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[womenwritingourlives]

A witness

He appeared one day as she worked in the backyard. Yanking the crowbar from between two pieces of wood, she glanced down toward the growing pile of scraps and there he was, perched on the tree stump at the edge of the pile. She stopped, more curious than afraid. A boy, maybe, though it was hard to tell. He perched upright and alert with his feet firmly planted, toes gripping the uneven edge, and his knees folded up to meet his chin. His thin lips turned up at the edges in a gentle smile. Sensing no threat in his emerald green eyes, she went back to work.

He perched while she pried the wood apart. She worked the crowbar back and forth against the rotted, termite-ridden board while keeping the boy in her sights. When the board finally gave way, she set it gently on the edge of the platform and slowly climbed down the wooden ladder.

The boy moved not a muscle.

At his level now, she reached up, lifted the board from the platform, and took it to the wood pile. Near the stump, she could see his features better. Sharp, angled nose above a smaller, softer chin. Short, curly brown hair. Green eyes. Pale skin that looked almost invisible. She found him gentle, though she could not say why. She felt peace radiating from his lithe body. He might have been a boy, but the knowing eyes and radiant, wise presence made him seem a hundred years old or perhaps only a few days young. Ageless, she decided. And perhaps not a boy at all.

A being. Of that she was sure. But undefinable. A calm, watchful presence. A witness. To her and her life. 

She began to cry, big supple tears that drenched her face and soaked the collar of her shirt. She might have tried to hide her messy burbling face except that she felt relief at his presence. The ageless boybeing’s face had not changed. She felt waves of compassion and deep listening emanating from his body. She felt seen.

And then he was gone.

He hadn’t disappeared or unfolded himself to walk away, he’d simply gone. There one moment and then not there the next. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt no need to look for him or wish him back to the stump. Instead, she let the last of the tears fall and returned to the platform. Then, with her face still damp and a body that felt a hundred times lighter, she picked up the crowbar and, ever so gently, began to pry the next board out of the grip of the rusty, old nails.

[womenwritingourlives]

Last days in Lisbon

July 24, 2022 Sintra, Portugal

A few steps into the cave: darkness. I couldn’t tell the difference between eyes open or closed. Silence pressed upon my ears. I smelled dampness. Reaching overhead, I felt the cool stone ceiling. Reaching out right and left, my hands meet ruddy stone walls. Rather than claustrophobia, I felt magic.

We’d found our way to Quinta da Regaleira, a historic mansion surrounded by acres of whimsical gardens in Sintra, a town about an hour from Lisbon’s center. The mansion and grounds are touted as a fairy-tale wonderland perfect for kids and the young at heart to explore.

They were right. Wandering the grounds, we found ivy-covered stone walls, winding staircases, statues, turrets, and secret pathways.

We found a well with a spiral staircase running into its depths.

And we found caves. Following paths into the caves, we never knew where we’d emerge. It was like being the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland except without time pressures. 

As I stood in the complete darkness of the first cave, I considered the meaning of darkness. To say “I’m in a dark place” means I’m depressed or sad or experiencing some other malady that I must get through. But in this cave, I was in a dark place full of awe and wonder. I didn’t want to leave just yet; I didn’t crave the light. And then I thought about wombs and cocoons: also dark places but associated with safety, incubation, and new life. And so it was in this cave: dark, senseless and also safe and wondrous.

I could have turned on the flashlight on my phone to keep moving forward, but I didn’t want to break the spell of darkness just yet. I wanted to feel my way through in constant awareness of what was above, below, and all around me. I’d have to be careful. I’d have to pay attention. I’d have to trust my instincts.

And so I began inching forward with short, deliberate steps. One sandaled foot slightly forward. Feel the ground. Map the walls and ceiling with your hands. Bring the other foot forward. Begin again.

The lack of light created a new way for me to explore the world. I felt each muscle in my feet and legs helping me sense my way forward. When I stopped, I assessed how the previous step had gone and the possibilities for the next step. I wanted to savor this in-the-moment awareness for as long as possible.

Eventually, my foot felt water. My brain turned the water into a multitude of options: a lake, a pond, a puddle. The latter I could simply walk through. The former could lead to trouble. Without knowing what lay ahead, I finally turned on the flashlight. 

The walls of the cave appeared otherworldly, a tannish off-white stone that glistened with dampness. The path ahead of me led around a corner. At my feet, a puddle. Hardly the lake I’d feared.

I stepped around the puddle, and then turned off my light. But the light had broken the spell of darkness. I began to use the light more and more. I walked quicker with longer strides. I walked with purpose, exploring and also wondering where we’d end. It was as if my light had sped up time. What’s next became more important than what was right here right now.

Finally, I saw daylight revealing the lake I’d feared earlier on the trail. The sea-green water shimmered in the sideways light. I smiled to see stone steps leading into the water. My fears had been at least somewhat justified.

I’ve begun to think about this experience as an analogy for where I currently am in my life. I’m in a dark place. This darkness is not the dark of depression or sadness but the darkness of a soft, warm incubator. My dark place is a slowing down. It’s a chance to notice every movement with all of my senses, and then watch what happens next. I’m taking small, deliberate steps toward something but because it’s dark, I don’t know when it’ll end or where I’ll be when I emerge. Just as I knew that the path through the cave would eventually lead to light, I trust that my current dark path also leads to light. I’m not afraid of the dark. I have a flashlight if I need it, but I’m trying not to use it. I want to savor the magic of this dark incubation as I find a new way to explore the world. When I emerge into the light, I can’t wait to see what wonders await me.

[womenwritingourlives]

First days in Lisbon

July 13, 2022

Portugal is burning.

Record heat marked our first days in Lisbon. We’d come to this city hoping to get lost in the narrow streets and alleys of the historic Alfama district. We’d rented an apartment near a metro station in an area of the city on the outskirts of downtown. We knew we’d have to walk or ride into the historic center, but the weather was not cooperating. Our first day, we had to seek refuge from the heat by late morning. The next day, we set out early, hoping to explore the Alfama before we melted into the pavement. Our first destination was a viewpoint (called a “miradouro” in Portuguese) overlooking the city. We schlepped up a steep hill from the bus stop, and found ourselves looking out over the city. Trees shaded us as we marveled at the tightly packed red-tile roofs and white-washed walls of the buildings below. Further out, the river Tagus (Rio Tejo) flowed under a bridge that looks like the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. The bridge, I’d later learn, is the 25 de Abril Bridge built in 1966.

From after taking in the view, we wandered our way down through the narrow streets of the Aflama. Soon, I began to sweat. After a few twists and turns, we decided to aim for a monastery, which I thought would be a blissfully cool building to explore. The entrance stood at the back of a courtyard.

At first, the shade of the courtyard, a stone fountain, and water canals around the perimeter drew me in. I imagined sitting on the bench with cool water flowing behind me, the sounds of the people and cars outside fading behind the tall stone walls.No sooner had I sat on a bench than I realized that the canals had no water and the fountain too was dry. Having these features without water made me feel hotter than if they hadn’t been there at all. This wouldn’t be the respite I’d imagined.

Hoping for cooler temperatures, I entered the sliding glass doors of the monastery. But, alas, there was no air-conditioning in the entryway and the stone building didn’t keep the interior much cooler than outside. By this time, I was hungry and beyond hot. In the sweltering heat, I couldn’t even pause to consider the significance of the historic building or follow my curiosity about the Azul tiles inside. We’d talked of spending the afternoon at the beach, and now allI could think of was cool water and ocean breezes. We abandoned our valiant attempts to marvel at the historic center of Lisbon, wound our way out of the Alfama, and found a ride-share to a beach resort on Costa da Caparica.

Our Airbnb host had recommended a resort called Borda D’Agua. We arrived so happy to see a breezy restaurant on the sand with thatched-roof umbrellas and chairs to rent. We ordered lunch (a salmon salad for me) and spent a blessed hour or so in the cool restaurant. Later, from rented lounge chairs, we basked in the breeze and ran across the scorching hot sand to the cold water.

What we didn’t know was that all around us, Portugal was burning. The small country was currently battling 272 wildfires. Towns to the south of us were reporting the most extreme heat ever recorded in Portugal (47 degrees Celsius, 117 Fahrenheit). The government had declared a state of emergency.

At the beach, we knew none of this. We’d heard about some fires, but hadn’t seen any evidence of them until our train trip back to Lisbon. From our air-conditioned train car, we saw a pillowy plume of smoke rising from the distant horizon. Wanting to know more, I searched online when we returned to our apartment.  There, I learned about people dying from the heat, fires sapping emergency management resources all over the country, and everyone prohibited from entering any forests for any reason. Portugal was burning.

I wondered if we’d chosen the exact wrong time to visit Portugal. We knew it’d be hot, but not like this. Would we spend our entire vacation indoors without seeing or experiencing the wonders of Portugal? Sure, I’d wanted some time on the beach during our trip, but not the entire two weeks. Soon, we’d be heading to Porto where it sounded like temperatures would be somewhat lower. I crossed my fingers, hoping this would be true.

[womenwritingourlives]

Nazaré, Portugal

The Swing

by Robert Louis Stevenson

How do you like to go up in a swing,   Up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing   Ever a child can do! Up in the air and over the wall,   Till I can see so wide, Rivers and trees and cattle and all   Over the countryside— Till I look down on the garden green,   Down on the roof so brown— Up in the air I go flying again,   Up in the air and down!

As a child, one of my favorite poems was Robert Louis Stevenson’s “The Swing.” I read that poem until I had it memorized. Reciting it made me feel as if I were swinging in that very moment. I’ve always loved the rhythm and freedom of swinging. Even as an adult, I find time to swing whenever I get a chance. So, when we encountered an “urban swing” on our recent trip to Portugal, I knew I had to take my turn flying out over the beachside town of Nazaré.

We hadn’t set out to find a swing. Instead, we were on our way up the steep stairs to the iconic clifftop point above the world’s largest waves. In 2011, Nazaré became famous when Garrett McNamara surfed a 70-foot wave, the biggest ever surfed at the time. In 2020, Sebastian Steudtner set a new world record, surfing an 86-foot wave in the now famous Nazaré. Although I’m not a surfer, I knew I had to see this amazing big wave paradise. As a native Floridian, I’ve always been drawn to the sea. Even just sitting on the beach, the power of the waves washes through my senses like an immersive meditation experience. I watch their mesmerizing folding, smell and feel the salty air, and hear their crashing breaks against the shore. Even when the water is too cold for wading (as it was in Nazaré), I can almost taste gritty, sandy salt on my lips. 

We began our short trek from the town at Nazaré beach to the top of the cliff that overlooks the beach with the big waves. We expected lots of stairs, hot sun, and lots of resting stops. We didn’t expect a swing. But then, there it was, the Baloico de Ladeira swing. Even if I hadn’t needed a break from the steep ascent, I would have stopped and waited for my turn. When the family ahead of us finally finished their turns, I walked out on the hot sand, sat on the wooden seat, and wrapped my hands around the ropes on either side. Before pushing off, I sat still, taking in the sparkling blue water, white-sand beach, and red-tiled roofs at my feet. 

And then, liftoff. My sandaled feet cleared the edge, and I soared above the vibrant colors below. As I flew, the first lines of The Swing floated through my brain. How do you like to go up in a swing? Up in the air so blue? I smiled at the perfection of the moment. 

Soon, a line formed for a turn on the swing, and I relinquished my place on the wooden seat. As we returned to the path up the hill, a woman older than me clambered onto the swing. Although I never saw her swinging, a giddy laugh told me she’d pushed off. Like a child, she couldn’t help herself. We heard her whooping and laughing until we rounded the next bend. Adults turned to children. That’s the gift of the swing. Even in the middle of a long, hot trek, we could take a break to wonder at the immense beauty of our surroundings, let go of our cares, and fly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eventually, we made it to the top. 

Despite strong winds, I stopped to peer over a viewpoint.

And then I pushed through the wind on a trail toward the end of the cliff.

At the end of the trail, I stood at the point, marveling at the power of the ocean and the unique hydrology that creates some of the world’s largest waves.

To my left, Nazaré canyon lay deep below the water, surfacing as the sandy beach.

To my right, I saw the deserted north beach. Although the season wasn’t right for the giant waves, the tumultuous sea hinted at the powerful forces that would create those waves once again in a few short months.

[womenwritingourlives]

Making it up as I go

Just as the sun rises Ever so slowly over the horizon, So I will proceed. Beautifully. Unhurried. Steady. And loyal to my desires.

As the sun Makes its way across the sky Every day No matter the weather, I will live. Steady. Predictable. Beautiful.

I will shine, Even when storms Block my light.

I will rise. I will set. No matter The state of things.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m reading Jennifer Louden’s book, Why Bother? In one of the journal reflection prompts, she asks: “Are you tempted to raise the bar on yourself and impersonate a robot or a cyborg? Can you look to nature for something else to emulate?” Reflecting on this question, I saw the gentleness of the sun’s path across our sky. It’s predictable, we can trust in it, and yet it’s also beautiful and peaceful; not robotic at all. This insight prompted me to write the short poem below about how to live like the sun rather than a machine.

Image credit: "Great Salt Lake #57" by KellyB. is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

[womenwritingourlives]

Life of a Journal

The handwritten dedication at the start of the journal elicits hope, love, and tenderness. Who is this “fearless and awesome” Alexandra daughter? Did she share her dad’s vision of what’s to come in her life? 

Dad’s vision is clear: she’ll embark on writing adventures with her trusty lime-green notebook at her side. Is the prodigal daughter a child just beginning to show a love for words? She’ll take the journal to the garden and spend hours dreaming up her own adventures. 

Or perhaps she’s an older teenager planning to flee the safety of her parents’ nest. She’ll take the notebook around the world to document and then later share her experiences with her dad, her children, and her children’s children. 

In either case, Dad sees the glorious Alexandra living a life of freedom through writing. She’ll find herself in the blank pages and return to him a changed person. The journal promises to serve her well.

Feel the anticipation and hope of an entirely blank journal awaiting its future, made even giddier by the promised writing adventures. She’s numbering the pages. She stops at forty. Not a bad start. There will be more. Much more. Its pages will fill. It’ll find purpose. 

And then she writes. Glorious thoughts-turned-words, observations, experiences. The journal becomes daily habit. 

Alas, the hope and dream of our fearless Alexandra quickly and easily filling page after page with the barreling scrawl of a pen that can’t move fast enough dies by the fifteenth page. At first, she writes two pages each day. And then, a week later, she skips a day. One day becomes two, three. Fourteen pages she fills, and then she simply stops. She’s lost interest. Hopes and dreams die as she sets the journal aside.

Did our Alexandra ever feel fearless and awesome, or was that something other people saw in her that she never did? Dad’s obviously not a writer; he misspelled “writing” in the dedication. Did Alexandra bristle at that? Perhaps she doesn’t love him. “He tries too hard,” she thinks. “He pretends to know me, but he doesn’t know me at all. He wanted to be a writer, not me. I want nothing to do with wordplay.”

Eventually, she tears out the first fourteen pages, leaving ragged edges in the spine and numbers fifteen through forty lost without their starting anchor. She leaves the first page, the one with the words from her dad so thoughtfully inscribed, in the journal.

The lime-green notebook ends up in a thrift store bin, tossed aside with other journals started and never finished. One, two, maybe three pages of the best intentions, and then their writers turned away from the page, unable to bear the tugging “I should write” thoughts that plagued them every time they saw the pristine bound books on their shelves. The journals became dusty. Instead of choosing one, opening it ever so lovingly, and giving in to the pull of writing magic, these lost writers tossed the journals into “Donate” piles and delivered them to drab second-hand stores to live under sickly green fluorescent lights, calling to shoppers to adopt them.

Alexandra’s lime-green notebook sits closed tight with an elastic band next to a royal blue “Keep Calm and Write On” journal. With only two pages filled, the Keep Calm journal has fared worse than Alexandra’s notebook. 

The dust gathers, disturbed every couple of days by a mildly interested customer rummaging for a greater treasure. The lime-green notebook would sigh if it could. It’s waiting for exactly the right person to pick it up. To see the note from loving father to potential writer daughter. To feel the possibilities. 

When that person comes, she will notice the careful numbering of pages fifteen through forty. She’ll know that she must take this notebook home to begin a new life as writer and companion.

[womenwritingourlives]

Accidental Person

I’m reading Terry Tempest Williams’ book, Refuge. One sentence pricks my soul. She writes, “Within every checklist there are those birds listed as ‘accidentals,’ one species, or at best a few, that have wandered far from their normal range. They are flukes in a flock of predictable migrants. They are loners in an unfamiliar territory” (p. 88).

“That’s me!” my soul exclaims. “That’s me!”

I’m an accidental person. The flamingo standing on the edge of the Great Salt Lake, wondering why she looks and acts and is so different. Why the other birds, while they might be kind to her, never fully integrate her into their flocks. Why even if they did, she’d still feel like the accidental bird, never meant to be here, standing by this desert mountain lake. She belongs elsewhere, but she’s forgotten where or how to get there. So, she continues to stand. Looking out over the water, she feels a vague stirring of recognition at the saltiness of the water and the sulphur smell of the air. She feels pulled toward something but she knows not what. Deep in her soul, she wonders where she’s meant to be.

(Photo credit: Trent Nelson)

[womenwritingourlives]

Alaska, Day 6

Scene: A coffee shop called Resurrect Art and Coffee. I sit in a leather armchair, finally warm after a damp day. Wood shelves lined the walls, and they were filled with all sorts of local creative works: paintings, greeting cards (my downfall), jewelry, used books, and even a small line of used clothing. I drink my tea and begin to write.

“Feet damp. Headache. Rain. Warm citrus tea.”

I’d arrived there with less than an hour until closing. I chatted with the barista about their tea selection, and then, when I finally chose one, she surprised me by saying, “Sure, my friend.” I don’t think anyone has addressed me as “my friend” before. Then, when she handed me the steaming mug, she said, “Here you go, my friend.” So it wasn’t a fluke.

Something about calling me “friend” when she didn’t even know me wiggled its way into my soul. “I belong here,” I thought. I could greet myself every morning with that warm phrase, “Hello, friend.”

Calling me “friend” made my day. Thank you.

Before arriving at the coffee shop, I’d visited the Alaska Sealife Center. It seemed like a good place to go on a drizzly day, my first since I began my trip.

I watched the puffins play and dance in the water. What funny little birds they were!

Then, I said hello to these creatures, watching them in their tanks for quite a while.

I looked into the eyes of a fish shaped like scotch tape and told it, “You’re beautiful.���

Ultimately, it was the Giant Octopus clinging to the front glass wall of the tank that drew me in.

The octopus simply rested there, suctioned to the glass with its huge head dangling below its body. I envied its quiet, peaceful power. Just resting. Being its octopus self. It was mesmerizing.

I left the Sealife Center feeling warmer and somewhat drier than when I’d arrived. The cold dampness had seeped into my bones from a guided hike I’d done that morning.

We’d hiked from Lowell Point to Tonsina Point and back again. My guide lived in Los Angeles most of the year and came to Alaska in the summer to be a guide. Generally, I wouldn’t hike with a guide, but in Alaska, I didn’t feel safe on my own. So, I hired a guide from Kenai Backcountry Adventures. Lucky for me, I was the only one who’d signed up, and they agreed to run the trip anyway. So, I got a personalized hike with lots of exploring and conversation.

Neither Monkey nor I could believe the crystal clear, aqua-tinted running along the trail. Later, I wrote, “Water in rivers and streams: so blue, glacier blue, deep aquamarine. Clear to the bottom. Mesmerizing.”

The soft, squishy ground reminded me of some of the hikes I’ve done in the northwestern U.S. The undergrowth was foamier than carpet and so green it was almost neon. All around. No snakes. No bugs. No bear.

The resident bear, whom the guide knew well, frequented this part of the river. I really, really wanted to see the bear, and my guide told me that they’d seen him just the day before. 

After we left the bear’s riverside gourmet restaurant (without seeing him), another hiker came down the trail and warned us that he’d seen a bear on the beach. I couldn’t wait to see it, especially because both my guide and I were carrying bear spray and my guide knew that this particular bear wasn’t known to be aggressive. Of course, I didn’t want to get up close to it, but still, I wanted to see it.

No bear here...

Or here...

Neat fungi! But, no bear.

We stopped for lunch near this waterfall before heading out onto the beach, where, I was sure, I’d finally see my bear.

This is where the bear should have been....but he wasn’t.

On the beach portion of the hike, I did see some amazing mollusks clinging to the rocks.

Eventually, we reentered the forest for the trek through the fantasy woods and back to the trailhead.

Then, damp, cold, and thrilled to have been out on the trail, I set off into town to the Sealife Center, the coffee shop, Seward Brewing Company for dinner, and then my cozy yurt where I cuddled up under the blankets in the new sweatshirt I’d bought and listened to the rain until I fell asleep.

[womenwritingourlives]

I’ll meet you there

I give you permission to lay it all down.    To be your authentic self.

Gather the stressors               the to-do’s                   the feelings of not enough Into a large net.

Ensnare them.              Gently.                    Lovingly. In the net.

Fold it around all of your weights. Lift them from your body. And lay them down.              All around you if you must.

Hold it all outside of you. Examine the pile strewn around you. See how laying it all down, Unburdening yourself, Amplifies your authentic self.

You may try your hardest to cloak yourself In the armor of stress and doing and judging, But you---you---are always there.              Lurking in the shadows.              Waiting to be created.              And revealed. Under the net of stuff you’ve just lifted from your shoulders.

You, my love, can be nothing but yourself.               Free to create.               Free to be.

As your authentic self, you are               Creator, without fear.               Feeler, without judgment.               Connected, without conformity.

So, my love, be free.               Leave it all there on the floor.               Be you.               Just you.               Because you cannot be anyone else.              You are enough.

Give yourself permission to lay it all down and walk with me.

I’ll meet you there.

"reaching out blue" by Creativity103 is licensed under CC BY 2.0

[womenwritingourlives]

Alaska, Day 5

I woke up to my first full day in Seward motivated to get out and explore. My first stop: the offices of Kenai Backcountry Adventures to book a guided hike. Although I hike alone all the time at home, I didn’t really want to do that in Alaska because, you know, bears. The woman running the front desk also worked at my yurt village, and I’d heard good things about the company. Luckily, they had a trip planned for the next day, so I signed up and headed into town.

I ended up at Kenai Fjords Tours, the most well-known company for boat trips through the fjords. At first, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go on the water because I sometimes get seasick and the trip was a 6-hour boat ride. But, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to explore one of the main natural features that had drawn me to Alaska. I bought my ticket for the 10:30am departure and went straight to Safeway to buy Dramamine and seasickness wrist bands.

Back at the dock, Monkey and I waited for to board the boat, enjoying the sunny sky and crystal blue water in the port.

Finally, it was time to board our boat, the Callisto Voyager.

The sun was out, and I’d been getting hot on the dock, but once we started going, it got cold fast. I wore three layers plus a jacket on top, with a hat and two hoods over my head. From that point on, all I could do was stare in awe at the 360-degree views of snow covered mountains, huge expanses of sky, and wildlife. I can’t possibly share all of my favorite pictures from the boat ride, so I’ll just pick a few to illustrate what the entire day was like.

The guy sitting next to me was also traveling alone, so we shared cameras to get a few shots of ourselves on the boat.

After about 20 minutes, the boat came to a sudden stop because the captain had spotted a whale. Watching these huge animals swim around the boat, I marveled at their graceful movements.They just kept swimming and going about their business while all of us tourists clicked away on our phones and cameras. After a few shots, I put down my camera and directed all of my attention toward fully experiencing their beauty.

Shortly after, the captain took us into a calm cove to see a pod of orcas. They seemed more agile and playful than the first whales we saw. And, I couldn’t help but think that the way their white spots clearly contrasted with their mostly black bodies looked just like the orcas depicted in the movies and in books. We watched this pod for a long time as they kept coming up right next to the boat. Once again, I put my camera away so I could just watch and experience these beautiful animals.

It really was this beautiful for the entire 6-hour journey. I just had to keep taking pictures!

Eventually, we came to Aialik Glacier. The air temperature dropped by at least 10 degrees as we entered the cove. The pieces of ice floating all around the cove were the tips of icebergs that had broken off the glacier. The captain explained that while they might look small from the top of the water, under the water they were massive chunks of ice that boaters had to be very careful not to hit.

The captain got right up to the edge of the glacier. As we floated in the water with the engines quiet, we heard consistent rumbling noises as pieces of the glacier rolled down like giant snowballs into the water. The larger pieces rumbled on their way down, sounding like fireworks in the distance. Eventually, we saw a massive piece calve off and go thundering down into the water. It created a wave so big that the captain had to turn the boat head-on toward the wave. Of course, the main thought I had was of global warming. Glaciers are flowing rivers of ice, and while their edges constantly break off into the water,  the glacier seemed to be crumbling at a relatively fast pace. Surprisingly, the captain said nothing about the effects of global warming on the glacier. 

As we left the glacier, Monkey found a nice place to relax for the journey back to Seward.

The captain and crew really knew how to find wildlife, and I couldn’t believe they spotted these two bald eagles hanging out on a beach. There’s one on the right side of the photo, just where the water meets the shore, and another on top of the gray ridge of beach just to the left of center.

He also found these white mountain goats on an island. They’re the two white specks just above the large rocks on the shore, under the bend in the U-shaped outcrop of rocks in the middle of the picture.

And, for one final treat, we visited these sea lions sunning on some rocks near a different island. They gave us quite a serenade of barks that sounded like loud, disgusting burps.

At first, I’d been nervous about seasickness and unsure if I’d like such a structured touristy tour, but upon returning to the dock at Seward, I was so glad I’d decided to take this day trip. The glacier was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Before the trip, I’d seen all the types of animals we saw from the boat, but I’d never seen most of them in the wild. Watching the whales swim in their home territory was an experience I’ll never forget. Their beauty and grace isn’t something that can be replicated in an enclosed aquarium. Add to that the perfect weather we had, and I couldn’t have asked for a more awesome trip.

[womenwritingourlives]

Alaska, Day 4

Freedom! I got a rental car and drove down the Seward Highway from Anchorage to Seward. Mountains, the sea, blue skies, and white fluffy clouds were my view almost the entire time. 

The drive is supposed to take about 2.5 hours...I took six hours because I stopped wherever I wanted on the drive. One of my first stops was the McHugh Creek Trailhead in Chugach State Park (the third largest state park in the U.S.). I really, really wanted to hike here, but I also dreaded a bear encounter. So, armed with the bear spray that the owner of the inn in Anchorage had given me, I ventured a short distance into the woods. I clapped, stomped, whistled, sang, and talked so that I wouldn’t surprise any bears on the path. Success! No bears.

Further down the road, Monkey and I stopped to ride the Alyeska Tramway to the top of the ski resort in Girdwood. It was the shoulder season between the end of winter operations and the beginning of summer operations, so I rode up and explored the top with just a handful of other people.

But, the views don’t take off for the season! This was from the deck of the lodge at the top of the tram. Just imagine a view like this all the way around. The blue skies and the mountains stretched 360 degrees around me.

And then we finally made it to our destination: the Kenai Peninsula. After such a beautiful drive, I couldn’t wait to see what the peninsula had to offer!

We found our way to the Nauti Otter Yurt Village.

Clint, one of the owners, led us to the Halibut Hut, our home for the next three nights.

Monkey immediately made friends with the yurt’s resident halibut.

After we settled in, I wrote, “Now I’m cozy in my yurt. I instantly felt at home in my small space with everything I need. Could I live in a yurt? Short-term, definitely. Things I’m grateful for today: a rental car. Friendly yurt hosts, the Copper Whale owner giving me bear spray. Waterfalls. Water. Big, expansive views.”

After dinner and the grocery store, we cozied in for the night to rest up before exploring Seward the next day.

[womenwritingourlives]

Alaska, Day 3

Today is train day. I’m riding the Aurora Winter Train for the 12-hour trip from Fairbanks to Anchorage.

My traveling companion has also joined me. We’ve found our seats, and I watch the other passengers board. 

“Have you seen any bears?” a woman asks a couple sitting a few rows ahead of and across the aisle from me.

The couple laughs, shakes their heads, perfectly synchronized as if they were one body with two heads.

“We only saw a badger or something like that,” the questioner chuckles before continuing down the aisle to her seat.

(Unbeknownst to her, we’d see a bear later in our journey. I have no pictures of the bears, moose, caribou, bald eagles, and other wildlife we saw because they were so quick to leave as the train rumbled by.)

A few minutes ago, we pulled out of the station in Fairbanks. So much to see! Don’t want to look away for even a minute. 12 hours? Will I really watch for that long? 

(Yes, yes I will!)

Running moose. Snowy Alaskan Range. Rivers. Bridges. So much to see; I can’t write about it all. I must watch out the window!

Quick stop in Denali brought longing and disappointment that I hadn’t worked it into my stay. “Would’ve, should’ve, could’ve” filled my head. But I chose. I chose to forego Denali in part because most of it was still closed, and I was heeding the call of the fjords.

So much to see! I have to stop writing to look up periodically. South of Denali now. Low gray clouds cover peaks. About half snow, half dark gray brown.

Intermittent anxiety today. First about getting on the train. What if I got motion sickness? Now about I don’t know what. The train is comfortable; much more so than I’d expected. It’s peaceful, at least half empty.

I’m enjoying myself, just watching out the window. I can simply be. Watch. Wonder.

What’s it like up on the expanse of white at the top of that peak? Could someone be up there? How steep would it look? 

What’s out there in those trees? I know there are bears. Where are they? Are they camouflaged? Questions. Imagination. Each piece of landscape different from the last. 

After a quick stop in Talkeetna, we’re called to the dining car for dinner. Monkey suggests that I order the Caesar salad, so that’s what I do. The woman in white sitting in front of me orders a meat dish, and the woman across from us with dreads orders the curry. We chat over dinner. The woman in white is from Florida, and she’s also traveling alone. The woman with dreads is from Pennsylvania and has been visiting a friend who works in Denali for a week. I enjoy our conversations about traveling alone, previous and future travel plans, and the beauty of Alaska.

During dinner, the train’s been getting ever closer to to Anchorage. I realize that I’ve forgotten to look close, on the ground. The vast expanse of sky, clouds, hills, and mountains have pulled my attention to the far away. I’ve forgotten to look right outside the window.

Arriving in Anchorage, I walk to the Copper Whale Inn, my home for the night. The women who own the place greet me as I walk in the door, and inform me that they’ve upgraded my room because no one else is there tonight. I head up the stairs and unlock the door to this beautiful view of Cook Inlet. “Perfect,” I think. (Note that I took this picture at about 8:30pm. See how light it is?) 

I take a deep breath and settle in for a good sleep before continuing my adventures tomorrow.

[womenwritingourlives]

Alaska, Day 2

My second full day in Alaska, I set out to explore downtown Fairbanks. It wasn’t anything like I expected. I pictured a little area of shops around the river; I found more of a ghost town. As it turned out, my most memorable moments from the day came from conversations I overheard among interesting people.

Before I met anyone, I wandered the mostly empty streets. I noticed lots of street art painted on the sides of buildings. The bright colors of the Alaska mural (above) caught my eye in part because it was such a contrast to the mostly concrete colored buildings. In search of breakfast, I walked toward the Morris Thompson Cultural and Visitors’ Center, hoping to see more options than the two places I’d passed on the edge of downtown.

The sidewalk leading up to and around the cultural center had these beautiful mosaics, modeled off the colors and patterns of Native Alaskan tribal art.

I returned to a breakfast spot I’d seen earlier, the River City Cafe, for a fresh smoothie. As I enjoyed my breakfast, two women sat at the far table by the window. Their conversation was so interesting that I merged their stories into one character in the hopes that maybe she’ll show up in my fiction sometime. Here’s her story:

My brother’s a millionaire, owns his own company.

My sister got two Bachelors’ degrees and a Master’s.

And then there’s me. Two failed marriages. Barely got my Associate’s. Living with my ex mother-in-law.

I’ve always felt that I had to make up for it somehow. Prove my worth to this glorious family.

So I work. Eight hours at the call center. Twelve hours at the hospital. The night shift so I can get my homework done.

I’m still in school. I want to get my nursing degree.

Guess I’d better get used to sleeping only 2 or 3 hours a night.

After I’d wandered around downtown a bit more, I made my way to the transit center and caught a bus back to Pike’s Waterfront Lodge where I was staying. On the way, I met another interesting character whose conversation with the bus driver sparked a flash fiction sort of story:

“Seen any werewolves lately?”

“I...uh...no...”

I didn’t know what she was getting at. Werewolves? You had to believe in those to see one. Right? I didn’t think they were real.

She’d boarded my bus at the Behavioral Health Center. Black braces enclosed her lower legs, growing from inside the heel of her shoe, up her calves, and strapped around her shins. Her hands were full with a styrofoam take-out container, a white-handled paper bag with “Born and Raised in Alaska” printed in maroon on its front. She held the take-out container on a flat square thing, which she held with two hands. Even with all that and the leg braces, she stepped up impressively steady onto the bus. She wore her long brown hair wet, and her pants were a fun black and white plaid pattern.

She’d been the one to ask about the werewolves. Mental issues, I decided. Until she spoke again.

“Rainbows,” she said.

My brain relaxed. Rainbows. Her surgical mask had muffled her initial question. Rainbows. She was asking about rainbows.

“Not today,” said the bus driver, keeping his eyes on the road. “Saw one yesterday though.”

“Should be having one today,” she said, almost to herself.

I smiled as I logged the conversation in my memory to write about later. When I returned to my hotel, I walked across the parking lot to the bar at Pike’s Landing, ordered a pint of Alaskan White beer, and wrote her story.

Despite the day’s inauspicious beginning, these colorful characters brought the town to life, brightening my day by simply going about their own lives.

[womenwritingourlives]

Alaska, Day 1

During my trip to Alaska, I carried with me a small notebook that I bought at the gift shop at the Museum of the North at the University of Alaska Fairbanks on the first day of my trip. I'll use those snippets of writing to tell a story of my trip. Not a comprehensive story, but a story of the moments I found most impactful or inspiring or difficult each day.

In the museum, I found myself drawn to a painting: six Alaska Native people (women, in my imagination) sit on a riverbank, their backs to me, wrapped in brightly colored blankets. The river is starting to melt, but still has a covering of ice chunks. The painting made me feel peaceful, as if I could join these women in their mindful sit.

Outside the museum, I sat at a table in awe and wonder at the vivid colors of nature all around me. The bluish white snowy mountains of the Alaska Range formed the horizon, looking almost like an extension of the fluffy white clouds and gray streaks of rain. Look at the storms out there compared to the clear blue skies near me. I felt big and small at the same time, as if the vastness of the landscape filled me up like a balloon while at the same time reminding me of how inconsequential my small little body is to the earth.

A family walking down a grassy hill caught my eye. When the parents called the kids' names, I felt the spark of interest that tells me to write:

A kid named River     Shirtless     No, carrying his shirt.

A girl named Sky.

The horizon line     Green treetops

Blue, blue, blue      Spotted with           Fluffy white clouds

Darker on the horizon      Sheets of gray           Clouds to white peaks.

[womenwritingourlives]

This page has the text of a reflection I gave in church (Ogden UCC) on Sunday, May 2, 2021 on the theme of self-love.

[womenwritingourlives]

Last week, I started on a different kind of writing: computer coding. I’ve always wondered what would have happened if I’d taken a computer science class in college. I’m very computer savvy, and I started html coding when I was in college. So, this year, I’ve enrolled in an open-access online course that’s an introduction to computer science. My first project in the course was to code something in Scratch. This game is the result. I’d used Scratch a little bit before, but not to create a more fully-fledged project like this one. I’m sure there are still some bugs, but I hope you enjoy playing!

[womenwritingourlives]

I wrote the following piece about my encounter with the picture of the cemetery in Jakarta shown at the link above.

Looking at picture of the arial view of the graveyard, my eye is drawn to the gaping hole covered with two-by-fours in the bottom row, closest to me, the viewer. a two-by-four lines each of the long sides of the rectangular black hole. Two two-by-fours cross the gaping abyss. The wood serves as a warning rather than protection against an oblivious wanderer falling into the hole. That person would most certainly find themselves plunged into the abyss between the thin boards.

Examining the picture, I felt no particular sense of loss. Only curiosity. Who were the people beneath the crosses and pillars? And interest. Interest in the symmetry of the green-grass topped rectangles, not perfectly aligned, but close enough to sketch a rough grid. The cemetery was rough-hewn, with brownish-red, bare dirt between the green gravitons. Perhaps the cemetery had been recently created.

Yes, according to the caption, “land was cleared solely for COVID-19 victims.” A mass grave, sectioned out into equal portions turning disorder into order. The green rectangles represented the dead, almost more than the grave markers. The darker brown, dirt rectangles represented new (or forthcoming) dead people.

None of that moved me beyond curiosity and wonder in the details. My usual fascination with death, dyings, and cemeteries--the stories they tell.

And then I noticed the gaping hole in the foreground like a tooth that had fallen out. I felt my heart drop. My stomach flittered, jittery with feeling. Despair. The weight of the pandemic. Nervousness. Sadness. But, above all, foreboding.

That hole just awaited the next person to fill it. And they would. More people--many more people--will die before we get the pandemic under control. Someone’s body will be lowered into that grave. It’ll be covered with dirt, maybe green grass, and marked with either a cross or a pillar.

To me, that hole holds the future. Never before has a cemetery sparked me to consider the future. I do that plenty in my daily life, anxious over what the next hour, day, week, or month might hold. But cemeteries always launch me into the past. Who were the dead? Who were their families? Why did they die so young? So close together? So far apart?

I’m not particularly afraid of dying, and the future I felt when I saw the hole didn’t portend great fear about mine or my loved ones’ death. Instead, it was the intimate knowledge that someone would go there. Inevitably, the hole would be filled and someone’s presence would become the past. I’d considered all of this before in my numerous visits to cemeteries, but this time it hit me in a different way.

It was as if this tiny portion of earth revealed our collective future in an unobtrusive, intimate whisper that spoke directly to my soul.