Rain

Each early summer, I write a letter to the firstborn daughter of one of my greatest friends.  I consider it a privilege, and since I haven't written much exclusively here of late, wanted to share - with her mother's generous permission - this year's message.  I took her name out, and replaced it as well as I could, but if the placeholders for the proper nouns sound awkward, this is why.  

Or, alternatively, it could just be me.

--------------------------------

My Dear, Sweet Girl,

 

You must hear this so often from your mom and dad, but you are growing up so, so quickly, before our very eyes.  I was able to see you this spring, which, though the circumstances were desperately far from ideal, was nonetheless a gift to me, and I was amazed at how tall you are, how beautiful your smile is, and how you are now beginning to become a young woman, rather than the little girl I remembered you to be.

I am writing this from our cabin nestled in the woods of northwestern Maine, where my husband is a Camp Director, and where we spend the summer months.  It is a beautiful place, and I hope that somehow, at some point, you will be able to see it in person.  If I ever doubt that there is an indescribably large and loving God, I simply have to think of this place, and I lose all doubt that it is true.  The world is often ugly and dark and disappointing, but nature is a priceless gift, and it is displayed in generous and flamboyant ways.   Wherever you find yourself as a young adult, I hope that you make time and find ways to wander in the outdoors.  I promise that it will nourish your soul.

Two things are happening here at this moment.  First, it is raining outside – so much more than a drizzle.  Coming down against my screen door is cats-and-dogs rain; the kind that thunders on the porch and amasses in puddles the size of swimming pools.   It is the type of rain that you dream about when you hike in the desert; the kind that you instinctively want to run from, and yet also the kind you recklessly want to run out into with arms open wide. 

Second, our faucet is leaking.  It is drip-drip-dripping into a two-liter soda bottle that I have strategically placed beneath it.  It has been leaking all morning (signs of a bigger problem, I’d guess), and I have been catching water in vessels of all shape and size in an effort to preserve it for things like flushing the toilet, washing dishes and making tea.  However, as I write this letter, the soda bottle has reached its fullness, and water is spilling out over its mouth and flowing down its side in a clean, single stream.  It is literally filled to overflowing.   It cannot hold even one drop more.

Life is like this sometimes.  There are periods in living when it seems like there are challenges pouring down by the bucketful.  When pain and obstacles refuse to stop coming, and they are overwhelming the space you have reserved for them, with no respect for your capacity or the strength of your walls.  It can feel like there is too much, almost, of everything, and just as I would feel if I were in this storm outside, you simply want a place to get out of the rain.

I often wish this weren’t true.  Life tends to feel simple when the skies are clear – love the people you are with, work hard at whatever you are given, and enjoy the small things [for they are the easiest to overlook] – but sooner or later, the heavens cloud over, and something moody and grave rolls over the mountain, blacking out those clear skies.  It is a difficult truth: you cannot run from trouble.  If not faced, it will always be waiting nearby, like that extra five pounds or spinach in your teeth.  Ironically, this is a fact we can all prove by looking at the lives around us, of people who have tried to escape it.  Avoiding obstacles, avoiding pain – this is always an illusion, because it is fact:  you will have trouble in this world.  It cannot be wished away.  It cannot be hidden from.  It will not disappear if you close your eyes.  Please, sweet girl, do not run from it.  Trouble is a patient adversary; it will wait for you, and will find when you when you’ve forgotten to be ready.

There is no easy answer to the affliction you are bound to experience in your life.  I wish there were.  When you face your pain, I guarantee that the grief will be sharp and deep and seem without end.  A challenge may require far more from you than you imagine having to give.  But please know that in the course of history, you stand in the company of a courageous assembly who have gone before you and have also overcome, and that, like a lighthouse on a rocky shore, you were built to withstand such a storm.  And also, like that lighthouse, know that your resilience will depend wholly on how tightly your footing is fastened to that stone.

I hope that you find something to believe in.  This is my most precious wish for you.   In my opinion, belief is like the mast of a ship in high swells or a compass in the deep forest.  In my life, I have been able to do more, with more freedom, enabled by a notion of belonging and purpose, than I could ever have imagined otherwise.  Granted, I haven’t climbed any Himalayan mountain or overcome a life-threatening injury, but I have adventured in my own ways, and been challenged and afraid and still felt incredible joy.  Human beings are capable of wonderful and fearfully astonishing things, Sweet Girl, but we are bound by skin and blood and bone and inevitably, we will swell and bruise and break.  Our bottle will overflow.  Our vessel will snap.

There are things that are inevitably beyond our control, and outside of our reach.  We are touched by violence and hatred, by disease and by injustice.  We are unfortunately, as a human race, also quite often the cause.  So while I believe firmly that there is a divine locket in each of us – a space designed to hold a sacred truth – I don’t feel that we have the truth in ourselves.  I know myself too well, and have searched there too long to think that I contain the answers I seek.  I think we have to go out to find the truth.  But – and this is the most important detail – the truth wants to be found.

Seek something in which to believe.  This world is complicated.  It is in one hand lush and awe inspiring, and in the other desolate and heartbreaking.  It will disappoint and hurt you.  Find what will ground you, and give you hope.  Search for what will fit precisely in that locket, for what will never leave you.  Find the stone on which to lay your lighthouse. 

And if and when you are curious to know where I have laid mine, I hope I will be here for you to ask.  This letter is written in a year of trial and deep sorrow for your family – a year when the rain came and was relentless.  I know that both they and I would cast our wishes to spare you from anguish like they have endured (and as their love is greater for you, I imagine their wishes also to be).  But each of us knows that like gravity, trouble is bound to come.  You will never climb a mountain unless you risk a scratch, unless you dance with disaster, just a little, and life is no different.  So what I aspire for you to learn through this year’s letter is that though your control in life is limited and your reach will fall short of changing your circumstance, what your soul believes in will determine your ability to overcome. 

Seek your hope, Sweet Girl.  Seek the truth. 

Find your shelter from the rain.

Winter Is Ever In Her Spring, And I Shall Flail Away Like An Inflatable Man

I've been reading through a collection of Henry David Thoreau's short works, a volume that includes A Winter's Walk, Reform and the Reformers, Walden, Walking, Ktaadn, and Life without Principle, among a number of others.  I just wrapped up Ktaadn, and - this being my first experience of it - have been captivated by his description of these northern woods that C and I live amongst.  

Though clearly part of Thoreau's shtick, I am perpetually drawn in by his manner of highlighting nature’s duality, her quiet resplendence and utter hostility: that she will both warmly invite us into her bosom and yet, on some other occasion and for no apparent reason, will attempt to quite literally eat us alive.   Could it be that we twist our ankle on a tree root because we unconsciously crushed a trillium or that we glimpse a wild porcupine because we recently planted a Douglas fir?  That would be pure and utter superstition.  Right?  I acknowledge that this tactic of personifying the earth’s sweet and ugly side should get old, or familiar, or at least lose some of its power, but alas, I'm a sucker for it.  It's my siren's song, and I can't stay away.

My sister, R, on the pond

The Great Thaw has begun in the forest.  I am not saying that warm temperatures and melting snow will be a normative feature of our approaching weeks, only that the psychotic swing of temperatures has begun to dip into a reasonable, life-giving range, and that I believe (likely a foolish decision) we will begin to see a slow stepping-down of the stern winter rule, and that Lady Spring will draw up her gown and begin her slow, mesmerizing walk into the spotlight.  Meanwhile I’ll be doing the used-car lot-inflatable-man dance every time I walk to the dumpster.  And falling on my can.  Frequently.

It all makes you wonder, are we intended to live in such places?  At this point, the question is moot, of course, but still… do you ever think it?  And not only here, but even further north?  Because – NEWSFLASH – people are living up there.  And they are not just surviving, but building cities.  They are dragging toboggans on the sidewalks and cooking crepes.  It’s magical, so much so that I suspect it is very well another dimension altogether, and not just Canada.  That would be boring.

A few weeks ago, my sister, R, drove her little 5-speed northward, past the river, through the woods, and yes, even up our icy 3-mile driveway to stay (and play) with us for a week.  She got to experience so many things that we habitually take for granted: pure stillness, first tracks through the snow, snowmobiling on the pond, broken plumbing, washing ladles with the Hobart (which is also known as being washed by the Hobart), and again, stillness, because anything that good deserves a second mention.  A highlight of her visit was an overnight trip we took to Canada. 

Folks, our northern friends know how to live.  They don’t plow the snow off of walkways.  Instead, they offer to rent you a sled, because being dragged across the snow is far more fun than a simple walk in the cold.  They have civic events that revolve around ice and shivering.  They preserve spaces in which to explore the winter world, and they facilitate its good use.  They somehow manage to house bees on their rooftops in February and in an act of heavenly goodness, use menthol in their steam rooms, a thing you should consider for your own, assuming it is not an imaginary steam room, like mine is (it's very large, if you were wondering).  They also make entire bodysuits out of fishnet, which seems rather hazardous considering the nasty weather, but that slides because everything else seems so cool.

And so the drive of man is relentless.  He finds a manner in which to survive the biting cold and rash, unforgiving weather.  In the most unlikely of circumstances, he discovers how to mess about in the snow, enjoying the winter conditions in the same way that a small child goes bananas at the threshold of a playground. 

So as the sap races from the sugar maples and memories of subzero temperatures fade into the recesses of my mind, I look forward to the gentle whispers of spring. She has not arrived, but is arriving all the same.  And I shall wave my arms like a used-car lot-inflatable man to beckon her forth.  And she will come.  

And soon after, I imagine, she will spin on her heels and leave.  But that is how such things go, I suppose.

She's Got An Icy Grip, That One

This winter has contained everything you can imagine: whipping winds, blizzard white-outs, sub-zero weeks, slipping and sliding, and certainly the occasional power outage.  There was a time recently when the temperature, from one Monday to the next rose a full 70 degrees.  And I can't quite remember, but I'm pretty sure that it dropped at least 50 degrees again in the next two days.  The weather has been awesome.

Beautifully terrifying.  Terrifyingly beautiful.

Terrifying as an icy river, while you sit bobbing in your kayak, taking a momentary break to float gingerly downstream, perched just so, knowing that you are always on the verge of catching an edge and embarking on an arctic triathlon (paddle, swim, mountaineer), minus the survival suit.  But beautiful.

Beautiful, like a friend described at lunch the other day, is that moment when you need to venture down from your bear stand deep in the woods. But terrifying, with the nerve-wracking knowledge of the sow and two cubs milling around somewhere beyond your eyesight.  Don't worry though, they can see you just fine.

It is standing at the altar - beautiful.  Or rather, waking up a week later in bed to the realization that you had better get used to the pulsing aroma of that particular vintage of morning breath, because it is a gift from your soulmate, offered to you, forever.  Terrifying.

These are the sort of things to which we pay pretty sweet lip service, in hindsight.  After we survive them, of course.

How cool!  
Adventure of a lifetime!  
You wouldn't believe...!
What a story!

However, in that moment of the thrill, as you float down a river at 11PM with the sound of an upcoming rapid pounding against your eardrums and a full moon illuminating the surface foam, you can't decide whether it is literally-the-coolest-thing-you-have-ever-done or if it will literally be the last thing you ever accomplish in this lifetime.

The weather is that sort of deadly mistress.  My husband was in a car accident recently, and for me, the most alarming feature of the incident was not the rolling of the vehicle (no), the speedy launch into the woods (no), or even the potential for strandedness on an what used to be an old logging road to Canada (no).

By now, you are likely questioning what kind of wife I am.  Unnerving, isn't it?

What was most terrifying to me was the -15 degree evening temperature, plus windchill.  That fact, combined with the others is what still gives me a sour feeling in my stomach when I recall the day.  Would he be able to make the one mile walk to our driveway, then the three mile hike home?  In the dark?  In the biting, snapping cold and the snow?  This is the kind of cold that wraps its icy hands around the base of your neck and threatens to squeeze out your last breath as lightning fast as falling out of a tree knocks the wind from your lungs.  It's so cold that you gasp instantly as if you were standing naked in a shower of ice cubes.  You blink often because the mucous covering your eyes tends, like every other liquid, to freeze.  Your cheeks don't sting at this point because the surface nerves have stopped functioning, and you can't zip the neck of your jacket because the dexterity in your fingers is reduced to what would be playing the piano with ten blocks of cheese tied to your hands.

Thankfully (miraculously), C arrived home unscathed, thanks to a humbling amount of timely provision (friends, emergency personnel, kind sheriff, snacks), but the occasion serves as another reminder of the awesome dual nature of our weather:

it's terror, it's beauty.

This is precisely why we love the river.

Being in nature.

Living in the woods.

Taking risks.

Why exactly? Because, simply put - we cannot control these things.  The river, nature, the woods - they exist outside of our reach, and the moment you or I think that we have them under our thumb - the second the paddler lifts that blade out of the water and relaxes her grip - these things will level us with the strength of a thousand man-made engines.

And why on earth would this be good?

Because it reminds us of the greatness of what we've already been given in relation to the smallness of what we try to please ourselves with.  It reminds us that there is a great symphony being played around us all the time, but that we are busy banging on a piano with cheese block fingers.

And it promises that we will hear that beautiful music

if only we would stop making such terrible noise.

Someone Send Me Nine Fly Swatters & A Pair Of Blaze Orange Laces - It's Fall!

Flies ruin everything.



Seriously, for those of us on The Compound, the F in fall stands for flies: nasty, swarming little critters with the irritating tendency to give up the ghost all at once and die in mass graves on our tables, shelves, and window frames, just as if someone had poured a bowl of them out onto our furniture.  This massive crash landing only seems to occur when we have an unseasonable [not to mention, merciful] spell of warmth in this already wintry climate.  (Ice in September, yes.)

I hope the Hawaiian Islands have their own version of this sort of thing, because otherwise, that's just not fair.  Not only is the infestation disgusting, but apparently, it's also our fault.

Just ask the Log Doctor.  Yeah, you read that right: the Log Doctor.   This expert seems to think that we need to reseal the windows.  Or buy some fly tape in bulk, which i've been considering heavily.

Lest you think we have been bested by our kamikaze friends, rest assured.  These few and glorious warm days we've had since September have not gone unappreciated.  We've swam laps.  We've paddled rivers.  We've arched archery.

And we've run.  Shockingly, we've gone and run some more.

I run in spells, which is to say, in stretches.  Which I guess is also to say that I'm astonishingly undisciplined, and can't stick with a habit for more than a matter of weeks.  If you don't believe me, ask someone I hang out with.  I'll crochet twenty-five tiny hats in a week, then quit cold turkey.  I'll paint my fingernails a different color every three days, then stop for six months.  I'll start growing my hair out... then cut it to an inch and a half.  I'll wake up early to work out... then, a few days later when I realize that the other option is to stay in bed, I'll drop my ambition like an anchor and slam the snooze button.

So I guess what I'm saying is that I don't do long-term discipline, but I totally rock at being impulsive.

I'm sure I'll be back to my normal (read: lazy) self soon, but I've been in a bit of a running mood these last weeks.  This is fantastic, especially considering two things:

1)  C and I leave for our third annal Utah Camping Spectacular in just over a week.  The air is so much thinner up on those canyon ledges, and if there's any way that I can lessen the amount of huffing, puffing and splotchy-skinned embarrassment I will undoubtedly endure in view of the general public - well, it's a gift I'll take, thank-you-very-much.

2)   You might think this is premature, or that I'm just exaggerating again (Me?  Exaggerate?), but here's the truth: winter's a-coming.  And, based on some fairly consistent past experience, I tend to get a little "soft" during the snowy season.  You might call it getting "doughy", "jiggly", or even "squishy".  C and I just call it "having a little extra".  A little extra what, you ask?

A little extra of a lot of things, actually.  That's the problem.  It's like putting on one of these, only it's not a suit.

source

It's just more of me.

So, even if I run in phases, i'll still count it as running.  And even if the Fly-pocalypse occurs only on floridian days, I'd still rather have the buzzing, balmy respite than submit to a seven-month period of looking more and more like I live in a network of underground tunnels.

Sometimes you can't win 'em all.

And sometimes you just can't win.   But on those rare occasions when you're in the lead - albeit, temporarily - don't complain.  Just bask in the glory.  Because that - that - is your moment.

Until a fly lands in your coffee. Then you know you're back.

Break A Sweat

You know it's a good run when you have to turn around because there's a moose in the trail.

Run count:

Pheasant - check.
Angry Squirrels - check.
She-Moose - check.
Traffic Light - not yet.

Change Is Like Quarters And Dimes

It's been a little over a year now since C and I moved north.  As I look back, I can see that some of my personal behaviors have changed - a number of them significantly so.  Still, there are parts of life that have remained the same, which is a surprising fact on its own.  This whole experience has seemed a little like being born over again and having to figure things out from scratch.

In a good way.

Non-shockers:

• I drive less... much less, but I haven't actually found that I walk more.  I just... don't... go... anywhere.
• I've stopped shaving my legs so frequently.  When it's -20* and God has given you natural long underwear, you don't go around just lopping it off in the name of being en vogue.  We are so past vogue.  

We're so far past it that we're behind it again.

• I drink (if it's possible) more coffee than before, but I don't pay $4.25 for it.  I fill up at the grocery store, right next to the Chester Fried Chicken case, for like, one whole dollar.
• I have no idea if skinny jeans and Ray Bans are still trendy.  Are they?  Or can we finally move on to suspenders and Muck boots?
• I cook more.  That is, unless it's summer, in which case I don't cook at all, which is glorious.
• I am less driven into madness by Wal-Mart (less is still some, mind you).  One-stop shopping is kind of a big deal up here, even for newbies.
• I can still buy local eggs.
• I don't miss pop radio.   Would you?
• I am still learning the difference between Sunday Lunch and Sunday Dinner... or is it Supper?

Shockers:

• I've started wearing eye shadow.  This is a little ironic, considering 1) I work in my basement and mostly go out only to get the mail, and 2) I'll have to drive an hour and a half to buy more when I run out.  

Or, more likely, i'll just quit wearing eye shadow.

• I don't lock my door.  I used to do that, back when there was a reason to lock your door... or someone to lock outside of it.  Now, I mostly want to lock people in.  Visitor-people.  This could be you.
• Is that a squirrel in the freezer?  Oh, yes - yes it is.  

Yes. 

It.

Is.

• I have a bird feeder.  It's the middle of nowhere, in 0* weather, and I can't get any birds to eat at my bird feeder.  What are they thinking?
• Instead of getting a real hair cut, this morning I just had C snip off "the mullet part" before I got in the shower.
• I have cable [and a hipster somewhere falls down dead every time I turn it on].
• I can purchase marrow bones, chicken livers and Snow Cap lard at the same place I buy my shoes.
• I find myself racing out of the house, at 11PM, in only my pajamas, to catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights.

I know what you're wondering and no, I haven't seen them.  

Cold for nothing.

• I have driven a front-end loader, albeit only for a minute or two, and I was mostly just holding the brake.  They can't take that away from me.
• My friends enter raffles for MACHINE GUNS.  You know who you are.  

I still struggle to be on time for anything, and I continue to impress hosts of people with my uncanny ability to strangle the life out of stories, but of all the things that have changed or stayed the same over this year, I'm most grateful for my friends.  

The good.  The bad.  The ugly.  Especially the ugly; nothing makes you feel good like an ugly friend.

Just kidding.  You got me.

It's the special friends that make you feel good.

  

Paradise Found

 So, I'm a bit ashamed to share this with you, but here goes.

We live in the woods.  

That's not what I'm ashamed of.

We do live in the woods, and this is an incredible gift, a gift I'm certain that I don't deserve.  My shame stems from the fact that I don't take advantage of this gift the way that I should.  We live on the doorstep of wilderness, and though every single day we could be out snowshoeing, hiking, whitewater kayaking, flatwater kayaking, canoe paddling, road biking, mountain biking, trail running or rock climbing - almost all from our front door - I have discovered that far too often I find myself in a lifeless and unholy union with our living room couch... like herbed butter melting over a grilled steak, my arms and legs drip sluggishly off of the cushions.  Limbs that are also increasingly composed of butter, my diet would suggest.

If you are feeling any pang of empathy for me at this moment, keep reading.  The following glimpses of forest life should shock you into proper rage at the grand injustice of my slothful existence.  I guarantee that you'll be gearing up to hunt me, armed with envy and a pitchfork, in 90 seconds flat.  And I, in true form, won't be running, so it'll be easy for you to find me and fork me to death for my crimes.

So here it is.  This is life:

We wake up to this view from the front lawn (during summer, that other season).

We get to go down giant slip'n'slides with our friends,

and play in the mud.

We can canoe,

or go whitewater rafting

[at night].

We can paddle rivers,

or sometimes just look good standing next to them.

  

We can snowshoe,

and take snowy, flannel-y Christmas photos.

But I don't do these things very often.  Instead I seep into the furniture... like a spilled drink.

Miraculously, despite my persistent attempts at shameful lethargy, yesterday was a day that gives me hope - hope that maybe... somehow... I'll collect my drooping limbs a little more often with aspirations of grasping the wealth of adventure found in our vast backyard.  About this time yesterday afternoon, along with a group of friends, C and I took our snowmobiles part-way up a nearby mountain.  From there, we strapped on our snowshoes so that we could hike the remaining distance to the peak on foot.  This was a day to employ what I believe to be a crucial life practice, which is to recognize the incredible nature of what you are actively doing, in the moment that you are actively doing it.  It is when you whisper quietly to yourself or shout to the birds, "this is awesome", and you know it to be true, right down to your bones...

right then...

         as you live it...

as you do it.

So now you can see why it is such a shame to let the smallest opportunity for adventure pass me by.  Because at the end of the day, what story have I written?  What awe have I experienced?  What risk?  What reward?  What part of this incredible created world have I let soak deep into my being and stir my spirit?

Here, where I could throw a rock from our deck and unintentionally kill a brook trout, there is no excuse.  Only opportunity. And as I strive to take hold of mine, I will also hope that you are out there, searching, finding, and fully discovering yours.

And Then Suddenly, All In A Moment, We Realized How Good It Was

It's a wise practice, I think, to every so often remind one's self of the incredible nature of things.

So many things.  

Life.

Breath.  

Breathing.  

Gasping.

Whispering.  

Speaking.  

Hollering. 

Screaming.

Smiling.

Chuckling.

Laughing.  

Witch-Cackling.

Toe-Wiggling.

Walking.

Running.

Escaping.

Last night someone took a pastry cutter to the sky.  After pressing it to the darkness, twisting once or twice (for good measure and a clean cut) and peeling away the scraps, there was left a large, round, luminescent cookie.  A moon cookie.  Because we live miles and miles [and miles] from anything resembling a shopping mall, this very stunning moon cookie found no competition for its brilliance.  Here there is no streetlight to overpower (not a single one), no neon sign diminishing our view from the ground, and finally, up a three mile driveway surrounded by thousands (thousands) of acres of wilderness, there are rarely even any headlights.  So last night, ironically, in a world where too much is never enough, this powerful pastry moon bathed the entire forest in light.

This, this was enough.  

Enough to cast shadows.  Enough to see your footing on the dry, packed snow.  Enough to plainly observe with your eyes the incredible nature of things.  And - without the noise of cars, trains, sirens, or even logging trucks - enough to hear life with vivid clarity.

The fog of hot breath in 7-degree air.

A quick gasp before mounting a snow tube at the hill crest.

The whispers of children to their parents: Yes, it's SO fun.

Screams that ring like a bell choir through the naked birch trees.

A dozen gleaming smiles.  

A cascade of giggles.

The cackling of friends rough-housing in a soft, forgiving world.

Toes that wiggle in their boots, rousing one another... stay... warm....

Walking through a gap in the trees (how are the stars this bright?).

Running to catch a ride to the top of the hill.

Escaping all mind-clutter as we whoosh
          - downward, faster, spinning -
                 through the forest.

But no, this is not escaping. 

This is finding.  We are finding out that

things

are 

incredible.