline of dripping cheese and jalapenos. 

Friendly Fire

I have often wondered--often in a state of wonder, if I may reuse a few words in this sentence--how I've ended up with so many great folks in my life.  Take the folks in this photo, for example.  And Cathy, the one who took the photo.  This photo represents the beginning of a fine chapter for me. . . although, when I recall its origin, it's possible it also kind of sounds like a bar joke.

"So, three chaplains and a school librarian are sitting in a Prius. . . "  Definitely, a small, independent movie, at best!

Anyway, that really happened.  And, boy, am I glad that it did.

Because my pal Jeanne (left) offered to drive me to the First Plymouth Church Women's Retreat at Spring Creek Prairie that morning a handful years ago,  I got to meet Jen Davidson (east of me) and Cathy Regush (now way north but then, behind the camera) and learn about thin spaces, to boot.

That said, it was a bit intimidating to realize that I was the only person in the car who wasn't a chaplain.  Unless Charlie counts. . .

Who knows?  Maybe it was an intervention and I'm just now realizing it.

Flash forward to this afternoon, when I attended Jen's most awesome ordination into the United Church of Christ (Midwest chapter).  And then back up into yesterday, when I ate pho with recently retired minister and current friend Nancy Erickson.

Yeah, any way you look at it, I'm keeping some pretty great company these days.  And they are definitely earning their keep.

But these holy rollers are hardly the end of my fortunate story.  I am surrounded by terrific friends and family--religious and irreligious, warts and all--each of whom makes my life infinitely richer.  To a person, they are stunningly tolerant of my annoying habits.  In addition to overlooking my outfits, my hair, my ill-timed laughs, they are also funny and smart and patient in a way that Job could not even imagine.

In a time when scanning the headlines feels dangerous and disheartening, it's good to remind ourselves of the peeps we've gathered into our corners, those patient, good, brave folks who call us "family" or "friend" and keep showing up, despite everything.

They are, it turns out, our superpower.  As for me?  I am swimming in wonder, woman.

Ignoramus Rex

I'm not going to lie.

When I gave birth to Eric 25 years ago, I didn't know squat about how to be a parent.

The earliest example of my ignorance?  I had no idea that, if I chose cloth diapers, I should probably have a supply of plastic pants to back up that decision. 

After our second day home from the hospital (and the fourth load of laundry), our neighbors, the Buckners,  were kind enough to point out the obvious to us.

Their advice came straight from The Graduate:  

"One word:  Plastics!"

My God!  Their information was revelatory to our young family!  I should probably write them into our will. . . .

And that was just the first realization that I was ill-prepared for the job.

You know what, though?  Those dadgummed kids--Eric Carlson Holt and his punk sister, Allison Shepard Holt--thrived in spite of all our ignorance.  And that is something I find great comfort in.

For a thousand different reasons, it's good to remind myself that people are resilient, that good often bubbles up from bad, that people find a way to thrive, in spite of it all.

Certainly, my own lovely children are proof that we are not defined by our parents.  Or our leaders.

So, today, I focus on the loveliness that is Eric and Allison Holt .  I pinch myself as I consider those funny, steady, sparkly souls and the way that they hold so much hope for a good future, despite the sputtering, damp start that both faced so many years ago.

They are my finest homework, even if I kind of cheated to get the answers.

Making Strides

A few weeks ago after school, I got a bad case of the giggles.  And by "bad" I mean "really good," of course.  A small group of us was reviewing our dancer names, devised by taking our first pet's name and adding it to the first street we lived on.   Yeah, it wasn't exactly curriculum-driven, but good lord, they were funny.

And that's when old Ginger Sunrise lost her cool and let loose a mighty snort.   It's also when my friend Helen said something that stuck with me.

"You haven't laughed that hard in a long time."  And she was right.  I hadn't.

Man, it felt good.

And it also felt . . . transformative.  As though I'd started to slough the strange skin of the past two years, all those months of death and disease.

It's nothing new, the idea that we can't see the forest through the trees.  But when I finally got to pull back a bit and enjoy the long view?  It was something to realize just how much of my vision I'd lost in the short term.

Looking back over the past two+ years, I think I did what I needed to do at the time.  I put my head down and worked my way through it--through Mary Kay's death and Andrea's death and Dick's death and my cancer diagnosis and then--the strangest feather in my cap--my mom's death. 

But I gotta say that I really like looking up again. 

This morning, when Finn and I headed to Holmes Lake, I secretly hoped that the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer Walk wouldn't be underway when we got there.  For some reason, I didn't want to wear pink and walk with others, even if they'd gone on some version of this journey that I'm on.

I just wanted to be with my dog and enjoy the scenery.

I don't know if I've arrived at my post-cancer "every day is a gift" stage, but I do know that I'm laughing more and loving more and, sometimes, even roaring more, when the circumstances require it.

And I know that I'm lighter.  Happier.  More me than I've been in awhile.

Making Strides, you might say.

Going to Pot

I'm a pretty simple person.  That's not a confession or an admission.  It's just a fact.  That's why I don't like to be busy or weighed down with needless things, like mascara or purses or motion-activated security lights. 

I understand that the world cares not a whit about my inclinations.  That's why, back in the fall of 1999, when I was standing in the Anderson Ford parking lot, I grudgingly made my peace with the fact that my "new" car (an early 90s Nissan Sentra) would have electric windows.  

". . . because every car has 'em," the salesman claimed.

Yeah, right. 

Pffft.

So, what in the name of all that is good and holy was I thinking last week, when I went onto Amazon (now referred to as "Damnazon") and bought myself a newfangled, highly computerized kitchen implement that would make Ron Popiel choke on a beautiful julienne fry?! And how on earth could a six-quart container need so much packaging?  

When I saw the box, which took up most of our living room, I poured myself a stiff drink and mumbled an apology to Mark, who, I'm sure, was calculating just how many guilt-free Ebay purchases this abomination would allow him to make. 

I poured myself another drink before I had the nerve to open the box.  It was like one of those Russian nesting dolls--box tucked inside box tucked inside box. . . .  Finally, our kitchen floor covered in cardboard and plastic and styrofoam, there it stood, the Instant Pot, taller than Finn by a hand.  And shinier, too.

My first mistake (actually, my second, if you are counting what I did on Damnazon--and you should) was picking up the literature.  Pages two and three were devoted to warnings--19 in all!  

It's possible I'd have poured a third drink, but the 19th warning was explicit--Put Down the Gin!

Three days and two-hours-on-Pinterest-that-I'll-never-get-back later, there's a pork butt and some ribs sitting in the fridge.  I still haven't touched the Instant Pot since cramming it into our cupboard, but this is all about the baby steps, people.  Or, more accurately, baby-back steps.  

Don't worry.  I'm off the gin.  It's clear that this thing will require a sober mind and kung-fu focus.  

Maybe I should have kept those boxes . . . .