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The Lucky Ones

In ordinary life we hardly realize that we receive a great deal more than we give and it is only with gratitude that life becomes rich.  Dietrich Bonhoeffer

It is early morning in Idaho, not quite light out.  And there’s a fresh layer of snow on the ground after last evening’s squall.  It is unbelievable — having four little grandkids, all in one place.  It is high tide and low tide, with the joy of a full cove of ocean to swim in and a low tide beach to scrounge for treasure.  Helen Haskell Remien, e-mail written to friends in early March

As I sat on the bench, slipping my feet into my beloved ski boots, the door to the Forestville cross-country lodge flung open, and in popped a guy, flush-faced and smiling, an acquaintance I know from town and trail.  It was apparent that he was at the end of what I was about to begin, an afternoon adventure in late February, skate-skiing up and down and across the freshly-groomed and ridged miles and miles of tree-lined trails.  It was sunny, crisp and clear, and his words were crisp and clear and sunny as well.  “We are the lucky ones!” he cried out.  “We are the lucky ones!”  And as he sprawled on the floor, stretching his middle-aged body after his long ski, we chatted for a while, about the multitude of outdoor winter-play opportunities available for those who live in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and the beauty of this part of the world and this sunny day that we both were claiming as our own.  He finished the conversation as he had started. “We are the lucky ones!” he once again exclaimed.

His words were a song, flowed from his lips with a confidence, a joy, an appreciation that was palpable.  I couldn’t shake them off.  They stayed with me, clung to me as if with velcro as I thrust myself up that first grand hill.  We are the lucky ones.  We are the lucky ones.  My heart beat out the rhythm — lucky, lucky, lucky — as I pushed and I glided myself into the hardwood and hemlock and pine forest.  They settled deep inside as I skied my way through that sunny afternoon, these words which had been sung from the lips of a friend, words that seemed to fly in the face of a belief I hold dear, that it is not luck that brought me to this trail on this particular day; that it was an inner calling, a desire to breathe the wintery air and the unspeakable beauty of a forest still blanketed in snow.  It is a vibration we set forth that draws to us what we label as luck.  This is what I believe.  And yet, and yet, these words, we are the lucky ones, I am the lucky one, have sunk into my heart and have remained there, sweet and good and true.  They have been my companion, and I have said them often during these past few weeks as February has spilled into March.

Under my breath, with breath, I said them, these words, as I flew out west over the northern plains a few days after that sunny afternoon ski, as I looked down at the snow-capped Rockies in Montana, as I landed smoothly, safely, joyfully in the land of kids and grandkids.  I am the lucky one.  I am the lucky one.  What are the chances?!?  Two sons, two daughter-in-laws, four grandkids — a kindergartener, a toddler, two babies (two babies at once!) — all of them there in one sweet town in northern Idaho, a town of wide-open and rolling prairie on the edge of the ridges and foothill forests.  And for nine days, in early morning sunlight, I walked among the trees and on the winding country roads and I was the lucky one.  I pet horses on their noses and learned about horses, and, later in the day, played school with a toddler, a baby, a black cat, and a kindergartener who was our teacher and I learned about planets from a five-and-a-half-year old and asteroid belts and stars and my world was expanded and I said it, out loud and to myself, I am the lucky one.  I cuddled with grandkids and my skin sopped it in, the luck, the love, the immense pleasure of living a mindful in-the-moment existence here on earth with a whole universe of possibilities surrounding me and spread out like stars above me.

Can’t it be both?!?  Can’t my vibration hum at a joyous rocket-fueled speed?  Can’t it draw to me amazement and beauty and pleasure?  While at the same time, can’t I say it, that I appreciate it, that I am indeed lucky, that the luck can emerge from this inner humming as it mingles with the outer world?  Can’t it be so, that I appreciate all that I have and all that I am, that my luck does not diminish your luck, that we all can say it, whether the day is sunny and the trail ridge-groomed to perfection or whether a squall is blowing in, stirring up something new, something exciting, something expansive?  We are the lucky ones!!!  We are the lucky ones!!!





Noquemonon Cross-country Ski Trail: Forestville, Marquette, Michigan, February/March 2018



Early morning on Idler’s Rest: Moscow, Idaho: March 3, 2018


When you love what you have, you have everything you need.  Unknown

Love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain it.  Rabindranath Tagore

What you are seeking is seeking you.  Rumi

It began with a flock of pine grosbeaks in the bitter cold days of late December, this love story that I’m about to share with you.  As the arctic air blasted its way into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, our backyard became a haven for three bunnies, a vole, a doe and her teenage fawns, a family of fat gray squirrels, the chittery-chattery red squirrel cousins, and our winged friends, the woodpeckers, chickadees and nuthatches, along with the passer-throughs, like the grosbeaks.  It was my five-and-a-half year old grandson, Viren and I who first noticed her, a female grosbeak, perched there in the snow beside the feeder, all puffed up and still, on a gray blustery below-zero morning.  “I think she might be hurt,” I said to Viren, who was visiting over the holidays from Idaho.  “Let’s go see what we can do!”  So, Viren and I bundled up and trudged through the snow to the feeder where our grosbeak was still crouched, quivering a bit, perhaps from fear, perhaps from the cold.  “I’ll go get some sunflowers seeds and scatter them for her,” I said and made my way back to the garage.  And before I, with my container of seeds, had even rounded the corner to the backyard, Viren cried out, “Grandma, she’s flown away, up to the tree by the deck!”  We scattered the feed and returned to the warmth of home and hearth, relieved that our grosbeak could fly, assuming she had just been stunned by the cold.   And our thoughts turned elsewhere, as we made our own flight, Grandpa and I, and Viren, along with his baby sister and parents, out to the mountains of Idaho to join Viren’s cousins over the weekend before the new year.

It was a note that called us back to the grosbeak in early January when Grandpa and I returned to our home in Upper Michigan.  Our friends, Amber and Raja, who had been housesitting, left it on the table: “I think you have an injured bird,” the note said.  “She’s living under the deck with the bunnies.”  Oh my, they were right,  We watched her over the next few days as she made her way from her new home with the bunnies under the deck to the feeder by the pine.  With right wing held stiff, she hop-flew-hopped through the snow, leaving her unique-patternered prints, always somehow managing to take flight to the feeder.  And, as time passed, she began to fly farther, to the birch, and the maple, and then back again to eat and finally to her under-the-deck home.

Grandpa Cam and I became more vigilant during the frigid days of January, making sure the feeder was stuffed full each morning, with extra seeds scattered underneath for good measure.  And Grandpa gave our backyard grosbeak a name, Stiffwing.  We talked about her to each other in notes left on the table and in phone calls and face to face each evening: “Did you see Stiffwing at the feeder this morning?” “I think she’s pulling her wing a little closer to her body as she eats!”   “She flew so far I didn’t see where she landed!”  She became a favorite topic of conversation for the two of us.  And we began to notice other things as well.   The little black vole seemed to be first at the feeder at dawn each morning, the bunnies usually fed one at a time while the fat gray squirrels with the white-tipped ears pushed everyone else away and gorged as a family, and the chickadees always seemed patient, perching on the deck’s cedar poles, waiting their turn.  One gray day, a red squirrel and a bunny faced each other in a colorful under-the-feeder stand-off, the red squirrel chitter-chattering wildly and the bunny backing up a bit and hopping high into the air.  Because of our concern for a stiff-winged grosbeak, Grandpa Cam and I had slowed down enough to notice and appreciate our backyard menagerie.  And we thank Stiffwing for this.

And we thank Stiffwing for other things too.  From the get-go, she has been our wintertime warrior, her resilience astounding us, how she knew the under-deck-home would be a place of safety to recuperate, how she also knew she had to eat voraciously, several times a day, in order to heal, and how she patiently allowed this healing to take place.  We felt honored to witness this process, honored that it was our backyard that she had chosen.  By the end of the month, our grosbeak friend was pulling her wing tighter  to her body as she fed.  Although still a bit askew, the wing seemed to serve her well, as her flights took her farther away, perhaps to other feeders in the neighborhood or to the marsh behind the house.  And, on that last day of January, our flight took us farther away as well, Grandpa Cam and I, as we once again said good-bye to our backyard menagerie, along with our house and cat and two businesses, leaving it all in the tender and loving hands of our friends Amber and Raja.  During the wee hours of a super moon morning, we let the wings of a Delta airplane carry us southwest for a five-day hiking trip to Sedona, Arizona — and it is easy on such an adventure to let go of the cold and the snow and the ordinary everyday comings and goings of a life in the north woods, easy to become intoxicated with the new, with the red rock mountains and the clear blue sky, to become sun-smitten and loopy and head-over-heels in love with this southwestern place of high vibration vortexes.  And so we surrendered to this beauty and immersed ourselves in the experience, hiking from morning until sundown on trail after trail after trail.

And it was on one of these trails, on a day when the air was as clear as clear could be and the landscape was crisp and vivid and Grandpa Cam and I were trekking the circumference of a mesa, that we spied the caves in the red rock and imagined the people who once had lived in such dwellings and wondered what it would be like to be so in sync with nature.  We breathed in deeply, the smell of juniper and cedar and sunlight, and we felt a happiness in our own bodies’ bones.  And I reached for my modern-day phone, to capture the moment in a photo, to remember it always, when I noticed the text message.  It was from Amber and Raja: “It is sunny today, and Stiffwing is sitting on the balsam in the light, and she is singing.”  Stiffwing was singing!  I felt it in that moment, how it is possible to be in two places at once, or maybe in all places, basking in the red rock glory of Sedona and back in Upper Michigan too where the morning light of winter was shining on a tiny balsam and a bird with a stiff wing, a bird who was singing her heart out, who was reminding us all that it is possible to open our hearts to the wild, to be in sync with nature, to feel the wonder of it all — in the every day comings and goings of our very own back yards.


Stiffwing: photo by Raja Howe, Winter 2018

Wisdom has no beginning nor no end.  Wisdom is a circle that encompasses all that is, all that was, all that is to come. (Words on a poster.)

The circle has healing power.  In the circle, we are all equal.  That Sacred Circle is designed to create unity.  Dave Chief, Oglala Lakota

World forces always act in a circle.  The sky is round and I have heard that the earth is round like a ball, and stars as the wind when it blows forcefully swirls . . . Black Elk

It is to the center of the candlelit circle that we speak, one at a time, the seven of us who gather on Fridays.  We voice our truths of the moment, and we listen to each other, setting aside judgement and defensiveness, as these gems of insight and story, sometimes personal, sometimes theoretical, are hung on a metaphoric clothesline draped in the bowl of the circle for all to examine.  And, as we blow out the candle at hour’s end, I always am left feeling more expansive in my thinking and in my being than I felt before we began.  And when I say “always”, I mean it.  That’s why I remain committed to the process — it always works.  These wisdom circles are a deep breath in my week, a time to explore perspectives different than my own, a time to allow something new to arise within me.  And it’s not because we are exceptional listeners or problem-solvers, though, during the more than two decades that we have been meeting like this, we have honed our skills.  We are friends who also gather socially, who can be boisterous, and chatty, and can blurt while another is speaking.  But, on Fridays, during our Wisdom Circle, we are present in a deeper way, for each other and for ourselves.  We put aside the chatting and we speak, not to each other, but to the circle itself.  And it is the talking stick that keeps us focused, sometimes an actual stick, sometimes a stone or a shell or a feather or another convenient object.  It doesn’t matter.  What matters is that the person holding the object is the only one who is speaking.  It is her turn.

This isn’t the only group in which I’ve felt the power of the circle and the talking stick and the speaking of one person at a time.  Over thirty years ago, I read Natalie Goldberg’s groundbreaking bestseller, Writing Down the Bones, in which she describes a process of writing fast, without crossing out, allowing the mind its say, and then proceeds to describe to the reader that the sharing of this writing is as crucial as the writing itself, again speaking into the circle, with fellow writers simply listening without judgement, no cross-talk, no critique.  I have facilitated and written in groups using this technique ever since, again feeling the power of simply allowing us all our words, our stories, our perspectives, our unbridled minds.  I have participated in workshops, talking circles, and, for nearly ten years, have set up a monthly open mic night called Out Loud at Joy Center, an open mic night where all perspectives are welcome and one person at a time shares.  In all these forms, this is a powerful empowering process, this deep sharing and deep listening, a process dear to my heart.

So, it caught my attention when I read the headline on my phone a month ago  It almost didn’t seem like it could be possible, not in our country, not now, not in politics where people seem to be more polarized, more tightly bound in the little box of their “right” and another’s “wrong”, where no one seems to be listening to one another.  But there it was, in article after article after article.  They used a talking stick — during the weekend of the first government shut-down.  It was Senator Susan Collins of Maine’s idea, using the talking stick that had reportedly been a gift of Senator Heidi Heitkamp of North Dakota.  Collins invited her fellow senators, the twenty-five Democrat and Republican members of the Common Sense Coalition to her office for a weekend of bipartisan meetings in hopes of reaching a compromise that would break the stalemate and open the government.  And her rule was that one member at a time would speak, the person with the stick.  Albeit, sometime during the heated sharing, someone threw the stick across the room when a fellow senator interrupted, but laughter erupted — and how often does laughter erupt at such a government meeting?!?   And it worked, the group switched to a softer rubber ball “talking stick” and they proceeded with their sharing and the government did open — and, maybe most importantly, the senators on either side of the aisle listened to one another and something new emerged from the process.  One GOP lawmaker told CNN that it was the most entertaining sessions he had ever attended.

I don’t know what it is like to participate in such a weekend of meetings, government meetings where the stakes are high and the topics polarizing and the participants holding beliefs on opposite ends of the talking stick.  But, I do know what it is like to be married for over forty years.  Fortunately, Cam and I are not usually on opposites ends of the stick when it comes to our beliefs and our perspectives, but their have been times when we have felt as polarized as the Democrats and the Republicans.  And like Susan Collins, we have a process that works.  Usually our talking stick is metaphoric.  We speak, one at a time, while the other simply listens, passing our invisible stick back and forth.  We do this most Friday evenings, often as we walk on the bike path by Lake Superior, and generally it is simply a catch-up, a way to connect.  But sometimes the topic is heated, and I admit, it can be harder to keep my mouth shut when I’m taking it personally.  But that’s the miracle.  We do keep our mouths shut.  We do listen.  And like the members of the Common Sense Coalition, we break the stalemate and arrive in a new more expansive place.

Isn’t that what we really want, to speak our truth, and to be listened to, and also to listen deeply to another’s, to feel it inside, the heart connection, the common humanity, that another’s story and perspective also matters, that when we hang it all in the middle of the circle on that metaphoric clothesline something new, something expansive, something we hadn’t considered before has room to grow and to rise up and to take root into our consciousness?!?  Isn’t that what we are hungry for underneath it all?



Women’s March, Washington DC:  January 21, 2017


Women’s March, Marquette, Michigan: January 21, 2018


You were born with wings.  You are not meant for crawling, so don’t.  You have wings.  Learn to use them and fly.  Rumi

Aging is not lost youth, but a new stage of opportunity and strength.  Betty Frieden

Open windows in your consciousness.

The red rock sings in Sedona, an ancient flute-filled song of invitation.  At dawn, the sun casts shadows against its pillars and cliffs and dome-like faces, and, at dusk, the rock is ablaze with color.  And the air is pure and clear and the sky seems to go on forever and ever.  It is easy to get pulled in, to follow this song deeper and deeper into the wilds, onto canyon trails lined with juniper and cedar and prickly pear, up red rock paths to mesas and mountain tops, over the next ridge to another vista and another, to get pulled in to a rhythm that is both as old as the rock itself and as fresh and new as this teeming-with-expansive-possibility present moment.  It is said that Sedona sits on land alive with high vibration vortexes of energy.  It is said that Sedona is a place where it is easy for a person to soak in this energy, easy to find alignment not only with the land and the sky and the hawk flying high, but also to find a high-flying inner alignment, a connection with the whirling swirling energy available to us all.

And even in Sedona, surrounded by all this red rock magic, that is the challenge, to not get swept away by this intoxicating high vibration smorgasbord of possibility — because the possibilities are endless and they are enticing and the golden retriever in you might be tempted to flit from thing to thing while losing a sense of what really feels good on the inside.  That was the lesson for me.  Sometimes it is easy to check in, to know that one choice feels better than another, that one carries a higher vibration.  But what about a place filled with choices that all seem exciting and alive to you, that all seem to match the energy of your own inner whirling swirling vortex ?  It was like that from the beginning of our five-day stay at Sedona last week; I could feel the metaphoric golden retriever inside me going wild.  She wanted to do it all, to sniff out every corner boutique and gallery filled with southwestern art, to bound along every single one of the more than one hundred trail options within a short drive, to race along side the runners at the Sedona 5k/marathon that just happened to be held during that same weekend, to leap into the rental car and drive the mere two-and-a-half hours to the Grand Canyon because everyone should see the Grand Canyon at least once in their life.  My metaphoric golden retriever’s tail already was thrashing about when she learned that Carolyn Myss, medical intuitive, author and world-renowned teacher was holding a workshop at the resort sitting just below a favorite canyon hiking trail.  What does a gal do when she’s on vacation with her husband and the choices are boundless and her metaphoric golden retriever has given up on any semblance of control?!?

She sits still, that’s what she does.  That’s what I did.  I sat still and I listened, just for a little while, a minute or two; that’s all that it took to settle down into a place deeper than the inner juniper bushes where my golden retriever was sniffing, to a place of clarity and knowing.  Never mind the Grand Canyon and the running race and the boutiques and the workshop — all good choices, for sure, but what I  really wanted to do was hike, to hike my heart out, to soak in the sun and the warmth and the beauty of rock formations dancing with color.  After two months of bitter cold in the snowy north of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, I wanted to move my body freely with no fear of slipping on ice, to breathe in deeply the scent of juniper and cedar, to hear the sound of my own heart beating, to sweat and pant and explore as many trails as possible on our five-day adventure.  I wanted to feel the energy firsthand as my guy and I walked across the red rocks together.  So, we hiked, on canyon trails, up mountain paths, around the rims of mesas.  From morning until sundown, just stopping briefly for lunch and snack breaks, we explored this magical landscape on our own two feet with our eyes wide open.

And, as we hiked, with feet firmly grounded on that red rock base and eyes open to the world around us, the gifts were many.  There was the hummingbird flitting among the bushes that lined the canyon trail and the hawk flying high above as we climbed to a mesa.  There were the javelina pig-like creatures, a whole clan of them, that crossed the trail so close to us and took off into the thicket.  There were the ancient cliff dwellings that once housed a people who lived among these mountains and canyons, and then  there were the people alive now, the ones we met along the trails — the middle-aged man perched like a god atop a red rock pillar with flute to his lips, playing a song for the sky and the wind and the rock and for each of us, too, and the couple in their thirties, parents of four, collecting heart-shaped stones and replenishing their relationship and creating you-tube videos that delight us all, and there was Michael, a guy our age, in his early sixties, who lived a motorhome existence and had a peace about him that was palpable and contagious.  And almost everyone we met wanted to bottle it up and carry it home with them, what Michael had found in his simple yet abundant life, the feeling of expansiveness, of freedom and happiness that danced among us on those trails.  And this is what I want to tell you, that I sense that it is ours for the taking, that we don’t need to scoop it into a jar and close the lid tightly for fear of losing our meager take-home portion of this Sedona expansiveness, that it is not Sedona’s alone, that it can be found anywhere, this feeling of freedom and happiness, that it is an inside job, and starts with our breath and our own heartbeat and the recognition that we are a landscape as magnificent as any we find on a five-day adventure.

Although I didn’t make it to the Grand Canyon on this particular trip, we hiked in canyons that made my heart sing.  And on a car ride to one of those canyons, we rolled down the windows and shouted our cheers to the marathon runners, and we became a part of their race after all.  And in the canyon, the one above the resort where Carolyn Myss facilitated the workshop, we met attendees, blissed-out and beaming after their afternoon sessions and we beamed along with them.  When we go inward and listen to what is calling us, we are led into the vortex of abundance where all is possible.










Cam and Helen in Sedona, Arizona: February 2018


As Above, So Below

The veil between us and the Divine is more permeable than we imagine.  Sue Thoele

A child sees everything, looks straight at it, examines it, without any preconceived idea; most people, after they are about eleven or twelve, quite lose this power, they see everything through a few preconceived ideas which hang like a veil between them and the outer world.  Olive Schreiner

“I chat with you, Grandma!”  And, indeed, she does.  And that’s what we were doing a few days before the new year, my toddler granddaughter, Addie, and I, chatting as Grandpa Cam drove the rental car on the long stretch north to Sandpoint, Idaho where we’d meet her parents and baby brother for a weekend ski adventure.  And, in this moment, it was photos on my phone that captivated her attention: “I want to see cousin Viren,” she said.  “I want to see Mommy,” she added.  And on and on, she made her requests, down a long list of relatives and friends, satisfied as I reached behind me, time and again, holding my phone up for her to peek at their faces.  And then she said it.  “I want to see Dead Grandpa!”  What?  Dead Grandpa?  I thought I had heard her wrong.  But then she repeated it, in a matter-of-fact everyday toddler voice: “I want to see Dead Grandpa!”  “Do you mean Grandpa Ernie?” I was stammering as I asked.  And her reply was an enthusiastic “Yah!”  Honestly, I don’t remember ever showing her a photo of my father, her great grandfather, and I certainly don’t remember calling my dad “Dead Grandpa.”  But there it was, the request, and I complied.

I had recently taken a photo of a photo with my phone of my dad leaning against a car on the family property in Maine, wearing a white tee and khakis and what look like fashionable boots, camera case slung over his shoulder, the year, 1952.  And this is the photo that I pulled up for Addie, held to her face for examination.  She was quiet for a moment, and then she responded.  “He’s cute!”  Present tense, she said it, “He’s cute!” as though he was accompanying us on this car ride north.  And all weekend long, she mentioned him, mingled the Dead Grandpa talk with ski hill chatter.  It was ordinary for her and extraordinary for me.  And this isn’t the first time I’ve felt it, this extraordinary/ordinary way of encountering my father.

Three years ago, when her cousin Viren, was almost exactly Addie’s age, he and I were looking out the window of his Idaho home, playing a game of “I see.”  “I see a tree covered with snow,” I would say.  “I see a toy truck,” he would counter.  Back and forth, we named the material objects that were illuminated by the sun shining down into his snow-covered yard.  And then he squinted, stuttered a bit, the way Addie does now when she is grasping for words and doesn’t want to lose her turn.  “I see an angel,” he said.  “An angel?” I asked, wondering whether he was going to describe the small stone statue with its wings sprouting from the back of its long angel-like robe that he had admired the summer before during a visit to our Michigan home.  But that’s not what happened.  There were no wings, no long white robe in Viren’s account.  “He has dark curly hair and glasses,” he said, continuing to squint, “and he looks a lot like Daddy.”  He then proceeded to describe the plaid shirt and brown pants that this angel was wearing.  I tried to sound as casual as he was sounding as I replied, “I think it’s your Great Grandpa Ernie, Viren.”  And then the game continued.  “I see a pine cone in the snow.”  “I see a black bird flying.” Grandpa Ernie, it seems, had been as clear to Viren as the hedge that lined the back of his yard.

I am thinking about the veil between the worlds, wondering what would happen if we opened our eyes, not only to nature, to the rainbow specks of snow flickering through the sunshine air at the Idaho ski hill as Grandpa Cam and I played with Addie two weeks ago, but also to the angels.  In the wee hours of this past winter solstice, my friend Mike made his transition.  I woke up that solstice morning at one-forty and texted his wife, my soul-sister Mary, who I knew was at his bedside in the hospital.  “I’m sending love,” I said.  She immediately replied that Mike was peaceful and she sounded peaceful as well.  A few minutes later, he did it; he died.  Did an angel nudge me awake?  Did I sense Mike’s spirit in those moments?   I told Viren, who was visiting over the holidays, about Mike’s passing and we lit a solstice candle for him, and found a heart-shaped rock to give to Mary.  Viren tucked the rock down his shirt, placing it close to his heart before handing it back to me.  I don’t know whether he sees angels anymore, but I do know that Viren knew exactly what that rock needed in order to be a perfect gift for my friend.

The last time I saw Mike was in late September on a gloriously warm evening at one of my favorite restaurants in coastal Maine.  Mary and Mike had spent the previous week in my birth town of Bath, staying with our friend Muriel, who Mary had met years earlier when she traveled east for my mother’s memorial service.  She had wanted to share with Mike the rugged beauty of the coast and its people, and Mike was smitten, and found Muriel to be a kindred spirit as they both reflected on life stories.  And, on the last day of their vacation, I just happened to be arriving in Maine for my September stay.  And so there we were, Mary and Mike, my cousin, and Muriel, sitting around a table, sea-soaked and happy, celebrating beginnings of trips and endings, and very present in the moment.  In the midst of buoyant conversation and delicious food, Mike, who was sitting next to me, took off a pendant he had been wearing and held it up for me to see.  It was an agate, shaped and smoothed and naturally etched by the elements, with what looked like a beak of a hawk on one side and the tail of a fish on the other.  As above, so below; that’s what struck Mike.  He said those words, encouraged me to research it, this mantra that is a part of so many cultures.  As above, so below.

Cousins Addie and Viren are settled now into January routines in their home town of Moscow, Idaho, and I am back in the Upper Peninsula again settled into my own.  And I thought about Mike the other day as I skate-skied on one of my favorite trails, how he loved the woods and the snow and his own style of skiing.  And a few minutes later, I looked up, and, there it was, an eagle circling above the trees.  As above, so below.  Can it be as matter-of-fact to us as it is to the little ones?  My father has a new name.  Dead Grandpa.  I’m sure he’s taking it on with the same good-natured humor that he embodied when he whistle-walked upon the earth when I was a little girl.  And Mike, I have no doubt is present too, that indeed there is no veil between the worlds when we have the eyes to see.




Addie at the ski hill: Schweitzer, Idaho, December 2017; Viren at Grandpa and Grandma’s home in Michigan: Christmas Day, 2017; Grandpa Ernie on family property: Phippsburg, Maine, 1952; Mike Davis with his big catch on Huron River: Spring, 2017

Making the Old New Again

Here’s to the bright New Year, and a fond farewell to the old; here’s to the things that are yet to come, and to the memories that we hold.  Unknown

I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends; the old and the new.  Ralph Waldo Emerson

It was in the early nineties on trips east to visit my mother in Maine, while driving through the long stretches of rural Canada from Sault Ste Marie to Ottawa, that I would listen to cassette recordings of master storyteller and Jungian psychologist Clarissa Pinkola Estes as she shared excerpts and additional information from her best-selling book of myths and fairytales, Women Who Run With the Wolves.  I was mesmerized by these stories, drawn into them by Estes’ liltingly confident voice, empowered by her  feminist interpretations.  There are many stories and archetypes that have stayed with me: the girl with the red shoes and the sanity of a handcrafted life, the little match girl and the importance of taking care of the inner flame, the sealskin woman and the need for solitude, the dangers of Bluebeard energy and the urgency to pay attention.

But it wasn’t these stories, the ones that have been a guiding force for me over the years, that I woke up thinking about this morning.  Instead, it was a little snippet of a tale about Father Time and the New Born that popped into my mind.  Perhaps, it is the presence of young grandkids in my life this holiday season, or the knowing that a new year is upon us that brought me this gift of a story as dawn was breaking over the hills behind our kids’ home in Idaho.  It doesn’t matter the reason because here it is ready to offer me its wisdom.  I don’t remember all the details, am thinking that Father Time was very very old, and actually could have been a woman in Estes’ version.  And I’m envisioning now that he or she, this very very old being, was rocking and rocking and rocking in a creaky old chair on a porch, patiently rocking him or herself young again, until, finally, it was a newborn in that chair, ready to start anew.  And there was importance in the patient rocking motion — I do remember that — the not rushing, not hastily throwing out what is old, but, instead, allowing it to transform itself into something gloriously fresh and new.

My siblings and I are experiencing the power of this tale now as we find ourselves metaphorically rocking with the old, with the dusty and the faded and the forgotten.  In mid-December, in the midst of the holiday bustle, we claimed a weekend to unleash a motherlode of family history from taped-up boxes, boxes newly discovered after decades of being stuffed in an attic.  For hours, we huddled around my brother’s workshop table in coastal Maine with remnants of our mother’s family history spread out before us.  The treasures were many — photographs and newspaper clippings, journals and letters, many dating back to the late 1800’s.  There were record albums and watercolor paintings and first edition books.  Some things were discarded, thrown into the waste basket at the end of the workshop table or placed into the recycle bin to go to the transfer station, but many more ended up in piles in front of each of us.  My two older siblings now have a multitude of photographs of their birth father, our mother’s first husband who died of a heart attack when he was in his early thirties, when they were almost too young to remember him, photographs that none of us had seen before.  We all have photographs of our mother as baby, as young girl, as long-legged teenager and young woman, and photographs of her parents, their siblings, of ancestors in formal wear and photographs of them sprawled out at the seaside.  We each have letters and journals and newspaper clippings to sift through, to patiently rock into something relevant to us today, and we have paintings to bring from the dark of an attic into the light of our living room walls.

Unleashing the relevance, the fresh “newborn” in some of these treasures will take time, much patient rocking and reading, but, for others, the energy felt fresh and light immediately.  My sister and I found a booklet of photographs from a Christmas that we never knew had been recorded in this way.  I was three and she was eight, and in one photograph, we sit on the edge of a bed in our floral bathrobes, me clutching a toy baby carriage and she holding an open umbrella.  We are darling, and it was a darling moment for us to discover this booklet of photos almost sixty years later.  The sibling time together was filled with such moments, the excitement of a fresh discovery, the laughter of a family remembering.  I’m sure the ancestors were with us during this unleashing, delighted in our camaraderie.  And they were definitely with me when I took it upon myself to leave the workshop and perform a ritual in the coastal forest surrounding my brother’s home.  It happened many times during our unpacking of the boxes, the discovery of sweet handmade envelopes holding sprigs of baby fine hair, some bound neatly with tiny blue satin ribbon, envelopes labeled with the names of grandparents and great aunts and uncles and great grandparents, too.  These were lovingly preserved, and I couldn’t just throw them away, so I set them free.  Each time an envelope of hair was unpacked, I scampered through the snowy woods, scattering loose hair among the balsams, placing bound bundles atop the fairy moss and among the branches of the scraggly spruce trees.  The air felt moist and fresh and alive and I did too as I performed this ritual.

When the sifting and sorting and gathering into piles was over, I immediately drove to the “We Pack It For You” store and sent my stash of treasures home to Michigan.  And a day later, I too, flew back to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and dove full force into the bustle of the holidays, first, with one son, daughter-in-law and kids visiting us, and, now, in Idaho, at a ski resort with the other family.  It is the present, the here and now, that has captured my attention — sketching out characters from “Lord of the Rings” with our eldest grandson, running beside his toddler cousin as she skis down a bunny slope, propping the six month old on a hip, cradling her two month old cousin against my shoulder.  I’ve been present with grandkids and also have grieved the passing of a dear old friend.  I’ve welcomed the energy of youth, even as the year swells with all that has been.  And now as it tumbles forward into January, I plan to remain present, to experience the crisp freshness of new possibilities in the wintery air.  And my stash of treasures — I plan to sip a cup of hot tea as I rock it forward too, as I make what was once old and dusty and forgotten fresh and new and relevant again.





Present with the four grandkids over the holidays: December 2017

The Child Within

The child is in me still and sometimes not so still.  Fred Rogers

After a while the middle-aged person who lives in her head begins to talk to her soul, her kid.  Anne LaMott

“The gifts of the past make their way into the present.”  I have said these words many times in yoga sessions, as we stand, legs apart, arms stretched-out straight at shoulder height, front foot swiveling to the side, front knee bending over foot, as we look over our forward-facing fingertips, and align ourselves into the full expression of Virabhadrasana, the Warrior Pose.  “No need to look back,” I have added.  “The treasures will find you in the here and now.”

I’m contemplating this yoga wisdom as I prepare to fly east tomorrow, to the land of my beginnings, to the land of my ancestral beginnings as well.  This trip to Maine is not only a way to connect with family and friends during the holiday season; it also is a three-day adventure with a mission.  First, it was the wedding dresses, my mother’s dresses, from her first marriage as a young woman in her twenties and from her second when she was widowed more than a decade later, that re-appeared after being tucked away in storage for decades.  And then her mother’s dress, a Downton Abbey-era sheath was uncovered, and her mother’s mother’s dress, and a dress we think belonged to her mother’s mother’s mother from the mid-1800’s.  And lace veils and shawls and collars delicately crocheted.  That seemed like treasure enough to me, a reason to go east and be in the presence of something so intimately a part of the women whose shoulders I stand upon.  But then, more of the past made its way into the present, unopened boxes — forty of them are now stacked in my brother’s workshop at Fish House Cove where we, the four siblings, on Friday, will peruse their contents.

In the meantime, I have been de-cluttering, clearing out boxes of my own, sifting through the four woven sea-grass containers in my Creativity Room closet, the ones that I have filled for years, with images and photos and rough drafts of projects.  Most of these projects have come to fruition and it is time to create a new space, for new projects, projects that will perhaps evolve out of the treasures that are unearthed during this trip to Maine.  And lo and behold, in the midst of the de-cluttering, there it is, the past brimming up in the sweetest of ways.  I have found gifts galore: photos of our two sons at various stages of childhood, the precious chosen ones that made their way to bulletin boards over the years, and the duds that never found themselves in photo albums; other photos, too, that will be given new homes with the family members whose faces light them up; and a lovely block-print Christmas card from the 1960’s my mother created of the cove, a card I have now made new again for this holiday season.   Among the piles and piles of papers and old journals that I have tossed into garbage bags and the re-cycling bin, are these treasures that seem to pulsate with life as I hold them.  The content in one particular envelope stands out with such delight that I can’t stop smiling.

It is a holiday present from my younger — my very much younger self — that tickles my fancy.  The envelope contains two drawings dated with my father’s hand just a month after my birthday the year I turned six.  It was February, and that is perhaps why I drew this scene of a skier under a wintery sky, a skier that I am presuming is me.  But the funny thing is — I had never been on skis and I don’t think I had ever seen anyone ski.  Perhaps I had already watched the Wide World of Sports and the Winter Olympics on television, or perhaps I was captivated by the stories of my Perry boy cousins who traveled with their parents to New Hampshire from Massachusetts on weekends to fly down the snowy slopes in the White Mountains.  Or, perhaps it also was something else, something innate, in my Capricorn northern girl essence, a knowing that I loved to ski, that I would be drawn someday to a place where the snow piles high and the cross country ski trails are some of the wildest and best-groomed in the country, that I would skate-ski with a passion that sets my limbs on wintery fire.  Perhaps I knew this at six, that the heart-beating whoop of the wild would find its way off the page and into the snowy woods.  And then, there is the other drawing.  Out of all the possibilities that could have taken center stage in my mind, it was church that lit me up.  And I know it is true; I remember it is so, that I loved church.  I was raised Swedenborgian, in a mystical tradition where angels surrounded us and the Bible contained layer upon layer upon layer of meaning, and the old ladies and men of the church loved us children, and the congregation was intimate and small, and it was fun, dressing up on Sunday mornings and making our way to the Greek-revival-style church with its big black welcoming door.

I’m thinking of the yoga wisdom again — that there is no need to look back; the gifts of the past will make their way into the present.  I don’t know what gifts will feel alive to me as my siblings and I sort through the contents of the boxes on Friday morning in Maine.  I don’t know how I will feel as I touch the fabric of a wedding dress worn by my mother, by my grandmother, by my great grandmother and my great great grandmother.  I do know, however, how I feel as I look at these pictures drawn with my own six-year-old hand.  I am welled up with an appreciation and love for this child who sketched out these scenes, who knew then what felt important in her heart, and for the reminder she brings me now of what I have always known, that here is reverence in the whoop of the wild, in a snowy day, and an out-of-the-lines skate-ski.  And there is reverence, too, in community and intentional worship, in churches and synagogues and Hindu temples and mosques and in yoga classes and open mic poetry readings and in creative afternoons spent at the computer or with a pencil and piece of paper and the desire to draw.  And there is reverence in irreverent laughter that sometimes bubbles up on the snowy slopes or in the pew at church or in the sacred circle.  I thank my inner child for her reminder, and I carry her with me into this holiday season.


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