Following Elias

I Believe in Civility

I believe in my Mom's diehard Republican neighbor who calls up my diehard Democratic mother--and life long friend-- to say: "Can I come over to tell you a story."

She tells my Mom about her recent fishing trip out in Cape Cod Bay, her boat not far past the trees of Rock Harbor, her hook baited for bluefish, when her rod bends like someone bowing to a superior and her line dives deep into the belly of darkness-- only to shoot back up with a Great White Shark on the end.

The line breaks but she says when she closes her eyes, she can still see the face of the Great White.

My mom and her neighbor teach me it is our shared humanity that matters, not the party we marked on our voter registration card--we all fear the teeth of the shark and we all need to share our stories with friends.

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I believe in the man behind bars who passes the years by reading every book he can find--by the time I meet him, his 39th year in prison, his vocabulary and literary references are far greater than mine, despite my multiple Master's degrees. We connect over poetry and metaphors, over a love of playful language, despite our two worlds divided by barbed wire and sharp shooters. 

"I will always be that guy," he says to me referring to his criminal side, to the wolf inside he holds at bay. "He will always be a part of me."

And yet he leads a weekly Ethics class in which inmates at a maximum security prison respectfully discuss what it means to be a man in this world.

He teaches me what it means to hold two separate views of the self, or of  others, with equanimity-- and that all of us carry the potential to cut or heal.

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I believe in the stranger who rode the elevator with my son and me, back when Elias rolled through the mall with a walker, as he struggled to amble upright, who started a conversation with me by saying: "I know I have a lot of challenges. What are some of his?"

He taught me how to inquire about the differences of another in a way that opens hearts instead of hurting them.

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I believe in civility-- and that two people with opposing views, or no shared experience, can always find a space where both their feet can land. They may never walk hand in hand, but they can meet in-between perspectives, on the hollow ground where love prevails. Love informed by understanding, gratitude, compassion, and forgiveness,

I believe beauty can grow from the charred ruins of ethical diplomacy that surround us now. 

If I've learned anything, its that in our darkest moments, we often discover our wounds become our greatest strengths, as we transform our cracked spirits into light-infused beings for change. 

This I believe.

This Wild Tangible Place

My dog Lola and I follow a bear trail up from our property, up to the old growth Hemlock and blueberry bushes, where piles upon piles of scat remind me to make noise as I move through the brambles that scratch my bare legs and arms. I sing a made up song about following a bear highway as Lola looks at me confused by all my off-key blabbering.

The last part of the climb before the tundra, proves the most challenging. I lose what little of a trail I was following and find myself crawling under Alder and wading my way through Devil's Club. In parts the terrain stretches so steep ahead of me, that if the small trees didn't offer up their limbs, I'd slide back down to where I started.

When I finally break out of the brush, to the gentle rolling tundra bench below the peak, I sing the only line I know from the classic Sound of Music song: the hills are alive with the sound of music. I feel nothing but gratitude for this place I call home, for my body's ability to make it up this far, for the autumn sun that graces the day.

Tundra colors in fall remind me of the foliage of my childhood in the northeast, with the low-lying plants turning gold and fire red. I get down on my knees to take pictures, to notice the angle of the light and the contrast of colors. This simple act of truly seeing is my form of prayer.

Thank you for the beauty of the day. Thank you...thank you...

The marmots whistle and Lola chases after the large ground squirrels. Its the chase she loves, the pure joy of pursuit. Never once has she returned with a marmot or rabbit or squirrel, only the blissful face of a dog who loves to run.

When I hike, I no longer do so to claim peaks but rather to move my body outside amongst the forest. To see whatever views become available to me. When I'm alone, and not in conversation with a friend, I tend to write in my head and sometimes need to remind myself to stop thinking and look at my surroundings. Other times the thinking helps me, I work through difficult scenarios or come to terms with an experience.

On this day, I find my mind more empty than normal--maybe because we just finished a positive week with Elias happily going to school, or because I've been better at making self-care a priority this school year, or because I chose not to spend the morning scrolling through my newsfeed, or because I'm taking a class on mindfulness--whatever the case, I feel more at ease as I walk towards the edge so I can look down over the tidal flats of Tonsina Point.

This lower tundra bench is usually where I end my hike up Foundry peak, it takes long enough to scramble up here, so I enjoy the view of Resurrection Bay for a brief respite before making my way back down, knowing I'll lose the "trail" multiple times on my descent, so it will take almost as long as trudging up.

Today, I have the rare gift of time. Olive off at a friend's house for the day, Nick and Elias out halibut fishing, and Lola and I starting our adventure before 10:00 am.

So I keep climbing.

I follow a goat trail along the ridge line, clearly marked from countless agile hoofs that call this mountain home. I see tufts of white hair amidst the rocks and Crowberries. After side-hilling around one particularly steep rocky outpost, I notice a large white form lounging ahead of me. Disturbed by my constant chatter, the goat rises and grants me the opportunity to watch him navigate the same terrain that challenges me. He doesn't move quickly but stops often to stare back at us, as if he doesn't yet to know to feel alarmed at the site of a human and her Border Collie.

With no set trails to climb Foundry Peak, only a handful of folks make their way up to this particular ridgeline, to the views of glaciers, waterfalls, and the expanse of Resurrection Bay. I love knowing more bears and goats exist up here than humans, even if being outnumbered also makes me nervous. There is something about doing things that scare us that makes us feel more alive; and in an era of computer generated virtual realities, there is something about blueberry bushes scratching my shins that feels important.

As I watch the mountain goat climb towards the peak, I decide not to keep following him up, to let him ascend to the top of the mountain without encroaching on his sense of place. I've climbed high enough for today, higher than I ever have on this mountain I too call home.

A bear walked through our yard on Friday evening while Lola and I walked towards the house from the garden. Once safely inside, I growled at the black bear and banged on our sliding glass door only for him to look up at me amused, before sauntering back into the woods.

Today I climb into the bruins' yard. The yard of the mountain goats and marmots.

All I ask is to feel the warmth of the sun on my face, the ache in my muscles from the climb, and the awe of living in this wild tangible place.