Into the West

2011-07-01T00:01:00.000-06:00

I've shifted my blogging activities once again back to the WordPress version of Into the West ~ you'll be able to keep up with my thoughts and activities there. WordPress allows me more flexibility for my future writing ~ I'm really looking forward to returning to more frequent and indepth writing.

I will keep a link on the WordPress site to this blog ~ there's some writing here that I still enjoy reading ~ maybe you do to?!

Between the sea foam and the sea sand

2011-03-15T16:14:00.001-06:00

Of all the 'things' that I left behind in Massachusetts (this does not include people!) I miss nothing except my books. All 30 boxes of them. While there is a distinct pleasure in being able to go to the Google homepage and type in 'feral' and find out all sorts of interesting things, it is nothing like the pleasure of following a wave of synchronicity.

I had bookcases in every room of my home in Sheffield except the two bathrooms. I had a series of semi-circles scattered over the floors of living and bedroom that would begin, innocently enough, with one book that reminded me of something in another book which reminded me of something in another book and suddenly there were many many books scattered about as I dove in and out of them as a dolphin leaping from wave to wave.

I've tried to put that particular loss out of my mind - I don't know when/if I'll be able to return to the green hills of the Berkshires to load up a truck and bring them 'home'. I don't yet know where home lies for me. But recently I've been re-minded of the experience. I sit now with piles and half-circles of books and journal articles behind my chair. I turn my head to the right and I see actor network theory and nature writers and writer's manuals ... I turn my head to the left and I see wolves and myths, semiotics and research design, and book after book on the philosophy of nature. As if. As if we really need a philosophy of nature. As we needed more than to walk with respect and attention through this world. But, we funny little sapiens ... we think and ponder and wonder and we become lost in the maze of our thoughts rather than found on the paths of woodland or desert or prairie.

The past few days I've been caught up in a wave of synchronicity. It began with the earthquake and tsunami that hit Japan like Thor's hammer. The images of the waters moving so powerfully over the land, like a giant, still asleep, shrugging and shifting in a dream. No clear intention but oh, so indomitable. And we, frightened little sapiens rushing around with a sudden knowledge and cold fear of our complete inability to control ... anything.

The drowned number in the thousands ... too many for us to truly comprehend, and too many for us to want to. The drowned trouble my sleep. Not the thousands of anonymous that were swept away last Friday, but the two who I knew.

One, a stranger ... a young girl who was walking home in a snowstorm with her brother. We chatted a moment and then they went off to play along the banks of the sleepy Housatonic River. The boy was dragged into the water, the younger sister pulled him back to shore and then was lost herself. They found her days later, downriver. I think of her from time to time, and the brother as well. Both lost in different ways.

One, my husband. Diving with friends in Gloucester Harbor. They disobeyed the cardinal rule of diving: never lose sight of your partner. But when you're too stoned to think clearly all kinds of accidents can occur that would be entirely avoidable otherwise. I never told his parents that it was easy to explain the 'unexplainable' accident. They were more comfortable blaming a mysterious god who had his reasons than they would have been blaming the victim of his own, regrettable foolhardiness. He and I were also both lost ... in different ways. His, perhaps the easier path.

And so I sleep and my dreams are filled with waves. I am caught, I am tumbled, I am surrounded by the untamed and untameable power of water. This is a visceral experience for me ... I spent much time in the ocean as a child and a teen. I know the joy of riding wave on wave, I know the fear of being tugged and pulled into the undertow, and I know the relief of being tossed out onto the sandy shore. Safe. For another moment.

Earlier today, I was reading Wendell Berry's collected essays for my thesis. I'm trying to find words ... mine, anyone's ... to explain the damage done by humans as we have taken the natural continuum between 'wild' and 'domesticated' and twisted it into a continuum between sterile and feral. I'm trying to explain the hubris of our attitudes as we attempt to pull away from the web of life and only end up distorting it. Here is what Berry had to say to me this morning, as he wrote about a canoe trip on the rising Kentucky River:

There is something deeply horrifying about [the river] roused. Not, I think, because it is inhuman, alien to us; some of us at least must feel a kinship with it, or we would not loiter around it for pleasure. The horror must come from our sense that, so long as it remains what it is, it is not subject. To say that it is indifferent would be wrong. That would imply a malevolence, as if it could be aware of us, if only it wanted to. It is more remote from our concerns than indifference. It is serenely and silently not subject--to us or to anything else except the other natural forces that are also beyond our control. And it is apt to stand for and represent to us all in nature and in the universe that is not subject. That is its horror. We can make use of it. We can ride on its back in boats. But it won't stop to let us get on and off. It is not a passenger train. And if we make a mistake, or risk ourselves too far to it, why then it will suffer a little wrinkle on its surface and go on as before.

I think that it is this horror (to tremble or shudder) that many of us disconnected little sapiens feel when we extirpate a species because it is competing with our financial well-being, when we shave off the top of a mountain so we can heat our homes, when we clear-cut a forest so we can print out a ream of marketing mailers that everyone will throw away.

I am wandering the land between the sea foam and the sea sand of the old folk song, negotiating my way between horror and beauty and companionship. It is, like all ecotones, rich and dangerous.

My Thesis is a Matzoh

2011-02-26T18:39:00.000-07:00

I'm heading 'round the final curve, now, and into the homestretch of my thesis.

Some days I feel like the driver, encouraging my writing forward with a light touch, other days I'm holding on for dear life with the sulky careening from side to side, and less often I feel like the horse being driven forward by the limits of time, understanding, knowledge, skill.

In the next few hours I'll send out the already-written chapters to my committee. I think I have about 40 pages so far. Maybe that many more left to write. I was visiting yesterday with Chad - he's on my committee, the head of our department, a professor, but mostly I think of him as a friend. I told him that I hoped the committee would be the yeast in my thesis - helping me to increase the size in a nourishing way. He laughed and asked if I was offering an unleavened thesis. Yes! My thesis is a matzoh - it might be a little slim right now -flat, as Chad suggested. It might crumble and break easily - but if that was good enough for the ancient tribes of Israel to sustain them as they left Egypt for the desert, it will have to be good enough for me, right now, in this first draft.

I've had to come to terms and accept ... this will not be the best thesis I can write. It will, however, be the best thesis I can write under the circumstances; within the limits of time, skill, and understanding. Each semester, I've added a little bit here, a little bit there. Each conversation has aided me in integrating information and turning it into my personal treasure house of knowledge. Each class I teach has opened the door to increased proficiency in how I think, how I write, and what I know. For all of this, I'm grateful.

Do I feel pressured? Of course, this is comparable to giving birth. I'm not the first person to point out the similarity of the two labors. I feel excited and proud - as when I first learned to tie my shoes - look! I can do this! I feel sorrow - the success of my thesis also marks the final moments of my time in Butte. I've accomplished much, I've grown into my self in ways I had never anticipated, but I've also failed in the endeavor that was most dear to my heart.

Joy. Sorrow. Celebration. Loss. Each experience a tile in the mosaic of the flowering of Life. My life, your life, our lives.

Medical Performance

2011-02-11T19:23:00.002-07:00

Today I was treated to an excellent performance art piece at my healthcare provider's office. Some of you may know my distaste for people who live their lives as performers ... but this is a different story.

I'll start, though, with a note of gratitude and appreciation. For the most part, the individuals--the actual people who I interact with--they are doing their best in a situation where they are overwhelmed with too many patients, too much paperwork, too many potentials for lawsuits. I believe the people are good-hearted people who got into the healthcare field because they care. Or, they did when they began and it was worn away by the daily trafficking with and through the system.

Today was the end of a long week of out-of-control blood glucose levels--after almost a year of stability. Readings ranged from a low of 107 to a high of over 350 (the normal range is 90-120 ... my normal is 110 - 160). The jumps and drops throughout the day made pretty graphs, but were alarming in their intensity. The physical symptoms are frightening: compromised eyesight, lightheadedness, and heart palpitations.

I called the doctor's office and explained the symptoms and the numbers. "Oh dear, says the receptionist, that doesn't sound good - the first appointment we have is the end of March". The doctor: away until Monday. The nurse: may or may not be around this week. My options: wait til someone gets back to me. I called the next day: sorry, no one is available to talk with you. You'll have to wait til the doctor gets back next week.

This morning I explained, with some little anger, that I would be coming to the office today at 2pm and would wait until someone would see me. "Our doctors are too busy, I was told, we might find a nurse who can see you". Health. Care. Not very caring.

I got to the office at 2pm and was told that the diabetes counselor was available today and would be able to see me. "Just have a seat and the nurse will see you soon". Over an hour later, I was called in to be chastised by Nurse #1. She looked at me sadly and explained that there was really no point in my showing up today--the doctor was the only one who could help me. I explained my symptoms, my concerns, and the fact that I was told the diabetes counselor would see me. "Oh no! the nurse explained, that counselor had other duties today and couldn't possibly..."

The nurse left and came back accompanied by another nurse. Instead of good cop/bad cop - I got sweet nurse and stern nurse. They twittered at me without really listening at all. They explained away all my symptoms: not that serious, nothing to worry about, there won't be long term damage, this really isn't a problem.

My experience was entirely dismissed. My fears were glossed over. I was praised, the way one might praise a dog doing a clever trick, for bringing in a record of my blood sugars over the past week. But ... I was also told to stop the testing. "Pick three time during the day that you will test .. and then only test at those times ... now promise that you'll do that" I was told by stern nurse. When I asked about testing when I felt highs or lows, she shook her head and said: no.

I think that the best part of the performance today was when I offered the record of my blood readings. They leafed through the medical files with helpless looks on their faces and refused to take it. There was no 'official' place to put information from the patient. None. The patient, essentially, does not exist. Only the approved tests and results that describe the patient exist. The patient doesn't really exist without the presence of the doctor or the 'official' nurse. I was a ghost in their machine... and I was speaking and acting out of turn ... as if my experience was meaningful. To the performers in this system, it was not meaningful at all.

They didn't have the authority to make an appointment with the doctor. Only the 'official' nurse was allowed to do that. So, I departed with an appointment to see the mysterious diabetes counselor next week. On Tuesday. Because that's what the system allows. And I was trying to jam the system in order to find answers to what has gone wrong and how to correct it.

Meanwhile, I am blessed with the kindness of my friends who call to check on me, who offer rides if necessary, who keep track of my health records on line ... just in case an emergency does arise.

Inhabitation

2010-12-26T19:10:00.000-07:00

I've just begun reading David Abram's The Spell of the Sensuous. I was ready to be judgmental ... just some fly-by-night new-ager trying to appear to be scholarly while stealing from the traditions of indigenous peoples. I was (or at least, so far) entirely wrong. Even in the first few chapters he's offered me a way to look at the world from a different perspective.

I'm not going to get into the book itself here, but I do want to write briefly about what has been stirred up in the soup pot of my skull.

It's about relationship ... discovering and renewing an intimate relationship with the world we live in. Not the earth as a whole, not the ecosystem as some concept, but with the streets we drive on, the sidewalks we walk on, the paths that carry our feet further than we imagined. I'ts about listening to bird calls and the songs of insects and the rustling of leaves in a strong wind or sweet breeze and to listen in a way that isn't about us. To know the world that we intimately live is each and every day, to respect it (respect ... to look again, perhaps with a new way of seeing), to enJoy it, to attempt to understand it on it's own terms, not ours.

To participate in this intimate relationship with the non-human world (foxes, hummingbirds, fireflies, pebbles, rivers, and clouds) takes the same kind of attention and time that we give to intimate relationships with our human companions. That's difficult for most of us. Certainly it has been for me.

I spent (like money? spent?) a winter afternoon when I lived in Sheffield, Massachusetts watching a fox in the field that spread outwards from my home. It was a sunny afternoon and the fox came out from the cover of a small copse of trees and began to play. Perhaps chasing a mouse, perhaps chasing sunbeams - it was a joyful expression of Life. And then, after it had finished with play, it rested ... curled up into a small bundle and napped in that winter sunshine. As I watched I could feel the silent clock of expectations: tick tick tick ... what are you doing ... tick tick tick ... what are you doing? It was difficult to justify to that part of self that had expectations of achievement that I was simply witnessing the Other. And that it was a worthy use of my time.

Another afternoon in the late summer I sat on the front stoop and watched the clouds sail overhead. One after another, forming and reforming, shifting forms and loosing pieces of themselves. I was fascinated as I witnessed a small and temporary inhabitant of my intimate world. Later, I wrote a small piece and had it published in some magazine ... both the piece and the name of the magazine are now lost to multiple moves and memory.

These experiences, Abrams' book, the articles and comments that I've been analyzing for my thesis, all these were on my mind this afternoon when I took a short stroll on 'my' path before heading up to campus to spend a few more hours on that thesis.

I silenced myself, I became attentive to the inhabitants of this piece of the world that I inhabit also. I became aware of the differences in the scattered trees, the snow-covered grasses how each of them moved differently in the winds shifting out of the west. I listened for what birdcalls there might be in the noticeable absence of ravens. I wondered about the experiences of snow, melting icewater, rocks glittering in sun. I did not try to 'become' them ... I tried to understand the momentary and emerging relationships between all of us in that moment. Complexity.

These are all important thoughts. I believe this because of the work of my thesis ... because of the words and thoughts and beliefs exposed by humans to humans about the non-human world ... because of what is not considered when choosing to destroy a pristine landscape in the search for gold and copper or when choosing which product to purchase in the supermarket or when choosing to have a(nother) child.

* * *

I'm still contemplating, considering, allowing myself to be open to new perspectives, allowing myself to become intimate with the human and non-human entities that inhabit my little world. I know that I'll be leaving Butte sometime in the next six months or so. I look for ways to allow Butte and southwest Montana to inhabit me also, so that I can carry that particular intimacy always.

Yom Kippur

2010-09-18T18:13:00.000-06:00

In a few minutes the annual celebration of Yom Kippur will end. Across the street in the lovely old synagogue, the small Jewish community of Butte has gathered to pray and sing, to ask forgiveness for the sins they have committed in past years against themselves, others, and God. After the final prayer, the Ne'ilah, the gates of prayer will close and God will have made the final inscription for the past year regarding our worth.

I've moved away from these practices over the years--the prayers and songs are full of mourning and self-blame. I find my own spiritual practice to be full of joy and empowerment--so much that I can't go back to dragging that old sorrow any longer.

I stand at my window, the breeze is chill with autumn, the leaves of the tree outside my window and those up on the East Ridge turn yellow, the clouds hang heavy and gray. I am listening to Joanne Shenandoah, an Iroquois musician--her music is deep and slow, celebrating the cycles of seasons and change. She inspires me into loosening my own voice.

And somehow I can feel the gates of prayer. I stand before them and they remain open wide. My prayers are not a duty, they do not flow begging forgiveness--instead they rise gently and fall into place--like leaves loosened by the autumn winds. My prayers are wordless, but no less sincere, and they flow in joy and appreciation for all that is--the challenges as well as the smooth paths.

Have I sinned? Yes, if you see sin in the old Aramaic way--actions that have missed the mark based on thoughts that have not fully ripened. I know that I have hurt myself and others in my words and actions that are sometimes less than skillful. In fact, sometimes they are purposeful. I am, as I have read in the Egyptian Book of the Dead "a human becoming" and in the process I do my best.

Have I sinned against God? No, if you see God as I do--the Essence of All that is. Not a Being ... like me, a Becoming. Does a tree sin if it is planted in the shade of a building and does not flourish as it could have if planted in the full sun? I am sometimes planted in the shade ... sometimes in the sun ... I have experienced "years that the locust has eaten" and others where I have been repaid in full and more.

My Jewish ancestors believed that the gates of prayer/forgiveness are closed and locked each year--that they had to wait until the following Rosh Hashanah for those gates to swing open again. I honor them for their devotion, sacrifices, and their survival. I honor myself as I choose not to stand outside, a beggar at the gates. Instead, I claim my home and stroll inside the heart of that Essence that has no name but holds all.

Fragments of Eternity

2010-07-25T14:46:00.000-06:00

When I was traveling from Massachusetts to Montana I passed through South Dakota. I remembered from my cross country travels in 1985 how much I loved the Black Hills, but before I got that far, I passed through the grasslands and they were beautiful to me. I pulled over at one point, got out of my car, and began walking through the grasses into the north. My logical mind told me that I would eventually reach something human-made … but I felt another truth alongside that one … I had entered into a fragment of eternity. I seriously thought about stopping right then and there and finding a place to settle somewhere in that ocean of grass.

This weekend I am staying at a cabin of some rancher friends. It’s south of Butte and north of Dillon. I can hear ‘my’ river just to the east of this lovely little home. I’m writing this on Friday night and will post it when I return to Butte sometime on Sunday … though I must admit – if there was a chance that I might stay here … for a very very long time … I would jump at it.

Just before sunset I decided that I would head out back of the cabin and walk up the dirt road into the eastern hills. (Even though I was warned about the rattlesnakes warming their bellies before the dark set in!) I walked past rusted pickups and antique haying equipment … I passed up the road watching the almost-full moon rise above a new set of mountains. I opened … and politely re-locked the gate … and continued as far as I could, passing off the main road onto a little path that led up a small rise.

I stood there in the twilight that rushed down from the Pioneer Mountains just across the valley and I was again placed into another fragment of eternity … similar and different from they way I felt in the grasslands of South Dakota. Here there are no grasses waving in the strong breeze … just sage and cactus, stones and rocky hills. I turned to the south and to my left the moon was rising higher into the night sky and to my right Venus fell toward the western mountain peaks. This felt like home.

I’m writing this in the loft bedroom of the cabin … it’s 10:30 pm, but there is still enough light so that I can see the sillhouettes of the bare peaks against the darkening sky as I glance out the windows. The ceiling fans above in this loft and below in the main room create a gentle breeze and hum and outside… ah, outside I hear crickets, the river, an occasional car as it passes by on the distant highway. It is a blessing to be here.

I’ve always said that when I move (and I’ve moved many times from home to home to home) I want to move someplace I find to be “this or something better” than wherever I am at the moment. And as I mature and gain perspective and discover what it is I love out in the world and in myself “better” changes its definition. Or I change.

My move from Egremont in Massachusetts to Dillon in Montana was better for me for so many reasons. And my move from Dillon to Butte – even better than before. I know that this particular little cabin is not my home … and … I feel that I’m being given a taste of possibility for my next ‘better’. Maybe here … maybe someplace very much like here – with the faint scent of eternity waiting behind the leaves of the cottonwoods in the breeze and the broad splash of stars across the night sky.

Letting Go

2010-07-17T19:26:00.000-06:00

Sometimes you just have to let go of that thread you've been clinging to ... desperately ... and ... let go. I think of trapeze artists...

... and the deep trust in yourself, in your skills, in the other artists that you must muster up ... time and again ... so that you are willing to let go because you trust that something ... a rope, a slender wooden bar, a firm hand ... will be there to help you along the way.

I've done this before--many times--and I'm sure that I will continue the cycle of wanting things to be a particular way, clinging to that desire, and then finally letting go of it. It's the particularity of how that seems to get in the way--not the desire itself. The desire is clean, sharp, clear.

So, I let go of my thesis. No! Don't misunderstand - I am entirely dedicated to the goal of completing a well-written, interesting, and useful thesis. I've let go of the how ... of the rigid schedule ... of the expectations of how this is going to happen.

I've let go of how I'm going to re-emerge into health. I've let go of how I'm going to figure out what comes next - after grad school - after Butte. I've let go.

I'm out there, soaring and falling at the same time. I fill my days with the tasks associated with the responsibilities that I've chosen. I fill my evenings with gentle walks ... with song, dance, and drums ... with the words of others that inspire me ... with writing that fulfills me. I fill my heart with friends ... I empty my mind of expectations and leave the door open for ...

Bends in the Road

2010-07-14T11:38:00.000-06:00

The morning of July 10, 1983 I woke up to bright sunshine and the Sunday comics on the side of the bed. My new husband, Stephen, had left them as a sweet gift before he headed out to Gloucester to meet friends for a day of scuba diving. A few hours later, I received a phone call from friends that a former co-worker had been in a roll-over the night before on her way from Boston back to Yale. I called the wife of Stephen's diving partner asking her to let him know that I would be with Susan and Peter waiting on more news about our friend, Mia. An hour or so later, the phone rang and Peter went to answer it. He walked back into the living room, pale. We thought that Mia had died. But no. It was Stephen. Drowned in the waters of Gloucester Harbor. Two days later I was back at the synagogue for the funeral. It was four months, to the day, of our wedding.

A few years later I received a letter from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts with the court date for the divorce from my second husband. The date: July 11th. I called him to laugh about it, "I guess the timing means this is really over". We drove to our divorce together, used the same lawyer. It was as amicable as could be.

July 10, 11, and 12 are significant anniversaries in my life. Each year they also mark an opportunity for me to pause and reflect on how I have changed ... through imposition from the 'outside' as with Stephen's death or as a result of choice from the 'inside' as with the divorce. Change comes from the same root as barter (exchange) and also bend.

I like those two ways of seeing change in our life. We exchange on set of experiences for another, we exchange one set of beliefs for another, we give away something of the past in return for something new into the future. Change is a bend in the road, sometimes a gentle turn on a slow country road where whatever is around the bend may be unknown, but can be anticipated:

Other changes can be more dramatic, like these sharp turns in a trail at Carlsbad Canyon that lead into the darkness:

In the early and mid-90s, I studied with a tarot master. She was a remarkable woman, an intelligent, intense, scholar with a deeply dramatic flair. On the surface she and I could not be more different. She expanded my understanding of the world and I am so grateful for the years that we spent together - we studied history, symbolism, feminism, herbalism, esoterica, communication, theater, religion and spirituality, and our selves. She challenged my beliefs and limitations and gave me an opportunity to learn how to be both immersed in an experience and at the same time able to stand outside the experience and observe.

The tarot is a picture book with images that are like doorways into rooms where you can contemplate the commonalities of human experience. It is tempting to many to use it as a tool of prediction ... there are so many people who would like to believe in the words of others rather than in their own self-knowledge. People who would like to believe that we can know the future rather than accept that each moment, each choice, each experience changes our possible future.

I prefer to use the tarot as a means for insight into the present moment. And I know that there are many, many tools for that kind of insight.The tarot offers four cards to indicate the various kinds of change that we experience.

The Wheel of Fortune symbolizes those changes that feel out of your control - Fate turns the wheel and your fortunes rise and fall without any rhyme or reason - you are at the mercy of other powers: parents, mate, children, boss, the economy. Whatever it may be, you are powerless.

Then there are those moments where change comes sudden and out of the blue. This is The Tower. There are no storm clouds on the horizon and yet the lightening strikes and you and your world tumbles down. There are choices here - live amid the ruins, live in the past, never move on; rebuild the same structure and hope that it was a fluke (usually, its not); take what's useful and re-build something new; or walk away.

Some changes are like the 6 of Swords: a long, slow and weary change. You know why you're leaving the situation, you know where you're headed and its just a matter of taking it one step at a time until the change is complete.

The jongleur in the 2 of Disks is the last of the symbol for change in the Tarot deck. These are the cyclic changes that we can expect in life - the gentle rise and fall of good days and bad ones, the highs and lows of moving from birth to death, the ones we consider natural and normal.

Of course, each day of the year has some kind of resonance of joy or loss - especially as we travel along the years of life. The changes that I contemplate each year were made possible because of those losses and those joys.

The Wheel is from a Swiss tarot deck from the 1800s

The Tower is from an Italian deck from the 1800s

The 6 of Swords and 2 of Disks are variations of the Rider-Waite deck

An amazing variety of tarot images can be found at www.trionfi.com.

No One Told Us

2010-07-03T20:43:00.000-06:00

There have been many phases of life that I might not have been truly prepared for ... but at least I anticipated that they would arrive. This phase has come as a surprise - and not entirely welcome. I wish more older people would mentor the rest of us as we move through life. I surely try to do that with my younger friends.

In conversations with friends who are of a similar age ... a few years younger or older ... we find ourselves faced with life experiences both personal and social that force us to re-evaluate who we believed we are ... and what it is we truly value. I'm not sure if this is what 'mid-life crisis' is ... I had always assumed that was a phenomenon associated with men and most seemed to fail the test by turning away from self-knowledge and toward red sports cars and younger women who would never be their true peers or partners.

We stand in the face of children growing up and leaving to create their own lives or children refusing to grow up and unable to leave ... in the face of life partners turning cold--turning away and leaving to create different lives apart ... in the face of losing lifelong careers because of financial problems or health problems ... we are at a loss. And the loss is our understanding of self.

When the house empties at the end of the day and we are left in silence and darkness that can't be filled with the faces and voices of the familiar ... who are we? What is our value? Where is the meaning that our days seemed to be filled with? These are questions that my friends struggle with.

It's easy enough to fill what seems to be a void. Our culture offers many choices: there is busy-ness. There are plenty of chores and responsibilities that we can use to fill the time, the dark, the quiet. As friends have said, when moving numbly through their nights: it's important to stay on task. There is the bottle of wine, beer, whiskey ... choose your poison, they say. There is the bowl, the joint, the needle, the pill. There is TV ... the new "opiate of the people". There are a million different ways to avoid the void until our last breath.

Facing that void is no bowl of cherries ... it is a privilege, can seem like a curse, and in the end is no promise of future happiness. Our small segment of the world --middle and upper middle class, mostly white people--have the time, luxury, and space to face this void. We're not starving, we're not faced with war and intercultural violence, we're not tied to the cycle of agriculture with the seasons of farming or raising animals that don't ever go on vacation or get sick days. We're free to explore this dark place.

And maybe ... facing the void isn't necessary. Maybe the various "opiates of the people" that allow for pleasure in the moment are the best choice of all. "Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die" says Ecclesiastes. I'm sure I'd be a lot more fun to be around if I took that advice instead of always seriously creasing my brow in thought and contemplation ... looking to scratch out meaning from every darn experience I face.

My friends and I, we look at our selves, our friends, our families, our children - we cast our gazes out further and we see the same problems, the same struggles, the same suffering as far as our sight will take us. We are good people--we work in various ways to create space for a 'better world' for our children and our children's children. We know that it feels that our work--professional and personal--is just a drop in the bucket.

And so we're left to create meaning. We're left to shape our lives into some form of value. I have friends who are artists, they pick up the brush and dab it into color and spread it across the canvas and they create meaning and value and, more often than not, they create beauty. The beauty is there for all to see. I look around my home. I have artwork from many friends that grace these walls and space. The beauty gives me pleasure, and it is also a source of strength. Their art reminds me of the more ephemeral art of my own life that I shape and create each and every day.

I dreamed last night that I was lost and stopped to ask directions. The problem was ... I couldn't remember where I had been or where I was going .. and I sure didn't know where I was. I don't have any answers here. And I know that my answers are only my own, shaped by who I've been and who I want to be. Most days I am able to find enough meaning in the way that light shifts over the East Ridge, or the sound of a child's laughter as she passes by, or the soft fur of a friendly dog, or a rich red glass of wine that mixes perfectly with a great conversation with a dear friend. These things have always sustained me. I didn't expect this particular struggle at this time of life ... I'm just grateful that I can offer storm warning and suggestions for safe passage to others.

Another Full Moon

2010-06-27T15:06:00.000-06:00

One of the great gifts of living in Butte is watching the moon rise over the East Ridge. Even when I lived an hour south, in Dillon, I would often make the evening drive to watch the event. And, although it is a soft and subtle process, it still feels like an event to me.

Last night I climbed up the stairs from the trail to the college after watching the sun set over the Pintlers. I know that the moonrise drops back about 40 minutes each evening after the full moon, and that I could expect to see it just about ten minutes after 10pm. An auspicious set of numbers - if you believe in auspiciousness.

I sat on a wooden bench above Leonard Field and the city below me blossomed with occasional fireworks. I imagine that most people are saving their hoard til this coming weekend and that Friday, Saturday, and Sunday will be full of sound and fury in the Butte tradition. Mostly, I don't mind ... although an acquaintance told me yesterday that a few years ago he had a friend visit from Argentina who noted that Butte during fireworks season could easily be mistaken for living in a war zone in other parts of the world.

As the fireworks soared upward and wrote briefly on the night sky, I thought about how transient they are ... a poor attempt to ape the grandeur of the natural world. I wasn't sure how far north or south the moon would be rising - I hadn't been keeping track recently of her progress - but then I noticed a glow emanating from the scant cloud cover toward the south of the Ridge and I watched as the moon nudged her way slowly into view.

I don't know how old the East Ridge is but I do know that the moon has been rising above it every single day/night for all that time ... that the full moon has risen every single month (in human terminology) for 4.5 billion years and it has been witnessed by "all creatures great and small". I do know that although 4.5 billion years and counting seems like the opposite of transience ... it it is still temporary. Some day - whether through natural means or human arrogance - that moon will no longer be there ... nor will this earth.

I don't know if any of the other "creatures great and small" have attempted to interpret or make a symbol of the moon as we human creatures have. The moon has been seen as god and goddess, as a symbol of fertility and nurturing, it is the symbol of Islam, and on the flags of Algeria, Tunisa and Uzbekistan. In some native cultures, the moon is a warrior chasing, but rarely catching, his beloved - the sun.

Shakespeare says: "Oh swear not by the moon / the fickle moon / the inconstant moon that monthly changes in her circle orb" and yet, there is nothing more constant than the moon that may change throughout the month but always returns: new moon to full moon to dark moon to new. As human creatures in these old old animal bodies we hold to these cyclic changes that express our understanding of constant change and renewal ... of the familiarity within impermanence.

In most western/european mythological traditions the moon is seen as feminine. She is the soft reflection of the masculine sun. She is symbolic of intuition and emotions. She is mystery - we only ever see her one face and must wonderful about the other ... the dark side.She is the symbol of three ages of women: maiden - mother - crone.

I've said goodby to myself as maiden long ago, and I'm learning to say goodbye to myself as mother ... learning to be friend and peer with my daughter. I see the signs of approaching crone-hood. The dictionary defines crone as "ugly, withered, old hag". I'm not anticipating an aging that extreme. Feminist scholar, Mary Daly, defines Crone as a Wise, Wild Woman. I find myself becoming a little wilder - not in terms of excitement or violence - but less tame in word and deed and stepping more into my own, natural essence. I find myself becoming wiser - able to integrate knowledge and experience into something ... more.

The moon continues to fascinate and delight me. I try to find a way to watch her rise in fullness each month over the East Ridge and to also witness the new crescent as she falls into the sharp arms of the Pintlers. I know what she is ... and I know what she symbolizes - just as I know these things for myself.

*these photos were taken in February 2010

A Day in the Life

2010-06-22T00:49:00.000-06:00

It's late. I should probably be settling down to sleep - or at least finishing the dishes in the sink - just a few tea cups, but it will ruin the entire rhythm of my morning if I don't have the 'correct' cups available for the series of teas, coffee, and water as I move through morning. I know I'm becoming a bit too ritualized, but some days that's what gets me through all the uncertainties - the comfort of knowing that my blue lotus tea cup will be there waiting for me on the stove top to fill it with green tea when I wake and the cup that I've been sipping my morning coffee from for more than 20 years with wonderful vibrant tribal images will be dry in the red dish drain hovering over the chocolate brown double porcelain kitchen sink.

Summer is here, and the rhythms of my days are settling down - waking slowly into the day - reading a good book w/breakfast and then shifting into work mode for a few hours. I'm doing a lot of writing ... press releases, newsletters, and brainstorming for community outreach and education. I'm so grateful to be finished--for a short time--with the database work. It's boring beyond all measure. I'd rather fold and stuff envelopes than do database entry..and even worse ... database corrections!, but--for the time being its a necessary part of my job. I'll be glad in a year or so when I start a PhD program and don't have to do this business/management type of work. If a miracle occurred (and I'm still open to miracles) and I had financial support to finish this last semester of school w/out working - I would jump at the chance. I find myself not enjoying it when my time and attention is being pulled in two entirely different directions.

I like to walk in the early afternoon for a while (thunderstorms allowing), come home for a light lunch, and then nap. Napping has become essential in the day for the time being. I'm learning not to resent it - in fact, learning to enjoy the feeling of slipping in and out of consciousness the way I used to slip in and out of the warm water of the local streams when I lived in upstate New York. Back to work for a few more hours, cook a simple dinner, and enjoy a good meal. I take an hour or so to review some portion of my thesis and then take those thoughts out walking as the sun sets and twilight falls over Butte.

This is the third summer that I've been walking the same trail almost every evening. I am still not bored with it. In fact, its become more beautiful to me knowing that my time here may be over in the next year or less. The city ... well, I could do without the trash in the alleys, the stray dogs wandering the streets and howling at 2 a.m., the drunken teenagers racing up and down the streets, the empty buildings with broken windows, and the culture of mediocrity that spreads over the populace and scrapes them into the local bars. I often walk along the trail and imagine razing the entire city to the ground - the historic buildings, the shacks and trailers, the gallus frames and the shiny neighborhoods of the flats. All of it. And then rebuilding it from the ground up. With care and with pride. It's a nice fantasy.

Meantime, I wander down the trail watching the evening sky and the ever changing colors and textures of clouds and eternity. I soak in the Pintlers while I listen to the robins and watch the swallows and I hope for a glimpse of the fox. When I turn back, the East Ridge fills the east, and the Highlands still reflect the last light of the sun. It's almost full dark when I head back to my car and often I can only hear the jingling collar of the sweet springer spaniel in the nearby field running in a long arc of joy.

Gimme Shelter

2010-06-20T15:18:00.000-06:00

My friend, Amy, posted a link to this video of Ray Lamontagne yesterday and I've been captivated by this song since first hearing it: (keep reading)

I am writing this as a storm blows through Butte - thunder rolls and rain pours down on streets and rooftops. I am, of course, sheltered safe inside my little home - able to witness the storm, but less vulnerable.

We have this rich and beautiful world that allows us to use external experiences to attempt to describe our internal worlds. The Buddha used the unfolding lotus to describe the beautiful process of the soul opening, again and again, to the light. Jesus of Nazareth used the tiny mustard seed to talk about the hidden bounty within. William Wordsworth wandered "lonely as a cloud". Bob Dylan finds"shelter from the storm".

Life is ... a battle, a prison, a garden, a mountain to climb, a desert to cross, a garden rich and full, a journey, a game, a roller coaster, a race, a river ...

Life is full of ... stones, flowers, obstacles, possibilities, choices, beauty, mystery, surprises, questions, valleys and peaks ... life is full of storms.

I think of myself as a child of storms. Growing up on Long Island off the coast of New York, we had tremendous storms blow through from the ocean. I don't recall being afraid of thunder and lightening when I was a child, and as I grew older I loved to be out in the storm - to feel the rain and wind - especially to be on the beach to witness the full waves crashing onto the shore. I can remember my first thunderstorm in the Catskills - my first experience in the mountains - and the thunder rolled back and forth between the mountainsides and echoed over and again. I've watched tornadoes in the Berkshires until the last moment and then took shelter w/friends. I went to college just south of Lake Ontario and the winter snow storms were incredible. I developed a love for walking through the winds and falling snow and the unique silence that falls afterward.

My life has been full of inner storms that reflect the many kinds of outer storms. And, to be honest, there hasn't been much shelter. In fact, shelter isn't really my metaphor. I like to think instead of 'safe harbor'. We can't protect one another from the storms of life - but we can offer a safe space for a span of time. A place where the storms fall less harshly. A place to rest a while until we return to the endless seas of life.

I'm deeply grateful for the friends who have offered me "shelter from the storm" and the lovers in whose arms I've found a safe harbor. I am also grateful for the opportunity to offer that same safe harbor to others.

Be Kind to Yourself

2010-06-19T16:54:00.000-06:00

I wanted to share this email that I recently sent to a friend - I think it may be helpful to others - I know it's helpful to me:

I think it's important for you to remember that you have received quite a few serious shocks to your physical, emotional, and thought-systems in the past few months. In a weird way, physical shocks are easier to deal with than the other two - illness and injury to the body are 'real' and we can point to 'evidence' and we can attempt to 'fix' it and bring those problems back to some kind of 'normal' or 'balanced' state.

Emotional and thought shocks are more difficult - what do you point to? How to even express it? And in this culture, we don't have much compassion for the process of life that brings constant change, large and small, into our experience. In the year after Stephen's death, I wished we still had the cultural habit of wearing only black to express the fact that we are in mourning, that our behaviors could be … not excused … but understood and that we were given the time and social space to figure out who we were in this new phase of life.

The only break we give ourselves now is if our bodies take over and shut us down. I have a feeling that part of the reason that I'm experiencing so much physical pain and weakness, the experience I get to label as "lupus flare", is because I don't have the time/space/support to express the emotional pain and the intellectual confusion that I am also experiencing. Some of us even create physical damage to show evidence of the emotional/intellectual damage that we feel. When JT and I were breaking up … it took us well over a year … we had moved into separate places, but still were in the same workplace. He would flirt, agressively, with the women around us, and often go home with them. He would often then knock on my door at 2 or 3am and ask me to let him sleep on the couch because he didn't want to drive all the way home. (and … it was on the couch, I at least had that much sense!). Some days at work, I would watch him, and it would hurt my heart so deeply … I had no skills when I was so young to deal with those raw feelings. I used to go in the back room and literally bang my head against the cement wall so that I had some physical damage to point to. I imagine it must be similar for young people who cut themselves, or do some other damage.

So, we are left to defend our selves and our vulnerable hearts and minds … often feeling quite alone. Along with dealing with illness and heartache, we also have to defend the walls of who we believe we are. We have to make the effort to protect our time, our space, our feelings. No wonder you feel tired.

I urge you to be kind to yourself. To allow yourself the grace that you don't often allow others to show you. I urge you to care for the tender parts of yourself. This caring in no way negates the rest of who you are: brilliant, powerful, effective, funny, and respected by the people in your community and in your field.

What's It Worth?

2010-06-14T13:14:00.000-06:00

So many questions - so little time.

I've been speaking with women recently who are experiencing a variety of mid-life changes. Some of the are self-chosen and others are imposed by other people and/or circumstances. As I look at the wide range of experiences, and listen closely, I hear one similar thread that ties them to one another. Worthiness. They are no longer sure what they are worth.

In this culture, there's quite a lot of pressure to prove your worth. I don't know what it's like for men - it seems to have something to do with pushing, shoving, and peeing to mark territory (mostly in a figurative sense, though I've seen them do it literally ... ). It seems to have something to do with who has the most toys, the most up-to-date toys, and those toys include 'stuff', money, women, and children. I've seen houses filled to the brim with 'stuff' so that it seems like a suit of armor rather than a home that could be filled with love, laughter, and companionship. Anyway.

Women are, to my dismay, catching up with the more patriarchal modes of determining their own self worth, but for the most part - we look at our worth as dependent upon our relationships and how we serve others. And so, when a woman in her late 40s loses a breast, her sense of self-worth can diminish because she is no longer an up-to-date toy for her male partner. When a woman in her 50s suddenly find herself single, she wonders what is her worth without a male partner in her life. When the children move out of the house and on with their lives, the women are most likely to wonder ... did I give enough? did I do enough?

Those of you who know me also know that I don't have a perfect body. I've struggled with health ... I'm a plump middle-aged woman who looks into the mirror and sees ... beauty, humor, intelligence, and compassion. I am satisfied. But its a struggle - there is pressure from all sides to think less of myself because there is more of myself than this culture prefers.

I've been single most of my adult life - am I less worthy because I'm not partnered in a culture that determines my value as partially dependent upon my (male) partner and my ability to 'keep' him. The lovers that I've taken from time to time have been good and decent men, each and every one of them. Life circumstances have conspired so that the relationships have not lasted.

My primary relationship for 18 years was with my daughter. I raised her alone and we worked to create a relationship that was based on love, trust and respect. And then, she upped and left - moved to the other side of the state. And then, I upped and left - moved to the other side of the country. Did I give enough? Nope. Did I do enough? Nope. It's just not possible to give ... do ... be enough to fill another person. Am I less worthy because I didn't supply her with enough 'stuff' ... with trips around the country or around the world ... because I didn't supply her with daddy-mommy-brothers and sisters? No. I gave her the tools that I understand - and then I let go ... I trusted her, I valued her, and I watch her develop a life that is filled, like mine, with joy and with grief, with fear and with laughter.

So how do we determine our worth? What is is based on? Do we look in the mirror or do we wait for the reflections in the eyes of others? When I look up 'worth' I see that the first, third, and fourth definitions (out of four) are all about money, financial exchange, and wealth ... but the origin is all about honor. So how do we take this understanding of integral worth back?

It's work. It's a commitment to seeing our and being our own, personal concept of honor-able. It's a continual return to the source of your own self and finding way to express it ... for your own satisfaction. It's looking in the mirror and seeing the full truth ... the beauty and the flaws ... the abundance and the lack ... and determining that, all in all, it's good. Plenty good.

Note: I acknowledge fully that this is a very hetero point of view ... but I remind you that my writings come from my point of view, my experiences, and the people in my life. Would it be that my experiences and friends were more diverse, but that ain't happening anytime in the near future in Butte America.

Meditation on Pain

2010-06-12T17:17:00.000-06:00

I was out walking earlier today, my hands loosely balled in the pockets of my jacket and the phrase "my hands are cups of pain" ran through my mind. It took the phrase for me to focus my attention on my hands and to realize that, yes, there was a great deal of pain flowing through them. I have familiar companions these days, returned to visit after years away--pain, weakness, exhaustion. The symptoms of Lupus are active once again and I, dancing in a new place in the spiral of life, am faced with integrating this experience into the woman I am today.

Lupus is an immune system disorder with a variety of symptoms which, in addition to the pain, weakness, and exhaustion, include a red rash across the face (like a butterfly ... or a wolf bite), swollen joints, edema, chest pains when breathing deeply, sensitivity to the sun (and light), circulatory issues (my fingers become white and very cold when temperatures drop even just a bit), anemia, and a compromised ability to deal with other illnesses.

But, like so many immune system and other illness, I "look just fine". I hear things like, "well, everyone gets tired from time to time," or "it's probably just stress--you should relax more," or "you can expect aches and pains after 50". Uh huh. I know people mean well... and... I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy ... well ... maybe my worst enemy ... but nobody else.

The pain can be extraordinary. On a day-to-day basis, when I'm feeling well, my pain level hovers between 3 & 5 on a scale of 10. Over the years I have learned to experience pain as sensation rather than as suffering and I can manage it pretty well. The pain during a Lupus 'flare' causes me to look for a new scale--or to feel that my pain level is at a 30 or 40 on a scale of 10. There is no way to manage it. I can only ride it out--like riding heavy waves in the ocean and hoping/trusting that I will find my way back, somehow, to a solid shore.

There is no cure for Lupus. It is a progressive disorder that can leap quickly into new symptoms or lie quietly in remission for years. The treatments for Lupus are limited and often worse than the illness. During my years in Massachusetts I tried many different pain killers - they do not touch the pain. They do put me in a state of mind where I simply don't care about the pain ... or anything else. I'd rather live with pain than live without passion.

It's frustrating and frightening to experience these symptoms. There is a great deal of vulnerability in knowing that when I go out for my evening stroll that what appears to be a contemplative walking meditation is actually just as fast as I can go... and that I am fully aware of the potential for collapse at any time. It is frustrating and frightening to experience these symptoms and to know that they could last a few days ... weeks ... months ... even years ... and I can't know if I'll feel better soon ... or never. It is frustrating and frightening to realize that I must deliberately limit myself to situations that I can handle by myself.

Those of you who have followed "Into the West" since my trip in October 2007, and those who know me well, have heard about the many changes in my life since the move--each one for the better. My life in Montana has expanded into opportunities and experiences that were entirely unexpected ... and quite wonderful. I have had the time, space, and the health to develop my interests, my skills, my abilities, and my self more deeply than ever before. It is frustrating and frightening to think that this time of growth may be over.

"My hands are cups of pain" ... it's true more often than not these past days and weeks. The pain slows me down, forces me to focus on be-ing rather than do-ing. It gives me the opportunity to contemplate the years ahead in which I will age and eventually (like everyone else) die. It allows me to consider how I want to live these remaining years, to think about and name the experiences, the people, the situations that are ... and are not ... important to me. It allows me the opportunity for deeper understanding, deeper gratitude, and deeper compassion. These are gifts to me - and the cost is very high some days. But, I think, worth it.

Floating Boats

2010-05-01T16:55:00.000-06:00

April was Sexual Assault Awareness Month and I've been reading a Feminist Blog that posted each day a different set of thoughts about some of the issues regarding sexual assault in this troubled culture where a wholehearted "yes" is not often said in sexual encounters--nor looked for.

This morning I came across two articles: Rescuing girls from sex slavery and a facebook post from Nicholas Kristof about The Somaly Mam Foundation. Both focus on the sex trade in southeast Asia, and it's easy enough to feel a moment of sorrow or outrage for these women ... far far away from our place and our common experiences ... and then move on. A bit later in the afternoon I was waiting at a stop light and noticed a young woman heading into one of Butte's many bars. She was young, attractive, dressed nicely, unlike the atmosphere of the bar itself, and she was clearly going in to work the bar ... bartending, waitressing, serving the (mostly) men who come to drink. The 'take home' messages of the blog and the two articles leaped back into my mind.

The topic of sex is a complex one. I know my personal preferences, which are constantly shaped and reshaped by culture, nature, upbringing, personal experiences, experiences of others, contemplation, and other influences I am likely unaware of entirely.

For some, sex is a sacred obligation between a couple ... for others it's just like any other sport activity - you don't become intimately involved with your handball partner, so why become intimate with your handjob partner ... for others sex is just another form of masturbation that happens to include another person instead of a vibrator or a bottle of moisturizer ... for some its a desperate cry for connection ... for others its a form of payback for past hurts. You just never know what your partner(s) are bringing to the table ... the bed ... the living room floor ... the back of the pickup truck.

For me, sex is a deeply intimate form of communication ... communion ... the sharing of a common experience. I respect that this is the preference that I have developed and chosen over the years - and I respect that others have developed other preferences that are very different from my own. "Whatever floats your boat" you might say - but I wouldn't - because that focuses on the act of sex being defined in terms of male arousal - and so, male pleasure.

And therein lies the problem: it's all defined in terms of male arousal and male pleasure. Women are--still--seen as a commodity in most of the world. Women take care of things ... children, filing, housework, travel arrangements, blowjobs, copying, serving the needs of others.

The young woman going to work at the bar is also an active part of the sex trade. She was hired so that men would be able to watch her, to fantasize about her and ... depending how drunk they get ... to paw, grab, accost in some subtle or not-so-subtle manner. And truly, I see the same in coffee shops and cafes - I see it wherever women are placed in the path of the male leer in order to 'float their boats' and bring in the bucks. These woman are (sex)slaves to economic need and social pressure to pleasure men - visually if not physically. And, these women (all women?) are being (sexually)assaulted as they are watched, grabbed, fondled, and judged for their (sexual)service for floating boats.

It's a problem.

It's a problem because women do not have the full freedom to be beautiful - to be sexual - to say a wholehearted "YES" to being their gorgeous animal selves.

First Robin

2010-04-10T22:51:00.001-06:00

It's late, just finished dinner after my sunset walk, and am listening to John Hiatt's "Have a Little Bit of Faith in Me" ...

It's been a while since I've felt that little bit of faith, although it was the path that I followed from the Berkshires to Butte ... from a dead-end job and a deadening existence to the privilege of following my intellectual abilities and a flowering of my Self.

Pursuing my studies, developing my thinking, delving more deeply into matters that I'd only skimmed in the past has brought much into question for me - and I wondered, during the more difficult days and nights: a little bit of faith in ... who? ... what? and why?

It seemed that the still, small voice of my heart that I followed here abandoned me about a year ago. Left me, as they say, high and dry. Instead of flowing with Life, I was grounded ... stranded ... and not only couldn't I see the waters of life flowing - I couldn't even hear them in the distance.

The voice of the mind - it's neither still nor small - it's in constant motion and and it's damn loud. Without my heart, it leads me in circles - nothing is more, or less, true than anything else and really - depending on your point of view ... where you're standing in the moment ... almost anything can make sense. I appreciate my mind - it's interesting and interested - it's supple and open - it's willing to both listen and speak ... but without my heart, it's empty of meaning.

A few days ago I was in the cafe on campus to take some time to study and focus. My daughter called to celebrate her last day of work, and I caught sight of someone who has become dear to and yet distant from me. Outside, a sudden spring storm reflected my inner storm - full of sound and fury and signifying ... ?

Yesterday, all the stress of work, health, family, and school came to a head - feeling my obligations tugging me in too many directions and I was coming unraveled. I had a few minutes to stroll around the campus before the first meeting with my thesis committee and I focused on slowing my footsteps, slowing my breath, focusing on the beautiful, wind-filled day. Just before I walked back into the building, the first robin of spring flew past. A symbol of hope ... faith ... even though we can't see it - spring has returned. Plump bodies, soft red breasts, sharp eyes and beaks, a brash song, and wings to carry them places I wish I could go.

This evening I went out just before sunset. The winds had died back and the world was softly filled with gray clouds. As I walked - the first robin turned into the first hundred ... or it seemed so anyway. Their songs and wings filled the air. I walked slowly, appreciating the time and space. Allowing my thoughts to pull me forward as I contemplated some of the challenges of my thesis, I also left room to be attentive to the grasses, the ravens, the mountains, the fading light. Mostly though, it was the robins that caught and snagged my attention. The little namesakes of my own past - the name I released, but not the hope.

On the last rise, that still, small voice returned. Soft, yes - strong, yes. It reminded me of the faith in my heart. To have a little faith - in me, in my connection to my love, to my passions, to my delight, to my joy. It made a promise that I doubted ... but wanted to believe. And then, a few steps later, an unexpected synchronicity. A sign? Perhaps. A reason to believe? Perhaps. It's how I got from the Berkshires to Butte ... it's how I got from the dark winter of Dillon to the bright promises of Butte. I know that signs don't always mean what I think ... but they usually do signify something more than sound and fury. Today, they signify hope, faith, and the return of the promises of Life.

Just because I don't ... doesn't mean I don't want to.

More of What is Hidden

2010-01-31T15:46:00.000-07:00

Thinking more about what's hidden in plain sight. What do you see here?

Since I'm reading alot of feminist theory, I'm thinking about how women are hidden in plain view - they are hidden as individuals, they are hidden as 'people', and their forms of communication are also hidden. Men might say "secret" - not because we try to hide it - but because men have not learned/been taught the signs that women recognize. There are plenty of books and journal articles out there about the forms of communication used by an underclass. Yiddish, for example, uses many words from the German language, but twists the meanings, so that what a German would have heard and understood would be entirely different than what another Jew heard and understood.

As in most communication, most of the signs in hidden languages are non-verbal: its in the posture, the inflection, the particular pattern of how 'innocuous' words are placed together. Since this communication is not known/seen by men - it often is considered not to exist. "You're imagining it" is a response. "I haven't seen that" is another. Yet... it is real. And, impossible to "prove".

I've been in situations recently in two of my professional roles where women in positions of power/authority have been using that 'secret language' to abuse their power and authority for their (supposed) benefit. They disrespect, dismiss, and disempower the other women in their realm in order to please/impress/gain more power with the men who have greater power and authority in the situations. They do it for financial gain, they do it for ego gain, they do it to walk over those they see as weaker, they do it because they are so aware of their own weaknesses and vulnerabilities and have never found another way toward their own strength.

On the one hand, I feel kinda sorry for these women. Their desperation for acceptance from the outside, especially from men, rather than the inner knowing of their own self-worth is pitiable. On the other hand, I am not interested in standing by, quietly, when I see this kind of abuse going on. Speaking up, however, has its own dangers.

If these were younger women, I might take them in hand - judiciously model better behavior, have conversations about the effects of their own behavior. I've done it in the past. It's been effective. But, these women are peers - in terms of age-group anyway. I'm no longer interested in saving everyone I come into contact with - I give everyone a chance to show me that they have basic integrity and respect for others. I give them a second change - sometimes even a third. But after that - I'm done. And, quoting Joni Mitchell, I'm like a mama lion - and I have the desire to protect my territory when I'm able to do so.

When my open hand and open heart are met with veiled (and not so veiled) insults, when I see women abusing other, younger women, I'm not interested in teaching them better behavior. If they haven't learned through life experiences by now - they ain't gonna. Unless each individual is personally and deeply motivated to make changes in their own thought and behaviors - nothing that someone on the outside does is going to make a damn bit of difference.

I spent a good part of my adult life hiding. I know what its like. I know how hard it is to change. I know that changing is worth it. I know that I'm not interested any longer in hiding. My communication is open to the levels permitted in each situation. And if I can't say anything productive - I don't say anything at all. That, unnerving to others, is also a form of communication. It may be silent, but, it's not hidden.

(What did you see in the image above?

Pretty pebbles - or chocolate?

Something hard and dry - or something soft and sweet?)

What's Hidden

2010-01-30T23:06:00.000-07:00

Busy, busy, busy.

And, even better--I'm learning how to deal with it...go with the flow...enjoy most of the moments no matter what I'm doing.

I've created a new website from scratch for my advisor's NSF final grant report on Science, Society, and Superfund (the link is on the sidebar) and its simple but effective. Like me? Perhaps. I've also entirely updated the BHWC website - well, not really entirely - but I did give it a new makeover an reorganized stuff. That was fun. It's on the sidebar as well.

I'm plowing through a renovation of the BHWC database ... it's one of those forever projects, like that poor guy who eternally pushed a boulder up the steep hill--Sisyphus. We all have projects like that.

My classes this semester are really great. I'm so excited by the readings I get to do: wolves, literature, semiotics, linguistics, philosophy, ethics, environmental communication, marxist theory, feminist theory, visual communication, nature writing ... I have four pages of references for my thesis proposal - and it grows every time I pick up a new book and find something else I want to explore.

Last week I had conversations with a few of my professors about how the way we choose to label things often hides other things. Not a real surprise to any of them. So - when I real the phrase "environmental problems" over and over and over and over again, I get cranky. That's because we don't have environmental problems - we have people problems.

The environment isn't going around making trouble--trashing playgrounds, slashing tires, beating up old ladies in the parks, stealing handbags. No, the environment is doing its best to cope with the people. People who are trashing forest, streams, and oceans; people who are slashing the earth wide open to mine for minerals, diamonds, and coal; people are beating up on responsible hiking trails with their four-wheelers; and people ... people are stealing the future.

By saying that we have "environmental problems" we are hiding our own responsibility. When I read that phrase, over and over again, I kept thinking of an abusive relationship. The abuser says "you've got a problem" and the abused one keeps trying to figure out how to change themselves, adapt to the situation, to fix themselves so as not to exacerbate the abuse. But, at some point one of three things can happen: the abuser kills the abused one; the abused one 'snaps' and kills the abuser; or ... the abused one walks away.

Is that where we are now with people and the environment?

Diffraction and Bricolage

2009-12-26T19:50:00.000-07:00

I let myself be swept away this semester - my two jobs, my schoolwork, it all kept me busy busy busy. No time to stop and ...

The semester ended a week ago. I 'handed' my final paper via email. I stopped. I looked around at my self, my apartment, my life. It was all a mess. That's okay. Things fall apart - the center does not hold ... I'm discovering there may not be a center.

As I wrote my last paper I gulped down large bites of different works by Donna Haraway, Bruno Latour, Jacques Derrida, Roland Barthes, Umberto Eco, and others. Honestly, I didn't digest most of what I read, but grasped at half-understood concepts that resonated with ... me?

Earlier in the semester we talked a bit about bricolage in one of my classes. I like the word - it rolls gently off the tongue. I also like the concept - I've talked about it before - my life as a mosaic. Each person, each experience, each thought, each heartache, each aha!, each joy - another tile in the mosaic of who I am. Peer too closely at just one or two - and you lose the pattern.

I learned most about this understanding of life as a mosaic from the man I've been involved with ... on and off ... over the past two years. There is much about him that I delight in - and much that confuses and frustrates me. Like anyone else. I wrote him once that he is as beautiful in his darkness as he is in his light. It's true - to me. And coming to peace with the rich diversity of this man, learning to appreciate ALL the tiles, not just the ones that I prefer, is how I came to understand the concept of bricolage. I'm grateful for that.

In my readings of Donna Harway I came across the concept of diffraction. We all know diffraction - the light shines through a prism and it diffracts into the colors of the rainbow. I haven't explored her writings about it yet -it's on the list for the break - but I'm thinking about what I think she might mean, and I'm making my own meaning as well.

Like the mosaic, diffraction takes into consideration all the colors... voices ... beliefs ... hopes ... of any given topic. Say... wolves. We shine the light through the prism of Wolf and it breaks into many pieces. None of them are more "true" than the others ... none of them are less. They create the whole of this moment in time/space/culture/nature looking through the Wolf prism. I'm looking at the pieces. I'm shuffling them around to create ... not truth ... not a unified whole ... but maybe a new picture.

Meanwhile, I'm taking my days slowly. Waking late, moving quietly, reading, writing, walking, spending time with people who are dear to me, and missing others who are not nearby. I'm listening to music, to the wind, to cars passing by, to the small still voice within. I'm grateful for all I have and hoping for more. I'm looking at all the pieces and shuffling them 'round looking for a new pattern.

In Self We Trust

2009-11-01T20:37:00.000-07:00

I've talked about trust and faith here many times over the years. Trust grows from the word for tree - something that is firmly planted, deeply rooted, will bend in the winds of change and, if it is a strong trust, will not break ... easily.

Self-trust is where I find my deepest roots. We can know our strengths and our weaknesses - accept them all - and shape them into the best that we can be. I'll admit, I forget this foundational understanding too often. I look outside of myself for people and beliefs that I can trust. They always fall through - when I don't remember to start with trusting myself.

Trusting myself means that I pay attention to the signs and signals that I receive ... from my intuition, from my body, from my mind ... and those subtle signals and signs that I receive from others. It means paying attention ... and interpreting those signals as best I can.

So ... when my body over-reacts to my insulin - I need to pay attention and allow the communication to unfold so that I can decide what is best for me. And ... when someone make apparent overtures of friendship - yet offers subtle and not-so-subtle insults, I need to pay attention and allow myself to walk away. Not in anger, not in fear, not in resentment - but in trust that I am doing the best for myself - and so ... for the other as well.

Trust begins with the self, and then it flows outward to include others. I was talking with a friend recently about how difficult it can be to develop trust in the beloved - especially for us older folks who've loved and lost and are fearful of being hurt again. We agreed that its well worth allowing that trust to unfold over time. She is in a wonderful marriage with a decent, good-hearted, thoughtful man. We talked about their marriage, which began as a commitment, and has become a covenant. Because they chose to trust ... and they chose to be trust-worthy.

We also talked about the importance of trusting the community to support the relationship and that commitment/covenant. It's something I've been thinking about recently, because I see, so often, that the community does not always support the trust that develops between two people. In our covetous, I-want-it-right now culture ... many people believe that if they meet someone they're attracted to ... it's okay to pursue a relationship. No matter what. No matter if that person is already in a new relationship or a long-term marriage. Rather than support that good that has been growing ... they come in with their storm of self-absorbed desire, and try to destroy that relationship so that can have it for themselves. Doesn't work that way, though.

If the roots of the relationship are deeply embedded in self-trust, and in trust of the other, that storm will be weathered - though some leaves and branches may break and fall. And, those of us who are not yet fully enlightened can hope that the lightening strikes at the rotten heart of that storm.

Passages

2009-10-30T20:54:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I took a new, big step and gave myself my first injection of insulin. My doctors have been trying to convince me to add that to my treatment plan for diabetes, and I've been resistant to insulin (ha ha). But this doctor is Machiavellian. She would simply stop prescribing my usual medication unless I agreed.

I have many, many issues with the medical industry. I have issues with the fact that they hold us hostages to their decisions about prescriptions and referrals. I have issues with the way that I'm considered a non-compliant patient because I ask questions, I research their suggestions, and I make my own decisions. I have issues with the way I'm labeled "phobic" because I choose not to medicate myself 'just in case' I develop other problems.

I have issues with the fact that every day, and now at least twice a day, I'm required to engaged in self-mutilation - blood sacrifices on the altar of the priesthood of medicine - that is called "blood sugar testing". I have issues that I now know how to inject drugs into my system. I've been bullied into becoming an insulin junkie. I have issues that I, too often, buy into the belief that I just didn't try hard enough ... and it's my fault.

I know ... there are other ways of looking at this situation. I see those too.

I was diagnosed with diabetes almost 20 years ago - and I have tried and rejected some of the medications on the market because of their side effects ... or simply rejected many them because of their main effects! I can accept the possibility that after all these years, my body is simply no longer able to use the simple medication that I've used in the past to control my blood sugar. I can accept the possibility that now I've entered the menopause years, my body needs assistance for homeostasis. I have complicating factors with lupus and severe anemia. I'm growing older, and I'm fine with that.

And I'm grateful.

I'm grateful that, since I'm well below the poverty line for the US of A, I get my medication for $30 instead of $170. I'm grateful that insulin exists as a treatment for this imbalance and that it will probably extend my life and its quality. I'm grateful that the technology is moving along quickly and I don't need a syringe, but can use a pen that allow me to try, ever so hard, to pretend that it isn't a syringe. And, depending on how it goes, I might even find that I'm grateful for my Machiavellian doctor.

Crossing Over

2009-10-23T23:08:00.000-06:00

Two years ago today I crossed over from Wyoming into Montana on my westward journey. Here's what I wrote:

There was a moment when I came 'round a bend and there in front of me were mountains - the real thing - snow capped and distant - so that they almost seemed like a dream at first. I had the sense that we were checking each other out. The expansiveness of South Dakota is immense, but I immediately felt as if I were already part of it as I passed through. These mountains today ... I felt like they were considering me ... "who do you think you are, young lady, to enter on our turf?".

And then, as the sun began to sink toward the western horizon, I crossed over into Montana, the landscape changed once again, and I felt at home. I sped through the shifting of the light and I saw the dark gathering behind me. It was moving faster than I was, and it spread its arms to surround me from behind, catching up with my back windows ... my driver's window ... and still I sped on ... toward the still golden horizon, toward Billings, toward my last night on the road.

It was one of the most glorious and deeply peaceful sunsets I've ever experienced.

I can remember it clearly even now. I can remember that sense of mystery and possibility that accompanied me on my travels across the country.

It hardly seems like two years could have flown by. And yet, I also feel that I've packed more experience in these past two years than in the preceeding twenty. As if I moved from a quietly flowing stream that opened, unexpectedly, into some pretty intense rapids.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

2009-10-13T21:33:00.000-06:00

My dad was born on October 13 1935 in Bronx, New York. His mother, Rose, was the daughter of immigrants from Sicily and his father, also Lawrence Howard, was the son of coal miners in the Appalachian hills of Kentucky.

Unfortunately, I never knew any of them well, though I did love each of them dearly.

My grandmother was a short, bustling, round woman - I remember her smiles, her food, her carved Chinese jewelry box. My grandfather was a tall, slender, quiet man - I remember his smiles, his pipe, the smell of whiskey (or bourbon?), and some of his stories.

When I was a child, I believed my dad was the smartest person I knew. He taught me to love the search for knowledge and understanding. He tried to teach me to stand up for myself, but that was less successful.

When I was a child, I believed my dad could do anything, and he was patient enough to let me work beside him with carpentry, masonry, even some electrical work. He let me tinker, take things apart, and helped me to put them back together. He could throw a ball so high into the sky that it disappeared - and he knew the coolest trick of making it seem like his index finger could split in half. When I had nightmares, I would creep into my parents bedroom to the protection of his presence. There was never a doubt in my mind that he loved me.

As I grew older, I saw more of the man and less of the dad. I saw his flaws clearly, and I understood that he was not the best of men. I saw the he moved through life according to his own set of values - and while they were not consistent with societal norms ... or mine - they were consistent with his own. I respected his consistency, if not his actions and choices. As I became a young woman with a life and family of my own, his choices shifted him onto a path that rarely brought us together. It was a loss for both of us.

In August of 2006 he called to say that the doctor had found cancer in his lung. They did surgery in September to try to stop the spread - but it was too late. Or, the surgery itself had spread the disease. It was small cell carcinoma and quickly spread through his body.

I traveled down from the Berkshires to Manhattan to visit him after that surgery. The room was filled with my sisters, my brother, and my father's wife. The nurses came and went. It was busy and loud. He was trying his best to be self-contained, in-control, and fearless. I'm not a person who competes with others - for attention or anything else. I waited. Eventually, the room emptied and we were left alone, together.

On the train ride down into the city, I thought about what I could say to him. I thought about what I might want to hear from my daughter if I were in a similar condition. And so, I took his hand and said, "I want you to know that I love you. I want you to know that there is peace between us. I want you to know that I'm okay and that you don't have to worry about me - my life is good and getting better." He squeezed my hand in response and that was that.

Six months later, my dad passed on. I had gone to visit him as often as I could during that time span, while dealing with my own illness. I wasn't there the morning he died, but I felt that we had made our peace in that quiet moment together.

I visited with him for Christmas that year, and gave him a diary to keep track of his thoughts and stories. I'd hoped to read it one day. I never saw it again. It was a loss for us both.

Earlier this evening, I sat with some friends and colleagues. I sipped a glass of whiskey in honor of my dad while engaging in some good conversations, and shared some laughter. I've kept my promise to him. I have a good life, it's getting better, and he still doesn't need to worry about me.

Feral Smiles

2009-10-12T21:38:00.000-06:00

In the past week or so I've been in situations where a few different people I know have offered me a feral smile. It's a smile that says "I've got you". Not in a fun, playful sort of way, but with a sense of power-over. I didn't like it. When I could, I spoke out - when I couldn't, I left the situation. No reason to stay. I'm learning to take better care of myself.

I remember reading some time ago about an animal, I think it was a stoat or a polecat, that kills - not for food - but for (what seems to be) enjoyment. The smile I experienced with these people was the kind of smile that I imaged seeing on the face of a predator after catching its prey - but before killing it. Imagine their chagrin when I slipped out from under their nasty paws and strolled away.

This afternoon, I walked the sidetrails west of Tech and thought about animals that kill for enjoyment and not simply for nourishment. And how we judge them.

Just an aside (as if this whole post isn't one long series of asides ....) earlier today I taught a class for one of our professors who was otherwise engaged. The class conversation moved to a discussion about hi-tech surgery: robot who do the actual cutting, etc. while directed by a human surgeon. We were all viscerally opposed to it because, we said, computers and robots can make mistakes. I mentioned that we were "prejudiced" against the robots. The students were shocked to hear the word in the context of something non-human.

And so, with that experience fresh in my mind and ruminating (in a non-predatorial way) on the feral smile, I thought about stoats and polecats and killing. Killing for fun. And our distinctly puritan prejudice against that kind of waste of (our) resources.

We prefer our predators to be mannerly. Like an owl, wise. They're hungy, or they need to feed the owlets, so they swoop down on a little critter, kill it, and eat it. Very utilitarian.

But when a predator oversteps its bounds (according to our standards of polite predator behavior) we take action. Recently a rancher lost 120 sheep in one night to a pack of wolves. The sheep were slaughtered and left out on the range. It must have been a nightmarish experience to look over the landscape turned into wasteland and see that much death and destruction. For no apparent reason! The wolf pack was destroyed.

Unfortunately, I can compare that scene easily to other images I've seen as I research the history of white men and wolves in the American west. I can imagine the native peoples (and perhaps the wolves) with a similar sense of shock and despair when looking out over the landscape and seeing the buffalo slaughters - or the wolf and coyote slaughters - piles of animals that you could climb up like a small hillock. A waste.

Killing for fun. Killing for the pleasure of the stalk, the hunt, the kill. This is primarily a human occupation. I understand the pleasure of the stalk ... the hunt ... even the kill. But, I also buy into the utilitarian mindset. I am prejudiced against trophy hunters, against killing wolves, bears, mountain lions, eagles, and other competitor predators. I believe it should be a useful activity as well - bringing home meat for the family table ... ridding the village of a predator that gets out of hand ... or even our practice of catch and release for fish.

I like to believe that this kind of behavior is somehow fear based - I like to believe it as a kind of mercy and openness to understand the behavior of "the other". But, I know that there is a kink, a twist, something out-of-place in some people and they enjoy, not just the stalk and the hunt, but the kill. Kill comes from the German "qualen" and means: torment.

I could see the little flame of enjoyment in the eyes of my feral smilers as they anticipated some show of torment - in myself, and in the others who were part of these experiences. It was distasteful, to say the least.

Naming

2009-10-03T21:46:00.002-06:00

It is said that if you hold the true name of a person, place, or thing then you have power over it. You can find this in different forms of shamanism as well is the best (and worst) scifi/fantasy novels and other kinds of speculative fiction.

I'm reading a novel about the power of holding names - the power of language. One of the characters says "... language is not a simple act of communication ... it is transformative. What you say becomes what you are, and if you say it well, and clearly, and with will, it will transform the landscape around you." He's talking about magic ... but ...

Today I'm working on my midterm paper for Rhetoric and we are asked to discuss our personal theory of communication. I wrote this before I read the words above: Communication is an interaction within an individuals or between two or more individuals which causes a change in thought, emotion, or behavior.

Language is magical and transformative. It will not necessarily create a floating light in a dark room when the electricity goes out - but it will create the light of understanding in the darkness of confusion. Any time you use language - with yourself or with others - you are creating change. Sometimes imperceptible and sometimes its enormous.

It was the magic of language that drew into reading as child. The authors I read created new worlds for me - Jules Verne taught me to love exploration by bringing me deep into the sea and deeper into the earth; Cherry Ames, Nancy Drew, and the Bobbsey Twins faced dangers and solved mysteries that helped others; C.S. Lewis, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Jerzy Kozinski, and Elie Wiesel asked me to look even more deeply into my self and my beliefs than I knew I could; I followed Taash and his Jesters to magical lands and stayed there with George MacDonald and JRR Tolkien.

I wanted to learn how to use language to create worlds that would give that same pleasure to others. But first, I needed to learn to hold the names of all things with both power and love. I'm still learning. And one thing I know is that when you hold the name of another - not only do you have power over them - they have power over you.

I have mixed feelings about learning the official (scientific) names of the landscapes around me - I could learn the plants and rocks and grasses and trees - but once I do - I am both expanded and limited. The power of naming is often the power of limits.

The naming that I'm learning now, the vocabulary of this profession, allows me to succeed in school and will help me if I choose to go on for a doctorate ... to teach others the mysteries of signs and symbols, of krisis and kairos, of ethos, logos, and pathos. But, I can also feel it reining in the free ranging of my mind. Good? Bad? Neither - it is what it is. I pay attention and decide when to corral my thoughts and when to allow them to run into the unknown distances.

Twilight

2009-09-30T20:02:00.005-06:00

In little moments that I can steal, I've been re-reading Louisa May Alcott novels: Work, Eight Cousins, Rose in Bloom, An Old Fashioned Girl. I hadn't realized how deeply her work had influenced me and my thinking. From behind her characters I see Emerson and Thoreau peeking out with subtle smiles on their faces, waving an acknowledgment of my discovery of how my young self soaked up their philosophies. Some days I feel like a character in one of her stories with my odd combination of old-fashioned and quite radical thoughts.

Last night winter blew into Butte and it lingers into this night. I decided to forego my evening stroll - the sudden jump from the 70s to the 30s was more than I wanted to deal with. Instead, I cooked up a stew with organic Montana beef and potatos from the farmers market. I settled onto the couch with a warm bowl and looked at the piles growing around me ... semiotics ... rhetoric ... wildlife management ... intercultural communication theories ... ethics. On one side of the desk is the Jesuit, Michel de Certeau writing about every day life and on the other side is the radical feminist Donna Harawy with her manifesto on companion species. Everywhere I turn, I have the opportunity to immerse myself in a different universe of thought.

What do I want to do? Drowse in front of a fire with music playing and my beloved nearby. I want to watch the flames dance and fall into a reverie that leads me into my own world.

Instead, I quietly wash up the dinner dishes and sit down to outline a chapter in one class, to fill out the outline of a paper for another class, I see a journal article on Red Riding Hood peeking out from my notebook that is hiding another article on the Greimas analysis and I want to read them both.

I do appreciate all this. I am deeply aware of what a privilege it is to be sitting in a warm apartment that I have, over the past year and more, made more beautiful for me with plants, curtains, artwork, and and more. To be faced with the choices of scholarly pursuits rather than faced with the choices of how to put a roof over my head and food on the table.

I sat talking with a professor today about the meaning of meaning and I wondered to myself - what will I be suited for when I leave this place? I have already been changed so much by the glimpses of these different worlds. I know that so much more change is on the way. In another class we talked about our culture shifting away from a belief in unstoppable progress and growth to an understanding and acceptance of our limits - as individuals as well as culturally.

I've been thinking about my own limits and learning to not just respect them, but appreciate them. I'm not yet 'old' and I'm no longer young. Approaching the twilight of life perhaps? Perhaps. It is my favorite part of the day - that time between day and night. Here in Montana, the twilight seems to last for hours the sky slowly slowly emptying of color to leave the stark shimmer of stars in the black endless skies of night.

I enjoy the borderlands - the in-between states of being - neither here nor there - always leaving... always coming home.

Equinox Musings

2009-09-23T20:56:00.002-06:00

Yesterday I had an evening meeting in Jackson (Montana). It's not so far as the crow flies - but instead the road meanders along the Big Hole River and around the Pioneer Mountains. If all goes well (as it always does) it takes just over 1.5 hours to get there. The 'traffic' I might encounter is generally a rancher moving a herd of cattle across the highway from one grazing field to another and might increase my drive by half an hour or so. It's a soothing ride and a wonderful opportunity to allow my mind to wander from topic to topic spurred by the landscapes that I pass through.

It's usually dark by the time I go home, so rather than return along the meandering road, I continue on toward Dillon and then head back up the highway - home to Butte. Last night, halfway between Jackson and Dillon, I stopped the car, turned off the lights, and turned my gaze upward. The stars spilled across the sky and filled it to the brim - and I was filled with awe and a sense of grace.

We've been talking about the sublime in my rhetoric class. And the (to me) obscene question of whether advertising can evoke the sublime was raised. No, says Emma, it cannot. It cannot be created opportunistically by another - it is a deeply personal moment, like last night, that takes you unawares and never leaves you. That sky, unexpected in its richness and fullness, will never leave me.

There have been other moments sublime - some inspired by my experiences in the natural world - some evoked in simple experiences with others.

The experiences yesterday of my sauntering drive along the river, the meeting of people with different perspectives who are able to listen respectfully with one another, and my star-filled drive home was important to me. I had, recently, lost my balance - my equilibrium - and began careening off-course. In fact, I could barely remember the course I had chosen beause I allowed my days to become filled with too many tasks and responsibilities and too little joy or laughter.

Sometimes a gentle reminder will be enough to adjust my course back toward myself. Sometimes I have to come up against something harder. Like a visit to the emergency room a week or so back, alone and frightened. Like a request to edit an article that had been written about me back in the spring - an article written about a me who was filled with hope and courage.

So the pendulum swings for each of us in our own personal ways. The sun swims east to west on her daily journey and shifts from north to south and back again as season follows season. We also move into our own west, shifting back and forth as we adjust our course after each experience pushes us one way or another.

I am grateful that I have the insight to be aware of when I am off-course and I am grateful that I have the courage to make the necessary changes rather than continuing walking down the wrong road.

And as I write, Bruce Cockburn sings out:

One day I walk in flowers
One day I walk on stones
Today I walk in hours
One day I shall be home

Remember

2009-09-10T15:51:00.002-06:00

Wow - has it really been that long?

On the one hand - I can say that my life is richer and fuller than it has ever been. On the other hand - I can also say that my life is pretty crazy with running from one activity to the next project to the next committment.

I seem to remember saying that this semester I would take on less .. and yet ... I'm working 40 hours/week between two jobs and I'm taking 13 credits of course work. Yes... 3 credit are not official - but there's still plenty of time, energy, and effort invested in it.

Is it worthwhile? Yes. Every single bit of it. Is it overwhelming? Yes. Almost every single day.

The mix is a little complicated by obligations from the summer that have lingered into the semester. I just (almost) finished a website that I took on for an acquaintance (check it out: www.nativeplantsmontana.com).

Yesterday I sat with two of my professors and they asked "What is your thesis? What are you working on?" I didn't know what to answer. I haven't taken the time out to figure it out. And that phrase "take the time out". Wow. Take the time out of what? My life. My busy, running here, running there, always-on-to-the-next-thing life.

I know that I'm fulfilling my obligations to everyone else. I do the coursework, I get my tasks done for the Watershed Commitee (www.bhwc.org - I did that website too!) and for my on-campus job. But, I'm not fulfilling my obligations to myself. Sure ... I still go each evening to the trail to walk - but there's been a less appreication than in the past. My head is full of worries and the occasional woe. Instead of allowing the silence, the winds, the ravens, and the grasses to enter my experiences - I take along my phone and try to fit more into what should be the time for less.

This afternoon, I left campus early. I came home to fix myself a good and simple meal. I took the time to finish the native plant website that's been hanging over my head, and now, I'm taking the time for this. A little self-reflection. A little self-consideration. A reminder of what I love.

Last night, instead of rushing on to my next project - I stopped. I realized that I've just been stuffing myself full of information and not taking the time to integrate it into my knowledge base, or myself. I picked one class and reviewed my notes. I made a committment to ME to do this every day. Stop. Breathe. Reflect. Consider. Integrate. Remember.

Last night, instead of falling asleep to rhetoric, or semiotics, or image politics ... I picked up my new book of Mary Oliver poems - Red Bird. It's been sitting in my apartment for well over a month now - and I had not even opened it. Each page offered me ravens and bears, turtles and ducklings, clouds and wind, rain and flowers. Each page reminded me - yes... stop ... breathe ... reflect ... consider ... integrate ... remember .... who you are.

Tenure

2009-08-02T11:42:00.002-06:00

July Ghosts

2009-07-16T22:49:00.004-06:00

Halfway down the trail I paused, sat on one of the small rocks that are not entirely successful at keeping 4-wheelers off the trail, and I simply experienced the twilight. The sounds of the highway were muffled, and the birdsong was sporadic. The wind rustled through the grasses, and then, a fox rustled by - he too paused when he caught sight of me - and then he moved on. A few moments later, two smaller foxes scurried by in the other direction, glancing at me out of the corners of their eyes.

On my way back up the hill, I like to sit for a moment at the crossroads by the mining museum - there's a little metal bench that gives a perfect view of the Pintlers and every evening it's different and beautiful. This evening did not disappoint - the skies a rosy pink just above the horizon. That time of evening is full of rich silhouettes - and I noticed something unusual up the road - a bird on a fencepost? No .. a deer had paused and was just stepping delicately across the road to disappear into the evening.

The past week has been busy - friends visiting, the folk festival, and the annual picnic for the watershed committee. I appreciated the rising heat today - the slower day - the time to do what I needed to do at my own pace.

July has, in the past, been a challenging month for me - and this past weekend - a challenging set of memories for me. July 10th is the anniversary of my first husband's death, and the 12th is the anniversary of his funeral. July 11th, oddly enough, is the anniversary of the divorce from my second husband. When I received the notice of that particular court date - it sealed my understanding of the finality of the ending of that relationship - bookended, as it was, by the memories of death.

I've written about the re-claiming and re-invention of self that has gone on for me since I've settled into Butte. Many others have noticed a similar experience as they make a new home, a new life here. Last year, my first summer in Butte, was the first year that the 10th - 12th of July wasn't centered around mourning - but instead - centered around joy and celebration. The folk festival was a significant part of that, as was my involvement with the arts foundation and the community that I'd discovered.

This year - I again celebrated Life rather than death. The opening night I danced to the rich Chicago blues - I was surrounded by the landscape that I have come to love so well - and I reconnected with a friend who has also become dear to me. The memories I carried gently through the weekend were no longer bitter - they were simply sweet.

Whale Watching

2009-07-12T11:09:00.003-06:00

And for another perspective ... read this fascinating article in today's NYTimes on Whales.

Blossoms

2009-07-05T12:05:00.002-06:00

In Butte America, the big public fireworks display is held on July 3 over the Big Butte. It's also the highlight of the community fireworks season - when the public display is over ... the private displays respond ... and the entire city is full of the thunderous delight in what Barbara Kingsolver describes as "men trying to mate with the sky".

Last year on the fourth of July I had the good fortune of being caught up in a thunderstorm that led me to take shelter on the porch of the World Museum of Mining. Yesterday evening, I walked down the trail at sunset and watched the skies in the west full of lights and clouds and glorious beauty. I turned back up as darkness began to settle in the valley and watched the city, spread out below me, begin to blossom with the colored lights. I listened to the sounds from the 'flats' that was like popcorn in the microwave and the louder blasts of the uptown celebrators in the neighborhoods surrounding the trail.

I decided to take shelter, once again, at the Museum. I settled into a chair, put my feet up, and watched the blossoms of color below me in the city and above me from the Butte. The fireworks were non-stop, bursting out and fading away - the sound following the the light. The child in me delighted in the experience. The adult in me considered ... how many of those celebrators gave any particular thought to the meaning of the day - a decision by famous men (and mostly unknown women) 233 years ago to take hold of freedom. Freedom from what they considered tyranny. Freedom to choose for themselves. At each blossom created by hundreds of unknown souls - did they think of anything more than the freedom to set fires in the night?

Earlier in the day I walked over the weekly farmers' market and was enticed by a 50% off sign - I brought home a new plant. This led me to look over the plants I'd been growing in the apartment over the past year and more - and I realized that they needed a little freedom themselves - freedom to grow! I ran down to the flats to pick up potting soil, planters, and yes - I was tempted by yet more plants.

I spent the afternoon happily gardening in the shady comfort of my kitchen. Separating and replanting my old friends and creating healthy homes for my new friends. This past winter solstice I planted a hope ... it grew, but never flowered, and finally died. Some hopes are like that. So ... I put it into the compost bin, washed out the planter, and put a new plant in its place.

This plant was already full of blossoms - some were fully open to the sun - others were still tight buds waiting for the right touches to open. The blossoms were the same tawny color as my favorite fireworks from the night before.

The rabbi and the provacateaur

2009-06-23T16:36:00.003-06:00

I've had a bit of a summer flu the past few days - not enough to really knock me off my feet - just enough to slow me down, muddle my thinking a bit, and keep me a bit more quiet and contained.

I've been thinking about being more quiet and contained anyway ... well, maybe not actually contained - maybe a bit more focused on refining / redefining where, how, and with who (whom?) I spend my time.

It's been a whirlwind of a year (and a bit more) since I settled myself into Butte. I've had the great joy of befriending many - some who've become integral to my life, and others who've fallen by the wayside. And, it seems that each week there are more who enter onto the stage of my life - bit players, leading men, supporting ladies - we play together for a time - and for that time - it's good. Some have left the stage too soon for me ... others have overstayed their welcome ... and on the whole, the stage is full and rich and interesting. My days are full from when I wake in the morning til I finally sleep at night, and most of it is fascinating to me - my work, my studies, my friends.

But ... I miss me. I miss the long hours rolling by when I can write and dream and walk and contemplate and simply be. I have images and poems in my mind that want to come out, stroll around, and find a place to live together. I have songs that want to be written, played, sung aloud. I feel the pull toward solitary spots where I can watch the river or the clouds flow by me and my mind can follow along.

I read an article in the NYTimes yesterday on six reasons to grow old. It's written by a 90-year old rabbi. Now, he's got 40 years on me - so there are things I agree with ... and things I don't (yet?). Gratitude and tranquility are both states of mind and being that I enter into more easily and freely than I have ever before. There is so much in my life to be grateful for - and - those moments of tranquility are what allow me to enter into the experiences of my life more freely and passionately.

He writes of the "cooling of passion" which I don't see as a benefit. I find that the older I get, the more passionate I feel about being engaged with the process of living ... of being awake and alive in the world. In this world.

In the Sunday book review I came across an article about "The Vindication of Love" where the author speaks about how failure can be more sumptuous than success ... where success is seen as drifting along in a dull, safe life and failure are those moments where we engage in the blaze of passion that may not last ... but those moments change us forever.

There is - I know - a balance between the rabbi and the provacateaur. Maybe that will be my summer journey.

Legacy

2009-06-21T10:23:00.001-06:00

(you can click to enlarge)

Marbles

2009-06-13T19:51:00.004-06:00

It was one of those unexpectedly perfect days that that ease into life when you're not looking.

I headed over to the Farmers Market a little later than usual and found some beautiful kale at the Hmong vegetable stand and then headed over to the 'new' Venus for tea, a chat with Dan, and to sit out on Main Street to listen to Marko and write.

For a small time, the corner of Park and Main was the picture of a small, vibrant city - with music, arts, crafts, eager and hopeful vendors, happy customers and browsers moving through the area. The sun was warm, the air was cool, and I was entirely content.

I walked home, packed up my knapsack with water and cd's and headed over to Divide to pick up Jeanne and then down to Melrose to visit a while with the folks from the Big Hole River Foundation. I sat at the river's side chatting with Michelle and Alyse, Hans and Steve, Sheila, Mike, and Corky. We ate bbq venison and drank home-brewed beer and shared stories and jibes, laughter and silence, and I let the sound of the water carry my cares downstream.

At one point, Sheila handed a lovely blue marble to Jeanne and Michelle handed one to me. It's part of a celebration of those who 'live like they love our blue planet'. (you can check it out at bluemarbles.org) Here in Montana, I've been privileged to befriend and work with many who live this way - loving our planet - doing what they can in small and large ways to contribute to the ongoing creation of a better place for us all.

Jeanne and I headed out after a while to visit with Linda at the Wise River Club to set up lunch for an event later this month, and then back to Jeanne's place. It was wonderful to sit with her on the deck, listening to the river rushing by, chatting about this and that. Her husband and son headed off to float down to Melrose - and we declined - not wanting to be caught in the possible rainstorms that were hovering nearby.

This morning, I ran into a friend I hadn't seen in months. When I told her about the busy semester I'd had - the commitments I'd made - I could see the judgement flowing across her face. "I would never take that much on" she said. And I understood. I might have said something similar a few years ago. I would have said it believing that "that much" was somehow separate from me, apart from me. Now, I understand that its all me. Expressing myself.

I can choose to commit to weeks like this past one where I worked most of the day and late into the wee hours of the night/morning - and yet found time to take breaks for chatting with friends, long walks, going out for a beer. I worked because it was interesting - it was fun - it was my way of contributing to my love for this planet ... in the ways that I'm able. Work ... school ... volunteering ... playing ... its all me. I'm not taking on too much ... I'm just living my life.

Sometime in the next day or so, I'll run into the next person who will claim this little blue marble sitting in my pocket. I don't know who's hands it's passed through - or who it will go to - but I know it will be moving among those who truly care. I like being part of that community.

Beauty

2009-06-10T17:18:00.006-06:00

Yesterday evening I was out on the trail - the sunset was gorgeous - the colors rich, the clouds reflecting light and shadow - the air was cool ... almost chill ... and the birds were calling out their evening songs. It was ... beautiful.

I spent the weekend at Yellowstone - almost three full days driving through the park, stopping often to witness the wildlife, the landscape, the sun .. rain .. snow. It was ... beautiful.

Monday, I spent most of the day touring the lower Big Hole River - I drove through stunning landscapes with the river high and wild below and beside me. It was ... beautiful.

So last night I wondered, as I watched the sunset over the Pintlers and soaked in the experience as fully as possible - can there be so much beauty in my life that it becomes ... common? So that it no longer moves me?

I don't think so. What I came to understand was that this is how it 'should' be. For me, anyway. Surrounded by beauty - bathed in beauty - open and enjoying beauty each and every day. The grand beauty of mountains and rivers ... the tiny beauty of desert wildflowers ... the intimate beauty of a handclasp ... the commonplace beauty of the sparrow.

Here is a segment of the Navajo Night Chant that we've seen so often:

In beauty may I walk.
All day long may I walk.
Through the returning seasons may I walk.
On the trailed marked with pollen may I walk.
With grasshoppers about my feet may I walk.
With dew about my feet may I walk.
With beauty may I walk.
With beauty before me, may I walk.
With beauty behind me, may I walk.
With beauty above me, may I walk.
With beauty below me, may I walk.
With beauty all around me, may I walk.
In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, lively, may I walk.
In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, living again, may I walk.
It is finished in beauty.
It is finished in beauty.

And here are a very few of the photos that I took on Sunday morning as the snow fell heavily around us.

Ch... Ch... Ch... Changes

2008-04-12T20:30:00.000-06:00

Its been a long, strange, and delightful journey over the past months and I've enjoyed writing in my blog to inform, entertain, and perhaps provoke you (to think...)

As a part of this new phase of life, moving back to Butte, settling in, returning to school after many many years, etc etc - I've decided to move my blog from google to blogspot. If you're interested in continuing to read about my adventures, thoughts, contemplations, and occasional rants - please check out my new blog at:

http://emmaintothewest.wordpress.com

I have truly appreciated the support from each of you, in your unique and individual ways. I am truly fortunate in my friends.

much love to all of you...
Emma