Walking a Fine Line on a Slippery Slope

I've had a life. I see how slippery things can be.

~Annie Proulx

Even at my age, after all these decades of living, I still consider myself a work in progress. In many ways, I take pride in that—being a “work in progress”—as it tells me I’m still striving and learning and maybe most important, I’ve proven to myself I am able to change, alter or soften my opinions, my way of thinking, my outlook.

There have been dozens, possibly hundreds of times when I’ve shown intolerance for the opinions of others, when I’ve been less than respectful of another person’s point of view.

It is the province of knowledge to speak,

And it is the privilege of wisdom to listen.

~ Oliver Wendell Holmes

Several years ago I audited a college class that was an adjunct to a writing course I was taking. We were going to learn to be critical thinkers.

Up to that time, I’d never heard the term “critical thinking.” When I parsed the two-word phrase, I knew I’d often been “critical” (in the derogatory sense and not in a manner involving skillful judgment as to truth and merit) and I have always been a “thinker.” I just never realized one could be proud of being a “critical thinker.” [cont'd]

The Sun Shines Down Mud Alley

There's the north side of the house, there's the fence separating it from the property next door and in between ... see that? That's an alley. 

When I toured the house in August of 2013 I took little notice of this 40' long alley. I zeroed in on the very manageable piece of land making up the back yard, on the many trees, deciduous and evergreen, surrounding the property and on the garden shed, all of which I had long yearned for. 

Yes, I noted the lack flowers, the weedy "lawn" and the bare, hard ground around the few poorly placed and unhealthy looking shrubs. No matter. I had the vision and I knew I could turn this plot into something special. It's true my stamina had waned in the years since I last carved out and fashioned a lovely, vibrant garden. However, my semi-latent green-thumb-enthusiasm overcame any doubts or misgivings.

Sunshine and glorious fall colors greeted me as I moved into the home in October of 2013. Toting, unpacking, sorting and placing all the things that make a house a home kept me from thinking about the exterior--front and back--and what I might like to accomplish. It simply felt so amazingly wonderful to be in my own home!

In a little over a week, just as I began thinking "outside the house," the fall rains came. Undeterred, I slogged around in the back and front yards hours at a time, tucking in "gifted" shoots and replanting the many perennials which came from pots on the deck of the apartment. If you're a true gardener, you have a sense of the unbridled joy my mud-mucking brought to me. 

Probably the only downside to this gardening glee was trekking back and forth along what I now referred to as "mud alley," discovering just how deep into the ooze one's boots can go and just how slippery and slimy thoroughly soaked clay soil can be. 

Arriving home after a quick three-day trip in late December, I discovered the south fence at the back had fallen over. The HOA approved new fencing and within two weeks the work began. Contractors had to use "mud alley" to haul, tote and lug the materials from front to back, back to front. They never complained (at least that I could hear) but it wasn't difficult to imagine the depth of their irritation when I looked at the hundreds of muddy holes left by their work boots. 

In March one of my *sons smoothed out the sludge in the alley, laid down some ground cloth and covered all with 4" of hemlock chips. Aesthetically this looked wonderful and practically it absolutely solved the problems presented by "mud alley." 

That summer, 2014, perennials began to show their colors and glory all over the front and back yard. I still had some lessons to learn regarding where the sun shone brightest and longest, where the shade stayed for most of the day and which areas might be trouble spots. 

The late afternoon sun shines laser-like and searingly hot down the length of "mud alley"; sometimes dappling the plants in its path; more often, if the angle is just right, attempting to fry them. 

I'm pondering some sort of shade-inducing trellis to screen the most vulnerable plants. What I am not doing is cursing that blatant, strong beam of spring and summer sunshine when it does course along the alley. 

I am grateful for the clear, focused brilliance traveling down a previously muddied and muddled path. 

   

All my hurts my garden spade can heal

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

*my two sons are always at my beck and call for painting, hauling, fixing and fussing with all manner of things. 

Taking a Spin

In her May 2015 column, “Tell Me About It,” Carolyn Hax posits, “[We] don't feel the earth move, but that doesn't mean we aren't spinning around the sun.” Hax used this as an analogy to illustrate that we are often unaware of the effect our words or actions have on others. We may not “feel” it or recognize it at the time, but they do have the ability to impact another person—sometimes good, sometimes not.

A few months ago, a young man who went to school with my sons told me my family and I had made a lasting, important and positive impact on him as a teenager. He said when he observed and interacted with our family he witnessed unconditional love and support for the first time in his life.

This comment came after I told him how proud I was of him for his many achievements and way he has conducted his life. To my amazement, he gave much of the credit for his successes to me.

If asked what I recall about the times this young man was in our home, I believe I would have remembered the many times of teenage turmoil and my almost constant feeling of parental ineptitude.

What he remembered, however, was laughter, trips to the coast, doting grandparents nearby, hearty family dinners, a loving father who took time to listen to and talk with his sons. Average family, right? Maybe not.

If you know me well at all you know I do not ever get offended. It’s not that I have an elevated sense of self and can’t imagine someone making a remark to purposely offend me. I simply choose to put a different “spin” on the comment. Seems to me one chooses to “take offense.” 

On the other hand, there have been times when I’ve learned that something I said has had a negative impact on another person. I do understand words have power and am aware there are times when my personality is too forceful. Even so, it usually takes a beat or two before I understand that, even though I did not intend to show disrespect, my words hit the person in a vulnerable spot. 

In these instances, I take a mental “step back,” thank the person for telling me, do a mea culpa, try to explain, and move on.

I am honored when I’m told my words or actions have benefited someone else. I am chagrined if my words or actions cause offense.

The laws of nature mean we’ll never really feel ourselves spinning around the sun. I don’t take offense, but after traveling zillions of miles around this central body in our solar system, I am finally understanding the effect I, one speck in the *whirling rubble, might have on those in my orbit. 

Wikimedia Commons: Earth "This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license."
*Thank you, Richard Dawkins. 

Surviving Stupidity - Part 4*

A TALE OF LOVE AND GREED

Our 30-year old, 33’ Chris Craft cabin cruiser was polished to a sheen, engines in purring condition, galley stocked with canned goods we’d eat if, horrors, we didn’t catch fresh seafood. We planned to live on our boat and cruise the San Juan Island area for 100 days - over three months of fishing, crabbing, clamming, sunning, and exploring.

My husband and I had been planning this adventure for over a year. Michael’s mechanical expertise guaranteed the two big engines of the boat ready to handle any difficult waters we might encounter. He pored over navigation charts in the weeks preceding our departure while I worked on organizing the loose sightseeing plan for the 100 days.

Once we were on our way, days passed with beautiful and marvelous precision. All we dared to hope for materialized. The sightseeing proved exquisite and the seafood was bountiful wherever we went.

One day, two and a half months into our adventure, we discovered an oyster bed of magnificent proportions. Over our two-day stay in those waters, we ate our fill of fried oysters - breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Two weeks prior to this "find," an educated fisherwoman in Paradise Cove told us oysters would keep several weeks if they remained in wet sacks. Remembering this, Michael stuffed two gunnysacks full and stowed them in the bow of our 15’ dinghy.

Messing with the Past

I wanted the past to go away,

wanted to leave it, like another country;

I wanted my life to close, and open like a hinge, like a wing,

like the part of the song where it falls down over rocks:

an explosion, a discovery; I wanted to hurry into the work of my life;

I wanted to know, whoever I was, I was alive for a little while.

~Mary Oliver

There are days when the drag of simple routine allows room for some interesting thoughts, gives time to think, "What if ... ?" and dwell on the old bugaboos, "Why didn't I ... .?" and, "If only ... ."

However, unlike the talented poet Mary Oliver, I've never wanted my past to go away. There have been far too many amazingly wonderful, life-enhancing, life-altering, joy-filled experiences. I may wish I had been more loving, more considerate and, in many cases, shown more understanding. There's advice I wish I had taken and advice I wish I had asked for. But that's all predicated on my knowing then what I know now. 

A few days ago my sons and I talked about our choices and how those choices have impacted our lives. My oldest son opined that we tend to believe different decisions along the way would have made our lives so much better, yet we'll never know. Life might have been much more of a struggle and not nearly as fulfilling. Of course, on that very philosophical level, he's absolutely correct. Therefore, 

Go and make interesting mistakes, make amazing mistakes,
make glorious and fantastic mistakes. Break rules.
Leave the world more interesting for your being here.
~Neil Gaiman 

I've definitely made some "interesting mistakes."  However, as I said to a friend last week, I liken the way I once painted a room to the way I managed most of my life: I made some big, sloppy messes, but I always took responsibility for them and always cleaned "things" up afterward (as best I could). 

Again, referring to my eldest son, when he paints he's very, very meticulous. It takes longer at the outset, but at the end he doesn't have to go back, go over, redo or make excuses for sloppiness. He acknowledges he didn't always "paint" his actions with forethought.

Good decisions come from experience 

and experience comes from bad decisions.
~Unknown

Physical limitations mean I no longer paint the walls of my interior rooms, but I do slap and spray paint willy-nilly on my outdoor furniture, shed and garden decorations (no gnomes or flamingos, by the way!). 

I'm not making those other kinds of  "big, sloppy messes" but I am certainly satisfying some inner need to make changes and stir things up ... just a bit.  

May the Forest Be With You*

Stand beside me as I stand beside a tree and you will likely hear me say, "Trees are my talisman." 

Whether walking in the woods, sitting on my front porch near the stalwart Persian Ironwood, looking out the back windows to towering fir trees in a neighbor's yard or marveling at the beauty of the many varieties of maple tree in my own backyard, the same sense of delight and wonder comes over me. 

I feel such a oneness with trees that when I see a log truck barreling down the highway loaded with newly hewn logs piled high on the trailer, a real sadness comes over me. I know, I know: lumber is necessary to build our homes (but wait: does anyone really need a 10,000 sq. ft. home???) and the "timber counties" in Oregon benefit (or have benefited) from Federal timber payments (which strikes me as ridiculous as tying our school funding to income from lottery dollars). 

The Oregonian newspaper's December 24, 2014 edition featured a guest column by George Wuerthner, a Bend, Oregon ecologist writing about forest fires and forest ecology. Wuerthner states, "Though it is nearly universal among most people who have been taught to think about wildfires as destructive, from an ecological perspective it belies a failure to really understand forest ecology."

A few days later another article appeared which seemed to imply that both timber company owners and those who usually decry clear-cutting were in some kind of agreement regarding the thinning of our "forests." I can't help but think there was a bit of skewed reporting going on here. 

Planting trees in order to remake a "forest" is clearly impossible. A true forest can never be made by man. When forests are clear-cut, scabbed and scarred land becomes ripe for landslides. 

As with all of life's conundrums, some middle ground must be found or else, in this case, we risk slipping and sliding down a muddy, barren hill without a limb to grab onto.   

*Portland Nursery marquee December 2014
Photo Michael Richardson, -2-7-2012 - Oregon 

An Apprentice Poet's Legacy

Nine months ago she died. Shall I say, "I had a friend whose name was Diane English"? No, no, I won't begin that way because Diane English, although no longer in my physical world, is with me every single day. That's the kind of impact she had on me and on everyone who had the good fortune to know her--on any level. I call it the "Diane Effect." 

I first met Diane in 2006 at a combined screenwriting, acting, creative writing class at Marylhurst University. Approximately 40 women, ages 20 to 75, were in attendance. After a short talk centering on the merits of allowing our "creative inner child" to emerge, the moderator of the event asked us to choose one of the three disciplines and gather into groups. 

Eight women, strangers to one another, sat in the circle comprised of those who chose "acting." We were instructed to grab something from one of two boxes situated in the center. 

Diane, sitting across from me, reached out, grabbed a brightly colored silk scarf and, with great flourish, tossed it around her neck and over her shoulder. About the same time I reached into a box and came up with a turquoise Robin Hood-style felt hat which I plopped on my head. Our eyes met, a spark of impishness crossed Diane's face. 

I looked around the circle after all had taken some treasure from one of the boxes. I saw a woman of about 50 holding a cardboard sword and another tying a chef's apron around her waist. Two women who looked to be about 35 were already in play-acting-phase: they each held an old, black telephone handset and were mouthing words as though they were talking on the phone. One woman held a toy violin and another a pair of old tennis shoes. 

What in the world was this all about? 

We soon discovered it was about unleashing our creativity, about spontaneity, about letting go of a few of our inhibitions--those bugaboos that warn us to "Stop being so silly and act [our] age." 

Jodi led our group of "actors." She didn't have to give any of us much of a reason to begin pretending. Diane and I, now sitting side by side and both showing childlike delight and abandon, began a dialogue. 

Never in my life have I had such an immediate connection to another human being. 

From that day forward, Diane English and I became fast and dear friends.

In 2012 Diane moved to a studio apartment in an assisted living facility. On one wall Diane hung six or eight wildly and colorfully patterned diaphanous scarves. When she was expecting visitors, she wore a scarf from her collection. 

Each time I visited her there, memories of that first meeting flowed back in bright waves as I easily recalled her devil-may-care tossing of the scarf she chose from that eclectic pile of "props."  

She called herself an "apprentice poet." About a year before she died, Diane published a book of poetry titled, Sunbreaks and Magic Acts. "Upon Leaving My Earthly Form" is the final piece: 

Upon Leaving My Earthly Form

I ask those I love and leave behind

to remember when my body held breath

how hour upon hour I stood

near speaking streams immersed

in language of gurgle and gush

walked cliffs above the sea, watched

sacred tidings from the deep

roll onto shore in unfurling

white, scroll after scroll.

I was never rooted in the ground, preferred being

where current meets current, seeing

sunset mirrored on a Sound.

Why then, once I’m gone,

would I wish to be buried underground,

encased in urn, or weighted down by stone?

No dust to dust for me. Rather, gaily fling—

yes, fling—burned remains of my earthly form

far out to sea, to travel tides and moonbeams.

If the ocean is too far to go, sweetly scatter my ashes

on a river, to whorl and eddy with its pulse.

Let this stand as last request to those I love

and leave behind: find me a watery bier

and if you wish to contact me where

my spirit keeps vigil, visit me there.