Ye Old Maple Desk ~ Tree Spirit

Just before my 65th birthday in early February, my dream desk presented itself on Craig's List. It's a solid maple Ethan Allen roll-top in perfect condition and just my size.  We didn't hesitate to make the purchase, and it was a pleasure to deal with a fine gentleman in Lynden --- a retired professor who still had too much office furniture. Getting the desk in place took a lot of muscle and teamwork, and we were grateful at the moment a neighbor-angel appeared to help my husband actually heft the thing into the house.

I sit here a lot now, on what feels like solid, rooted wood, enjoying the convenience of everything at hand. From my chair I can enjoy the picturesque Grove Street neighborhood by glancing through the front door, and to my right a large window frames Connecticut Street. It's mostly the trees and skies I notice, of course; my visual editor deletes the hanging wires, recycle bins, and crackedy street pavement. It's a delightful place to sit. I look forward to the inspiration of summer breezes when I can leave the door open, just a few months in the future.

The organizer in me took over for the first week, but it wasn't long before things were generally set up.  The left side of the desk is my administrivia corner, with incoming and outgoing mail, little stacks of bills and do-do lists. Those left-minded drawers contain the business end of my life, including files, office supplies and a calculator. 

The right-brain desk receives my creative energy, including the supplies for hand-written letters, an old-timey personal address book, and a variety of sizes of memo books intended to be in my pockets, to catch my bright ideas when I'm walking about in the world.  Actually the drawers and cubbies on the right side are quite empty, which I think is perfect; that area becomes a vessel for receiving whatever I create.  

In the center backdrop I've mounted a favorite mission statement, along with some miniature matted paintings given to me by a friend about 20 years ago. These little works were always posted near my desk at WWU in the four different offices I occupied before retiring. In that left-brained world they were my constant reminder not only of my friend, but also the softer air and light of San Juan Island.

From behind me during this chilly month, the gas fireplace whispers warmth under my chair. A large bookshelf holds more and more of my library, the one that pertains to literature I love, along with a special shelf for my own writings.  I succeeded in moving the smaller desk over to the back corner of the room, where it now serves as the technical station: a wireless printer, the network components tucked into a bottom drawer, and a place to charge my laptop, iPhone, landline and cordless drill.

Since today is Wednesday, I started with a hand-written letter. These heart-centered notes have continued to provide warm connections with family and friends. I've received a few return letters, especially from folks who never did much email anyway, and who've always preferred the hand-helds. Also, a cousin called out of the blue one evening for a long visit, a call he may not have made, except that my letter would have been sitting around reminding him that I care.

Last week, from my new perch, I honed and submitted a few poems to different publications. I also received my first rejection, which was curiously celebrated with my husband, who is the president of my fan club.  

Sitting at my desk brings back memories of the huge big-leaf maple tree in the forest uphill from our beach cabin, where I sometimes climbed when I wanted to be alone as a teenager. (O! I hope it's not that tree!) I would lean against the mossy trunk and become part of the simplicity of the salt air and the call of the gulls, a creature of that forest, taking in the vista of trees and skies, just as I do today.  Like my old maple tree, my desk holds a quiet mystery and serenity for me because it's a place where I can just be. The family leaves me pretty much alone when I sit here, as my original family did when I chose to saunter off to my big tree in adolescent reverie.  This kind of time and place renews my spirit and allows the kind of emptying I need in order to invite fulfillment.

What's Wonderful about Wednesdays

Today I’m at my home desk, as the northeaster has hit us, blowing hard through the Fraser River Valley into the northwest corner of Washington State. This morning it was 14 degrees, wind at 25 mph with 50 mph gusts, which tends to freeze our sap a bit.  Most other Wednesdays I spend time at the WWU library, closeting myself in a carrel with stationery, books, journals, and laptop, just in my own little world, reading and writing on many different levels, but with purpose. My husband waves me out the door at about 8:15 am, I ride the bus to campus, and spend the entire day there, arriving home around 5:30 for coffee and dinner. There's a bonus to being at my home desk today: the huge pot of his "Che! Black Bean Soup" has been simmering and providing savory smells all through the day. As I continue to keep sacred days and times for writing projects, I find it more fun and especially appealing to pick up the threads and characters every day, in all my spare moments. 

Each week I continue writing with a pen for the first couple hours on my designated “writing day,” usually composing a letter or two, sometimes more. My husband mentioned how lovely it looks to see envelopes addressed and stamped at the edge of my desk, waiting to be posted. While writing a personal letter, I find myself sitting still for longer periods, just thinking about the person and remembering our common ground. I’ve noticed an unexpected though natural difference in what I recall about what I said in a letter; at first, I missed the fact that I couldn’t look in my sent e-mailbox to re-read what I’d already mailed (yes, I often did this). But with just a couple months of this rewarding hobby, I find that I remember my handwritten notes much more clearly ~ something about being so present in the slower process, methinks. It's also been a delight that I've also received more handwritten letters in the past couple months than I did in the prior two years. It seems people I've contacted have also remembered the more pleasant aspects of writing with pen and paper, or at least become interested in revisiting the art.

The learning curve has streaked upward in my poetry and creative non-fiction writing, because I’ve spent time reading journals that publish work of high quality. That doesn’t mean I’m suddenly a great writer. At times I feel like such a novice when I read a really fine piece of published work; at other times, I just don’t get the poem, or I find it sloppy and unpleasant, and decide I’ve got a fine portfolio after all.  I don’t yet have all those credentials that seem to back up most of the writers in these journals, and I’m excited about following the path that might lead me there.

My portfolio of poetry is organized now, directories charted by year and cross-referenced by theme.  It seems I’ve spent the last seven years on categories such as Inner Spirit, Salish Sea, and The Moon, Sky and Stars. There is quite a body of work in Social Commentary, and of course Joyful Love, Cynic on Love, Death, and Giggles.  Unfinished is a hopeful major category, and there are a few smaller groups related to family relationships.

Recently I have submitted writings to The Sun ~ Readers Write, and also to an academic literary journal. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the process of poking and prodding a poem until it sits up and looks back at me, whispering, “I’m done.” My husband’s encouragement, my open-ended days and the fact that I can think, recall, compose and revise whether I’m sitting down or standing at the kitchen sink all blend to make this possible. Let’s be clear:  this kind of writing lives my laptop; I'm not reverting to pen and paper in every aspect.

I’ve been careful to be sure everything is backed up, using a little flash drive and Google Docs too, but also paying the $75 annual fee for the online service provided by Carbonite. I find it easier to pay that fee than health insurance premiums, as it gives me more peace of mind and security, and there’s no small print.

Today as I explored my new membership in Writer’s Market online communities, and read some articles in the 2012 book itself, I became aware that I’m still way behind the curve in my social networking profile.  I changed my blog url, I even changed the title, and learned that I’m not even s’posed to work real hard on the blog entries, they’re not meant to be literature.  So I’m getting a little more real here, and today hoped to share simple bits of the progress that’s being made.  I’m confused about publishing my completed work on the blog; if it’s published here, then is it disqualified for a publisher that does not accept submissions of previously published works?  I hope to get that answer from the writing group I joined online today.  And, I hope it doesn’t block the possibility of sharing some of my finished poetry here.

 A Hard Fall’s Gonna Reign

by Nancy Grayum

During the preface to my morning commute, I leash my sweet black lab, inviting her down the walk where we’re greeted by mid-morning traffic under the drizzly June skies of the Pacific Northwest. My mind is full of the do-do list as I walk briskly, watching for the dog’s doo-doo. I’m reviewing requests at work, anti-war activities, environmental protection committee frustrations, mowing the lawn, the fund-raiser for our presidential candidate, the grocery list, an upcoming garage sale, a possible visit to my parents.  My mind spins and spirals, my inner voice resounding the endless requests for my time, my energy, my money, my thoughts, my skills, and yes, my opinion.

 Suddenly the sidewalk is rushing toward my face after my boot snags a rough break in the concrete. My nose and glasses hit first, as I throw my hands outward instead of breaking the fall. A recent tumble at the bus station injured a hand so badly it doesn’t want to go there again. My dog stands over me helplessly cocking her head in concern as passing drivers ignore my predicament.  It hurts.  My glasses frames are crushed, my nose is bleeding and my forehead is scraped.

This is the third time I’ve fallen on my face in the past three months.  The first time, my dog and I were walking in a city park where, tripping over a hidden snag, I pulled a hamstring and landed in blackberry bushes. The second fall was worse: running to catch a bus, I tripped over a curb, suffering a brief blackout and concussion as I conked my forehead on the concrete, and injuring tendons in my hand as it broke my fall in a bent-under position.

I finally perceive the message: I’m not living in the moment. Presently I struggle to my hands and knees, dumbly gazing at the stony courier, and finally I stand, assuming a newly humble posture.

Walking blindly back home, I see clearly that it’s time to disengage. I clean my face gently with warm water, find my spare glasses and settle in my soft recliner, rocking quietly as I let my mind clear. I call in sick, and spend the next several hours letting go. I resign immediately from my leadership in the environmental group and unsubscribe from dozens of email groups with their urgent daily messages. My work in the peace movement becomes internal, coming from the heart, where peace begins. On the job I now attend to the task at hand and stop overlapping my workdays with community activities. I take actual breaks, sitting calmly outdoors or in the library. The candidates do whatever they do without me. I have a giveaway instead of a garage sale. I pay a kid to mow the lawn. I visit my parents. I go to bed by 9 pm on weekdays, and on weekends, I sleep in and adopt the practice of serious napping. Serenity visits me in nourishing moments, and I recover from the hard knocks, always remembering the message.

###

Practice ~ January 5, 2012

Write the scene where you make a life-changing decision. (~500 words)

Self-assigned Exercise

Given three phrases/words and two hours, write a complete short story.

Autumn rain

Dried apples

Truck

Mis-matched and Detached

With the first light of day Konnie throws her feet out of her sleeping bag and over the edge of the bed, slowly re-orienting herself to morning in Grandma’s cabin.  Her feet ache from the long hike up and down the wet stony trails, where she’d searched for any sign of chanterelles or other edible mushrooms and late hanging blackberries or huckleberries all through an autumn rain on Tuesday afternoon. Not that she needed the food, but there was no question the first thing she needed to do after fifteen years away was to walk her own paths again.

The mountainette behind the cabin had seemed to embrace her in its dripping flora with hemlock branches gracefully bowing among other evergreens, and the flaming vine maple creating arches leading to moss-rich old growth cathedrals.  As a child, this land welcomed her in that same embrace at all seasons of the three years she spent here. At that time, Konnie had never imagined she would be without the nourishment that oozed into her body, mind and soul from this ultra-lush rainforest.

The old morning rhythm stretches in front of her like a wise old cat and she warms her toes with massage, then mimics the stretch herself. She pulls on heavy socks then the clogs, stomping over to haul the long raincoat over her flannel nightgown, eyes opening bit by bit as she makes her way to the outhouse. On return she stops near the deck to haul an armload of years-dry firewood before kneeling in front of the cold iron stove.  Stir and layer the ash, wad and rip some paper, add a quasi-tent of kindling and a couple small logs, lay paper atop all. Check the draft and light the fire from the bottom, stay with the flame until it proves, close the door.  Carry drinking water, fill the kettle, place it on top of the stove, prep the coffee press.  Sit.  Gaze.

The walls still hold an odd collection of Grandma’s mis-matched oil paintings:  a large portrait of her black lab; a study of bordello windows with isolated girls glancing at the viewer; the Madonna in a cloak of scarlet, her miracle infant suckling a large bared breast; a framed collection of miniature pencil sketches--- some vegetables, a vase, a dandelion gone to seed.  She wonders if she’ll ever have the nerve to free these from the walls and enjoy the relief from the visual discord.

Seeking a more harmonious perspective, she turns her chair toward the deck windows and welcomes the dim light filtered by the tall firs and hemlocks growing from below the cabin.  The stellar jay hops from railing to roof, pecking at seeds in the warped cedar shakes.  The kettle boils, and when the coffee has brewed, she sits in Grandma’s overstuffed armchair, welcoming further awakening.

She feels perfectly at home in this big soft chair with its wide arms, though she’d never occupied it as a youngster. It was Grandma’s perch, no question, and she was too big for Grandma’s lap by then.  They’d done well together after Mom had dumped her here and disappeared, but that period of time was immediately bracketed in parentheses once Grandma sent her away to a boarding school, then various summer camps. She figured Grandma was paying for all these schools, so maybe she cared about her, but letters were rare and boring.  Distance begets distance, and Konnie had gradually learned to stop trying for the connection, realizing along the way that she had, without knowing why, become a complete entity as an individual, a whole family in her own right.

She refills her cup and muses long but lightly about the mystery of why the place became off-limits.  After becoming completely safe in such a warm and settled refuge, she’d been evicted without knowing it, then never invited to visit, let alone stay. Now it’s her place.

She opens the drawer in the reading table next to her newly claimed throne. An old fountain pen, no nib, a few pencils and pens.  Matches. Old letters. Two slices of dried apples. A small calendar from the hardware store. An address book.  Still in her nightgown, she gives herself a secret smile as she clogs out to her truck and brings an armload of empty boxes, along with the roll of Hefty lawn and garden bags.   The small drawer is emptied and brushed clean. From the lamp above, two dead bulbs removed and into the trash.  Picking up the chair cushion reveals another pen, a dime, a store receipt, popcorn kernels.  Swept clean.

At the dining table, the stained placemats, dusty silk flowers, unopened mail and a stained teacup are discarded. Sketchbooks, full and empty move as one pile into a box. The table is wiped clean. Cushions are removed from both chairs. She holds a box next to the windowsill here and runs her hand along it, while tree cones, stones and feathers magically descend and are transferred to the dark hole of her bag. She lowers the retractable lamp and discards that darkened bulb, dusting the brass and prompting the fixture to swoop back to its highest position.

The kitchen side of the room has more clutter but she’s adept by now and approaches just one cubby at a time. Curtains and rods are quickly removed from the window and both cupboards. A few plates, bowls, cups, glassware go into the boxes. All the food packages, gone. The small refrigerator practically empties itself, a few dairy products and vegetables nearly alive again. Linens, spice jars, noodles, pots, pans, spatulas and vinegar add to the wealth of the Hefty bag. At the sink, she tosses all the skimpy remains of every leftover bar of soap, every gray dishcloth, even the cleansers and drain plugs.  She pulls the entire trashcan out from under and christens the second Hefty bag.  Tupperware, empty bottles, flashlights, and a soup can filled with bacon grease follow.  She leaves the dead insects lying on the windowsill above the sink.

Moving to the wall where her sleeping bag covers layers of bedding wrapped around the mattress, she raises her bag in the air with one hand while peeling layers with the other, holding her breath, but eventually just holding her sleeping bag to her face to fend off the years of lint and dandruff spinning through the air.

Hauling the trash bags to the truck, she notices feeder trays rotting and sprouting with old birdseed, and adds these to the mix.  She leans against an old friend, its bark wider and thicker than she remembers, and takes in the freshest air she’s ever known.  Inspired, she plops down onto the mossy duff, rolls onto her back and stretches her limbs to their four directions, absorbing the clearing as a blue September skylight reveals an openness that goes straight to her heart.

When the blue sky fully reigns through the canopy of fir trees, she sighs deeply, rises gently and saunters to the deck, where she digs in again, hauling the Weber grill, the broken chairs and mildewed cushions.  Opening the deck slider, she’s glad she hadn’t stoked the fire. She warms to her work, dragging her armchair into the open air, wrestling the mattress across the room to share the air with the chair, and wielding her broom as she seeks clarity where the ceilings and floors meet the walls.  The remaining furniture joins the tight array on the deck. Now one could live her entire day there, from bed to reading chair, and a place to dine.

With her water jug still full, she retrieves a pillowcase and mops the windows and sink, then sloshes some onto the floor where her broomwork transforms the remaining dust to a thinly grained layer of silt.

She notices she hasn’t eaten, but this fact seems to nourish the process so she sips more water.  

Surveying the cabin, she notices appeal in the simplicity of the corners.  Will re-placing the freshly aired furniture complete the job?  She lugs each piece from the deck, but the dining table now lands near the deck slider, the bed at the open end of the kitchen wall, and the armchair --- well, there’s only one place for the armchair, only one place where body, mind and soul can scrutinize or simply accept each morning’s gift. It goes to the corner where the head of the bed had been.

On the dining table, she leaves a clean bowl, a spoon and her kettle. She packs the boxes, her sleeping bag and coffee press over to the truck, starts the engine and lets it idle.  From the wall in the cabin a dog’s brown eyes watch, hoping he can go along; the hookers nod approvingly at her detachment, and the Madonna nourishes her child while a nearby dandelion scatters its seed.

###

During the past few weeks I've returned to the practice of composing and sending handwritten letters and cards to friends and family members.  Exploring this long lost technique has a sense of nostalgia, but also a sense of artistic prose. Like books and newspapers, you can hold a letter, and I like that a lot. But unlike edited material you see exactly what got written in the moment of composition. And it's not like email, which got cut and pasted or deleted or copied and rearranged on the page.  You get real time writing, and yes it's asynchronous like email, but in a more pedestrian way that exaggerates the weight of its meaning.


I think of my letter as being a surprise when a loved one finds it in the mailbox. I imagine the opening, the posture of curiosity. Does s/he wait and sit with it, or do they open it on the spot and read it standing up?  Does she call her family over and say "Look!  It's a letter from Nancy," or maybe just quietly smile, then read it again.  A letter can be shared ~ or not. It is probably read again ~ and again.  Perhaps its set on the mantel or shelf for awhile.


The cards and letters I've received are often displayed for awhile. Sometimes the smallest little handwritten thank-you note feels like a sweet little bouquet of forget-me-nots. But like flowers, they need to move on eventually.  Unlike flowers, they get saved in a special letters box I've owned since the 1980's. If that box gets too full, which takes a few years now, as opposed to every year during the last century, I pull all the letters out and prepare them for storage.  Maybe you think I mean I browse and re-read them, tidy the stack right-side-up, and place them in chronological order, but no, sorry, I shove the whole stack as one into a paper bag, fold the top over it and write with a Sharpie:  "Cards n Letters 2011." Not to say they aren't important!  Every piece of handheld personal mail nowadays is to me, a special gift. It means someone thought of me in a quiet moment, and took the time to say so, daring to hand write unedited material and trust me with the outcome.


Letters can be risky. I had an old friend who knew he wasn't a good speller but he wrote letters now and then without embarrassment.  Other friends who had trouble spelling or thought their handwriting messy couldn't imagine taking the risk of writing a letter, but they might call to say hi or give me some news, or just sign a birthday card now and then. I've never judged people by their handwriting or spelling, but have always appreciated seeing their letter arrive. I do have an internal spell-checker, which is a blessing and a curse, but my writing runs faster than my brain sometimes, and I goof up and make spelling errors to. During my ten years as a public school teacher I taught young children how to write, deciphered their handwriting and pre-phonetic spelling upside down from across their little desks. Later I worked in a hospital setting and was able to read doctors' orders AKA handwriting ~ let that be a guarantee, I can read yours, even if your hand gets wobbly and you drop a letter too, in your elder years.


I have letters written by my grandmother to her daughter and to some of her women friends during the 1930's and 40's, some which read like replies to letters I don't have, but I can interpolate the original letters from these. At that time, letters were not nearly as formal as in the prior century; Grandma's and her friends' could stand as complete conversations. This remained somewhat true even after telephones were in place, and expensive long distance calling costs were rung up per minute. Before email and "free" nationwide calling, love affairs were conducted ~ or ended ~ in longhand and on stationery. Old letters reveal topics such as funeral planning, birthday party invitations and family fights.  Writers philosophized together, discussed the books they were reading, sent good news and bad, described their crops, their wardrobes, their children's adventures, and Saturday's dinner menu. They surmised the well-being of their friends or family members by the frequency of letters; if Nina hadn't heard from Edna, for example, she would write to her and express her heartfelt concern. 


Marshall McLuhan would enjoy my saying that he gave us the meme, "The medium is the message." For me, handwritten letters, as a medium, give the message that I am holding these moments specifically for this person. My mind, my body, my hands are in one place on one piece of paper to convey my thoughts only to this person. I will seal it in a private envelope and deliberately name the person and write their postal address, which may be their actual home, thus spend a moment thinking of their place of abode. I'll place postage on it, carry it somewhere and deliver it personally to the USPS for personal delivery. When I use digital media, whether it be email, blog, Facebook or Twitter, I can make it appear to be written to one person individually, but it might be going to others in blind copy; it could also live in my sent mail for awhile and then be shown or forwarded to someone else, and the same is true as it resides in the recipient's inbox. It lives on a server, it's available indefinitely, whether I know where it is or not. In essence, it's public. Would I write in the same manner as I do on paper? No, and not only because it's public, but also, I don't have a delete key. I cannot copy and paste. I could draft and save a handwritten letter I suppose, as I do some email missives, but I don't. I have a sincere intention to communicate from the heart. I may scribble a word or letter, and might insert a phrase with a little uppy arrow like this ^ and in that case, the person sees, "Oh, Nancy thought of this later."  But in email, who knows how many times I rewrote the darn thing, how careful I was, and whether I re-read it for meaning, agonized over the expression of emotion or consideration? Even I wouldn't know, it all happened so fast and flew across the ether with one click on my track pad.


On the other hand, because our practice of communicating has been via email for more than 25 years now, how much can the average person really say in a handwritten letter? Has the one-off itself changed because of its decline? Do younger generations learn, and do boomers remember how it feels to spin it from the head and heart straight to the hand?  In my experience, email formalized my personal letters to friends and family a great deal. Perhaps just the act of typing caused some of that, but more likely, the delete key. I even forgot how to be silly, to doodle, joke, enjoy artistic license during all those more formal notes.


Maybe you've received a handwritten letter lately? Maybe you'll receive one soon, from me or someone else. I do intend to continue the practice because I  believe the tactile experience brings my muse a little closer to the surface. Additionally, the pleasure of composing my thoughts and feelings in my own handwriting is akin to savoring slow food. And lastly, I learned a few years ago that the younger generations were already saying that email is for old people, so I thought I'd try something new!

Where We Wandered

Can you believe this is my first blog entry since 2008? Wanderings did continue, but I didn't take a lot of time to share via posts.  Wanderings still continue, on land, along the shores and rivers, and in my bizzy bizzy brain.  At the end of 2008, a friend introduced me to Gene, and we wandered into a special friendship which became a solid and supportive lifetime relationship. The picture above, for Gene and me, represents how we have "arrived" at home. We both still wander, but during the past three years, as we courted, retired from our full time jobs, married, bought our home and adopted our dog Mr. Black (previously named Blackie), our wanderings have been more of the sort newlyweds and new home owners experience.

The garden in spring shows blooming aronia, newly transplanted strawberries, a portion of our raspberry rows, some blueberries, huckleberries, and some flowers that had been in place. In 2011, projects included revising much of the garden, favoring edibles; repairing the so-called garage, and creating a shop space instead; repairing the long sewer line that had failed; moving furniture again and again in order to find the optimum use of the 1000 square foot home.  Gene re-painted the 2nd bedroom, which is now the communications center and a very restful one at that.


Now at the beginning of 2012, after much practical do do, we both pursue our more creative interests, mine being the various writing skills I've wanted to develop after so many years of being corseted in formal technical writing assignments.


The Practice of Unlearning
I plan to learn online and share the process I see myself in at the moment. I seem to be stuck to paper, typical of a sixty-something woman sitting too still in a flighty world of tweets and blogs.  I want to share thoughts, adventures and special moments in a permanent way, which thus far I've accomplished by producing small booklets that trace brief, lightly researched social histories of ancestors. They were printed, shared with family members, and while that's not a huge circulation, I'm still pretty happy that they exist, and I like the style and voice.  They were tactile, could be carried in one's hands or backpack and placed on a table or shelf. They could be shared between two people. I like books, magazines, old-timey newspapers. But as I work and learn from current authors and editors, I'm getting un-glued, willing to participate in many formats, but still including bound paper.  Another way I'm stuck to the paper, I will admit, is that my ego also wants to appear on the printed page, which would mean that someone approved of the composition, style, knowledge and creativity I put forth. Ego always wants to experience approval, and I need to watch out that she doesn't stand in the way of writing for my own satisfaction. The pieces I write do need to be shared, but maybe I can be content with the geo-cache concept for now ~ whoever finds them finds them, makes note, leaves them in place, and moves on.


Creative non-fiction is the genre I'm most currently studying, reading, and practicing. I am drawn to the idea of producing work that conveys meaning within the framework of biography and autobiography.  I've had a bit of practice with interviewing subjects, but haven't yet found the themes nor created structures for the pieces that seem to have promise.


In conversation early today, a friend mentioned the pleasure of  exploring the question, not necessarily needing to find the answer.  If we find "the" answer then we're finished.  So some of the questions which will be ongoing for me, and are beginning to keep me awake at night include:  What do I want to get across? What important ideas can I share that might add meaning, perspective, and understanding for the reader? Who are the readers I want to include? How seriously do I want to research? Travel? How can I add conversation to my storylines? And humor!  Seriously!


Now my blog is re-born, and I'm learning to "follow" and wondering where that might lead.

Camping Fo-REST in May

Finally by the end of May, my favorite campsite & campground opened at Douglas Fir, just east of Glacier on the Mount Baker Highway.

5/30 Friday eve
I have walked in silence, sat in reverence all through the afternoon at my favorite campsite on the Nooksack, #12 at Douglas Fir. The regional managers stopped by earlier and gently checked me in, took my license number and wished me well. In my prayers I ask to experience loving kindness, compassion, forgiveness, sympathetic joy, and healing.

Yet, when approached by a boisterous hollering woman, clipboard in hand and alcohol fumes so strong they are nearly visible above her bulging half-bare bosom, I refuse to register a second time, refuse to show picture ID, and tell her to get on her way, she’s all confused. She tells me, well we’re just back after a couple days off, excuuuuuse me, and exits back to their pickup truck where a man is sitting behind the wheel, not really looking, probably embarrassed or paranoid, knowing I’m onto them.

My sense of peace is so easily disrupted, my patience with an alcoholic is shockingly slim, but mostly, my sense of safety, which was so supported last year when Dick and Ona were the hosts, is lost. Perhaps not entirely, as I think this amazing couple is quite temporary. When the regional supervisors checked me in earlier, they indicated that the permanent hosts would be arriving next week. It won’t be Dick and Ona, but methinks it won’t be these yerks, either. I plan to report the alcohol and confusion.

I didn’t go to work at all today, as yesterday was wearing, still have a cough/lung thing hanging on, and even though it’s not at all painful or severe, it drains the energy. Gary and Rob both encouraged me to just take a sick day, so by golly, I did. Took my time organizing for the trip, and left home around 10;45, arriving here after 36 miles in an hour. Lovely, I was the only one here for most of the afternoon. Sat in sunny spots along the river, sorry to have forgotten my chair, and considering again purchasing a solid lounger for the campsite comfort. With picnic table covered, I sat and read from Walden. Walked around, sat on mossy logs, even under adolescent soft-bearded devils club, gazing at mossy limbs, old trees, rushing river, dappling light, fresh new leaves in the breeze. Robin, downy woodpecker.

Thoreau discusses “the news” in ways that strike me as so perceptive, so important to read and re-read that, in order to cope and keep my sanity and center in a conflagrationary world. There is too much news. Heard one, heard ‘em all. Murder. Fire. Flood. Famine. Disease. Politics. Drama drama drama. While right here and now, I can see and listen to the space I’m in and to the space within me.

Thoreau on reading discusses the classics, their universality. Which now that I put this in juxtaposition with “the news,” seems kind of funny …. I thought you already read that one Henry David. But he talks of words bringing worlds to life and to live forever, and that collection of wisdom providing that sense of the universal. Only great poets can truly read great poets, he says. Only the wise can truly read wisdom. We need to seek this, rather than seeking “pap.” Well true, but a good story, in my day and age, Henry David, helps me to lighten up a bit, which you could maybe do too.

Saturday May 31
Spent a delightful mid-day hike with Sally and her two dogs, Ebony and Tugboat Annie "Tuggy," walking along Glacier Creek. The Mountain was "out," and the lupen were beautiful.

Am enjoying reading Dot Robinson’s rendition of Edna Koontz childhood memories. Very well told, well written, enjoyable and enlightening. Bless my brilliant ancestors, they have given me so much.

Later....

The remaining time at Glacier was quiet, restful, but I left fairly early on Sunday, wanting to have time at home.

My friendly RV specialist Jay Shaffer had advised me that the battery problem could probably be resolved by just plugging in the camper a couple days before each trip. I'm not driving far enough to fully charge the house battery thru the alternator. This worked just fine, so I have a lot more confidence for upcoming trips now too. Plenty of light, heat, pump action, without having to run the darn engine and wreak havoc on gas mileage.