A poem

Highlighted in Sunlight
She bursts Forth in Full Array
Ready to Show the World
the Depth of her Soul
the Graciousness of her Spirit
and the Magnitude of her Heart

It was in Ketchikan's bay where I saw my first wild sea lions, feeding on herring which flashed when flanking the surface of the water. On that rare sunny day in southeast Alaska, Jeff and I continued along the seafront boardwalk to the harbor, where boats of all sizes – like the “Kenai Jane” – bobbed up and down. If boats could talk, (I do enjoy personification) I imagine the bobbing vessels would be eager nods to sailors, and a resounding “yes” to the question: “shall we head to open waters this fine day?”

The “Kenai Jane” is Jeff's friend's 36 ft. troller, which hosted the three of us on a four day hunting trip for Sitka black tail deer. It seems there are a lot of secrets involved with hunting matters, and location is one of these. But since you, my dear readers, will most likely not be out to tag a deer on or around Prince of Wales Island soon, I've got no qualms with telling you we were at Dunbar.

The entire time we were tromping around the tussocky tundra, actually, it felt like we were telling secrets. It was as if everything ambient had listening ears, and our hushed tones were absolutely necessary, so to not spook and scare off a good buck within range. Minus an accidental whistle tune with a momentary slip, I think I was able to follow this rule fairly well – though, as a side note, I do believe our walking six feet made enough noise to alert almost anything of our presence.

What initially struck me were the colors and textures I was seeing. The only comparison I can come up with is that it felt like I was scuba diving, with nacre, iridescent and incandescent hues, forming the spongy tundra that absorbed my Xtra Tuf boot each step. (I don't know why, but one of my greatest annoyances is a spelling altercation so to “specialize” a product.) My olfactory curiosity kicked in next, and I couldn't help my constant search for cedar sprigs to hold to my nose.

Our first day out I was the only one to spot a deer – well, the behind of one anyway as it disappeared into the spruce covered ridge. He saw us before we saw him, I guess. Day number two was promising with fantastic weather, but bamboozling in that we called in a sole doe in seven miles. Just the weekend prior, Jim said they'd seen around twenty deer in the exact same area.

On the last day we were still buck-less, and I opted to stay aboard “Kenai Jane” for rest and relaxation after a relatively sleepless night, due to incessant 40 mile per hour winds, with gusts reaching 50. I missed all of the action that day, but must contend, really enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, – veggie egg scramble – and series of yogic sun salutations on the back deck. By then the winds had calmed, rain stopped, and clouds lifted.

As the story was told to me, Jim caught sight of a decent buck in a clear cut area, and Jeff took aim with his 7mm. A single bullet sufficed, and the rack was supposedly far superior to the other two bucks seen thereafter. On the beach as well as on the boat I became the official photographer; I've noticed that many hunters like to take multiple pictures from different angles and positions, as well as with different people and backgrounds. Jeff follows suit with this statement, and I shared his enthusiasm.

One of the great ironies of our relationship is that Jeff is a passionate hunter, and I'm equally fervent about being a vegetarian. Somehow, though, we make it work, holding our own and coming to appreciate each other too. Many a time people have said, “opposites attract,” and I've wondered why this is. Perhaps we – all people – are consciously and even unconsciously looking for greater balance in life. This is Elise, signing out from freezing rain in Aleknagik, Alaska.

Today I did something I rarely do – I said, “thank you, but no”. Dizzy with vertigo, Aleknagik Lake School's 3rd, 4th & 5th grade teacher called in sick, and I was given a choice – to acquiesce to substituting out of the overwhelming sense of duty and obligation that I felt, or, to hold onto my initial intention to rest, write and sip sweet raspberry zinger. After a lot of internal back and forth banter – which we, women, can tend to be infamous for – I chose the latter, and am in earnest, guiltily grateful for it.

The juxtaposition of these two words – guilty and grateful – seems all too strange. But it's exactly how I felt, and I think it's how women especially, can feel when we choose ourselves over fulfilling what we deem to be “a more important need” – why is this? Why do we, women, sometimes waffle, waver and wonder ourselves frustratingly silly with angst? Is this tendency imbibed from cultural values, imprinted upon us from childhood, and/or simply intrinsically a part of our intended being?

This post does not seek to answer questions raised, but instead, provide a platform of inquiry. There's too much concern with answers, anyway, and not enough significance given to colorful discourse in all of its multifaceted forms. It's through conversation – listening and sharing – that we are granted an opportunity to develop greater tolerance and compassion, appreciation and gratitude for the kaleidoscopic world that we live in.

Stereotypes, which ultimately place overarching value systems on one idea or another, flatten the dimensional dynamism and voluminous quality of life – and pigeonhole, limit, classify, as well as reduce the vastness of life's incredible and unique awesomeness, so to make everything fit inside a boxed understanding of what is, and what can be. But, life is a prism of possibilities, really – refracting a spectrum of hues that shade, tint, highlight and blend together to form the wonderful wonderment existing inside and all around us.

Let us tap into this wonderment today by becoming more in touch with ourselves, and additionally, more in touch with others. Ask yourself – what do I notice? What is the story going on inside of me, and how does it affect the story going on outside of me? Allow time to listen to yourself, take the risk to share your experiences – insights, discoveries and inquiries, and give the gift of your open and undivided attention to hear another version of life's story. This is Elise, signing out from Aleknagik, Alaska.

Away from the self-induced swarm of topsy-turvydom I turned myself over to during the summer, I am trying to wend to the quietude of Aleknagik, Alaska – yielding to a slower pace, allowing distractions to dissipate, and hopefully, re-establishing some sort of equilibrium. This is not my natural inclination, (and, is it anybody's?) but it is something I seek, yearn for, gravitate to. So far – this morning, anyway – I've been relatively unsuccessful in letting go of busyness, stimuli and extremes. I began writing this blog two hours ago, and have embarrassingly managed a mere ninety seven words in between skipping around the Internet, shuffling to the kitchen and back, and steeping ruminating thoughts in memory. The embarrassment is not that I've failed to produce output, however, but that I'm mindlessly filling time with triviality.

Entreating advice from author Brenda Ueland – of If You Want to Write – and short-story writer O. Henry – of “The Gift of the Magi”, “The Ransom of Red Chief”, “A Retrieved Reformation” and “The Cop and the Anthem” – I'm responded to with the following: “Everyone is talented, original and has something important to say.” And, “Write stories that please yourself.” For this tutelage, I extend a sincere “thank you” to both of you; and with this affirmation and direction, I'll continue with my return to Alaska, instead of attempting to re-cap summertime flurries.

Nine time zones and four airplanes, divided by a much appreciated overnight at the Microtel in Anchorage, brought me back to Dillingham, Alaska on the 1st of September, where I was met by my favorite pair of blue eyes, and MDUR – my dear uncle Rex. Rummaging through a sea of Rubbermaid totes, (in Alaska it seems more people check these at airports instead of suitcases) Jeff and I grabbed my luggage, ticked off an errand list, and escaped to what is always simply referred to as “The Lake” – which is actually a chain of lakes within the United States' largest state park – Woodtikchik.

I spent the next week relishing a timeless rhythm to each day with Jeff, and Labor Day weekend he took me on my inaugural moose hunt. We loaded up the boat with camping gear, bug nets, fishing poles, more than enough food, (but not enough Alaskan smoked salmon) and took the Agulawok river to Nerka, commonly known as, “Second Lake”. It was then and there I truly realized that camping in Alaska is completely different from what I grew up with in Minnesota. I know this seems a silly revelation – I mean, are you kidding me, of course it's different! – but sometimes it isn't until we find ourselves plopped down in the middle of something, that we can actually identify with an experience.

When camping in Alaska one doesn't need to buy a state park sticker for vehicles – a plausible perk, though this economic exemption is countered with other financial considerations. Gas, for example, is currently $5.61/gallon; I haven't got a clue how many gallons we burned out and back. Then, there are seemingly limitless choices for one's campsite, but locating it entails a bit more than driving around a paved road to decide whether it's better to be closest to the bathrooms, along the beach, or on the end site to avoid noisy night owl neighbors. We selected ours with the following criteria – tree shelter to shoulder the wind, a relatively flat surface, and propinquity to the boat.

The bug nets came in handy almost immediately (and fishing poles, later on) – in Alaska there are these annoying little insects called “white socks” (because it looks as though they're wearing them on their feet!); you cannot feel the bite initially, but the resulting red splotch is veritable evidence of it. We had to plod around an area to pack down the knee-high grass, and within forty-five minutes we'd made camp, satisfied hunger pains, and were ready find a bull moose.

In attempts to best prepare myself for the hunt, I asked Jeff if there was an etiquette to abide by as his tag-a-long. Without hesitation, he'd advised I was to be two steps back, and one to the left. I nodded attentively, taking mental note, and after a pregnant pause, my gullible self was greeted with a hearty guffaw. I did stay more or less on his heels though, watching his rubber boots as I squished along through sponge-like tundra.

It was around 8:30 the following morning when we caught a bedded-down bull by surprise, commencing the chase. The subsequent string of emotions I felt varied from exhilaration and anticipation, to remorse and regret for loss of life, to an all-consuming curious intrigue which was overtaken by my gag reflex during the butchering process. As quickly as I could, I clumsily scurried trying to meet Jeff's swift gate – then, I suddenly saw him drop to one knee to take aim. The gunshot cracked the silence with a cold, dry pop, and Jeff's eagle eye and steady shoulder secured his 2010 bull from 175 yards away.

We weren't sure, right away, if we'd got him or not. And, I became even more confused as we approached the woods from a clearing when Jeff bent his elbow to a 90 degree angle and closed his hand tight. I read this sign as “halt”, but realized soon after that it actually meant “success” when his fist began boxing the air. The remainder of the day was spent packing the bull out (I took one trip while strongman Jeff took four), fishing for dollies (I caught one!), and becoming captain of a boat for the very first time. Two weeks later I had another first – co-piloting Jeff's plane (which basically entailed taking the controls for about 10 miles, and trying to keep the altimeter around 400 feet), and here I am, daydreaming, wondering what my next Alaskan “first” will be. This is Elise, signing out, from Aleknagik, Alaska.

Stories are on my mind. You see, I'm trying to come up with a good one to tell at the next Storytellers' meeting in central Minnesota. It's a monthly event – perhaps one could compare it to a book club, writers' circle or the like – and what is required of attendees is simply something to share. I suppose, it's kind of like adult show-and-tell, for the story may be presented in any way, shape or form. The group of individuals who gather together have been meeting for years, accompanying each other through life's joys, frustrations, hopes, challenges and excitements. I'm a recent and relatively infrequent participant, (due to stretches of nomadic wanderlust) but when I am able to join, I always feel most welcome and at home.

We're first introduced to stories and the proverbial “Once upon a time...” fairytale beginning as children, and growing up, we become familiar with a certain repertoire of plots, of tales about “conquering monsters”, “rags to riches”, “following quests”, “voyage and return”, “happy-ending comedy”, “unfortunate tragedy”, “renewal and rebirth”, “raucous rebellion”, and, “veiled mystery”. But, even if outlined within a certain genre, what I'm realizing is that stories are essentially formless – meaning, our interpretations are uniquely personal. And maybe, interpretations are even like fingerprints – no two exactly the same. The lens with which we view our make-believe and veritable worlds is unparalleled – shaped by our incomparable trajectories, present circumstances, and prospective dreams.

Where initially parents, caretakers, teachers and elders paint broad strokes upon our blank canvas called “life”, ultimately, the detail of our masterpiece story is done in our own hand – and, depending upon one's belief, with the touch of Divinity. Choice – realizing that we have it – is incredibly powerful. And if there is any obligation that we have within our own life stories, it is to make choices – to become that which we yearn for inside. There are no rules for making these decisions (other than the ones we perceive to be true), nor does the scaffolding of our upbringing determine what we can or cannot achieve.

Whether we readily recognize it or not, life is consistently delivering decision-making opportunities to our doorstep. What may vary, is the impact that our self-selected directions have upon us within the short- and long-term. And this is where I'm noticing a shift within myself – a movement away from searching out and accomplishing comparatively short-term goals, to consideration and motion towards longer-term dreams. This yields a flashback to a conversation I had with Damien while sharing a seat-belt in a van bouncing around Nicaragua. At that time I was seeking to broaden, and now, my heart desires to deepen – in love with my Alaskan Ambrosier, and in vocation with yogic, bodywork and homeopathic studies. Ah, life is beautiful, if we just let it... and this is Elise, signing off from Little Falls, Minnesota.