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.

In Aleknagik, Alaska – “School’s Out for the Summer!” This popular marching band tune is my mantra today. It’s funnily familiar, how the anticipatory countdown to summer floats through time. Life seems ever-changing, but now and then, it can also carry a characteristic déjà vu. I feel light – free from a persistent paper-flow of lesson plans, homework packets, textbook assignments and classroom paraphernalia. As a student, the feeling was the exactly same, only then, I was delegated the role of learner instead of teacher.

This lightness is outwardly expressed with flamboyant giddiness. I wish to skip all day long, swinging arms high to the sky, and delighting in that ephemeral moment – at a jump’s apex – where I am in complete defiance of gravity. Today the summer simply appears to be an inexhaustible expanse of time; it’s as though it’ll never end, or, that it’s too far off to even fathom the arrival of fall, and the start of another school year.

There’s much to look forward to – an adventure to Anchorage, Alaska with a certain sweetie, time in Minnesota with family and friends, a possible service trip to Mississippi with my Daddio, a visit from that same sweetie at the end of July, a cycle tour with my custom-built Bike Friday from Montreal to Boston in early August, and hopefully, a hop across the Atlantic for a few weeks to meet up with mates in Europe.

Still, on the vanguard of all of this upcoming excitement, there’s much I’m already missing about the rhythm of a routine school day in Aleknagik. It’s somewhat strange for me – this whirlwind wanderer – to gravitate (even slightly) towards that which is habitual, in lieu of its antithesis. But, I find myself doing it, more and more during my 29th – and soon to be 30th year of life. It’s quite intriguing, actually, and I’m attempting to give my full attention to it, rather than resist – fecklessly fighting-against-the-flow.

I'm missing Thomas's dimpled smile and warm wave - "Hi, Miss Elise!" - from the jungle gym outside. Last week I spent two afternoons in the K,1,2 classroom, and on both days Thomas drew stick figures of Thomas Tinker III and Miss Elise; "Look, it's me and you!", he'd say. I'm also missing little Jamal, who's got the most marvelous shrugged shoulder saunter. He feigns to be shy with the bill of his hat pulled down over his eyes, but knows quite well actually, that he's got every onlooker's heart.

In the 3rd, 4th and 5th grade classroom, I'm missing those rare moments where we somehow gelled together - when we were on the same page, and I wasn't struggling to keep one on task while disciplining another, and simultaneously, sighting an additional challenge out of the corner of my eye while hearing a catastrophic tangle develop behind me.

With the 6th, 7th and 8th graders, I'm missing our jocular interplay between humor and education. We giggled, chuckled and even guffawed our way through class, and, still managed to establish a studious atmosphere - well, most of the time anyway. For the next two weeks I'll fling myself into the Dillingham school system to mitigate - or perhaps, add to - the pandemonium until they're able to sing "School's Out for the Summer!" It'll be a hoot, I'm sure. This is Elise, signing out from Ravensview, AK.

Inexplicable

I don't quite know what it is – this inescapable compulsion to write. Somehow, it grabs a hold of me and won't let go until I put myself through a painstaking process to produce something. In earnest, I continually attempt to heed my Sussex professor, J.P. Rosenberg's good advice – to delight in the writing process, and to be proud of what comes out of it – but truth be told, the resultant reality doesn't necessarily measure up to this line of philosophy, or even run parallel to it. In all actuality, if I were to emotionally graph my moods throughout any of my compositional follies, rest-assured, it would jaggedly skyrocket and plummet in unpredictable and patternless scrawl.

Sometimes I wonder, do all writers wrestle with themselves like I do? Is it as difficult for them, as it is for me, to commit to a consistent discipline? Do they feel like they spend more time preparing to write, and then staying on task, than actively involved in the creative process? In her book, If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit, Minnesota author Brenda Ueland instructs, idleness is an intrinsic part of the creative process, and that it is inherently valuable. After all, she asks, how can someone write reflectively without taking time to reflect?

While listening to National Public Radio this morning, a gentleman's British accent caught my attention – not only because I'm naturally drawn toward the dulcet articulations of your average Brit (Birmingham's throaty nasal dialect may be an exception), but also, because I appreciated what he had to say about authorship. A writer's duty, he advises, is to pose – and not necessarily even attempt to answer – life's multitudinous questions within the context of a wider scope. Taking this into account, I might then suppose that a reader's duty, is to openly interact with an author's message, both through the unique scope of personal interpretation, and (hopefully), with an intent to broaden his or her own understanding of the world – its infinite spectrum of intricacies – in looking through the lens of another.

And so, as I sit myself down to read and write, this is what I seek to both accept and embrace – faithfully connecting as an ever-curious questioner, allowing time and space for creative idleness, and, open-mindfully engaging with wonderful words in front of and within me - which continually keep me wondering, and wandering. This is Elise, signing out with love from Dillingham, Alaska.

"Gribble"

I sometimes read books randomly – opening to a nondescript page, and plunking my curiosity down upon it. This is how I came to learn about “gribble” in a textbook on Crustaceans – which, altogether, outnumber the constituents within other classifications of animals. The author, Edward Ricciuti, explains that gribble (which is about the same size as a peewee ant) can really wreck havoc on waterfront development. It is lured to shorelines to feed off of plants and fungi growing on and within wooden constructs, which then compromises the stability of its structure. This is interesting information – especially for aquatic aficionados – and, what I find especially intriguing, is that gribble proliferates in clean waters; in other words, pollution is a deterrent for this puny pest.

So this presents a compelling topic for discussion, where environmentalists, marine biologists and developers may be more likely to be tossed around in a conundrum than to all agree on a unified answer. What do we do with what we know about gribble? And on a larger philosophical scale, what do we do with what we know about anything? What are the individual and collective roles we expectantly and unexpectedly play in every day life?

This whole scenario yields a certain sentiment of déjà vu – of something we’ve experienced time and again in its innumerable forms, but perhaps, haven’t always recognized the connecting links. It is yet another illustration of life interaction – of cause and effect, but mixed in with a lot more complexity than I may be able to entirely grasp. How do we determine what is “right”, and, what is “wrong”? I mean, how exactly do we do this given the fact that our knowledge set may only be a fraction of the whole? Are we even meant to be determiners of “right” and “wrong”? Hypothetically, what if we aren’t?

I wonder what this would look like? If instead of instantaneously formulating opinions – categorically criticizing or extolling, stereotyping or drawing conclusions about someone or something – what would happen if we paused to take stock of a situation? What might we experience if we became more conscious, more aware of what is going on in our heads and hearts?

Internal processing is something I find myself doing more and more often. I seem to be always asking myself the question “Why? What? How?” Why am I feeling or responding this way? Why do I yearn for this or wish for that? What possibilities exist outside myself? How can I better understand life from another’s perspective? Becoming active inquirers in life not only allows us to better understand ourselves, and our relationship to the world, it also enables us to step outside of our own framework and into another. It enriches and diversifies living – strengthening our unique spirits and cultivating compassion for all life. So thank you, dearest Mum, for always telling me to live out my questions. This is Elise, signing out from Dillingham, Alaska.

Aleknagik's "school bus"

Sometimes the cold can catch you before you even step outside. It's this characteristic dryness that finds me first – off-guard, of course. In seconds, my fingers seem to chap and crack around the nail, static electricity takes a hold of my hair, and I cannot seem to re-apply Burt's Bees chapstick quite often enough. I lick my lips in sweet surrender, remembering an eccentric that I met at Bamboo restaurant in San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua, who is going to market her line of natural products as "Better than Burt's". “What a statement!”, I thought to myself for a second time.

The above is an excerpt of what I recall from an internal monologue on Anchorage's runway aboard Alaskan Airlines flight 83 from Seattle. Or, at least that's where I think I'd just come from; it's easy to lose track of time and locations of airports when one is merely (and in my case, often mindlessly) stepping off one plane only to get on to another. I think it's amazing that I've never missed a flight, actually. In the last few weeks I've made abbreviated visits to Managua, Miami, Chicago, Seattle, Honolulu, Kahului, Anchorage and Dillingham's airports, and after much travel to and fro and back again, in earnest I can say I'm so grateful to ground and to root into a routine for awhile. Perhaps this “seeking to settle” sentiment will pass and wanderlust will whisk me away once again, or, maybe not. I said this recently to my good friend, Bing, who instantly shot back with “Elise, you can't stop traveling! I live vicariously through you.”

But anyway, continuing on with more “plane” banter, my first twenty-four hours on the ground in Alaska were also a touch turbulent. Our PenAir flight arrived in gusty Dillingham with flurries flying all around us. I had only a light jacket suitable for ~50ºF weather, and I'm quite sure the thermometer read somewhere below zero. Or at least it felt this way – having spent the previous ten days in Maui, and the two months before that in Nicaragua, I'm certain my barometer was most likely a bit tropically biased. Automobile trouble complicated matters, and a grim forecast forced me to RON – remain over night – in Aleknagik so that I could be sure to make it to school on-time the following morning. At Ravensview my suitcases sprang open, and in haste I randomly grabbed wrinkled wintry garments that seemed to be clean, leaving a messy heap of odds and ends to be dealt with at a later date. I jumped in a Mazda truck to the landing, and gratefully caught a ride with Mr. Ambrosier – our school principal – on his “snowmachine” across the lake. Here in Alaska, snowmobiles are “snowmachines”, and boats are called “skiffs”.

Now finally – two weeks later – I feel as though I've re-established firm footing, and I keep having these “Oh my goodness I'm in Alaska!” gratitude moments. Everything about life here is unique; I drive a snowmachine to school in the morning, and in my classroom I have three adorable and audacious kindergarten kids – Ayden, Jacob and Thomas. I'm also teaching yoga adjunct through the University of Alaska – Bristol Bay campus. My students range from 22 to 70 – and are such an dynamic, enthusiastic and open-minded group. Our numbers continue to swell well over the class limit, and still, I continue to let more in! I figure, why not? After all, it's in the spirit of yoga and we definitely have enough floor space. This is Elise, signing out with love from Dillingham, Alaska.

There is...

“a language in the world that everyone understands...the language of enthusiasm, of things accomplished with love and purpose, and as part of a search for something believed in and desired.” (Coelhlo – pg. 62) I've just finished Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist, a story about a shepherd boy from Andalusia manifesting his Personal Legend. Santiago's quest begins with a re-currant dream of a journey to the Egyptian pyramids. He is encouraged by a gypsy to realize this dream, as well as a mysterious king, who tells Santiago: “To realize one's destiny is a person's only obligation...And, when you want something, all of the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.” (pg. 171)

The Alchemist has been translated into fifty-six languages, and more than twenty million copies have been sold around the world. Across cultures and continents, the story touches something we – all people – have in common, a yearning to become that which we long for in our hearts. As we grow up, we can tend to confuse this internal longing with external expectations, lose trust in living out our own truths, or forget our dreams altogether. But, even when this happens, the universe still affords us opportune moments to re-connect with our Personal Legends. “Awakening” and “Enlightenment” are two words that can describe this connection. More important than these occurrences by themselves though, is what we choose to do (or not to do) with our personal revelations.

People metaphorically talk about forks in the road – the places we arrive at a particular point in time where we must make a decision to go left or right – but I believe a more appropriate analogy (at least in my life) might be to make a comparison to a roundabout. I first came into contact with the roundabout on a road trip to the Woodford Folk Festival in Queensland, Australia. Sitting in the passenger seat, navigating these road constructs seemed easy enough, but behind the wheel, I was utterly and entirely clueless.

Zooming fast forward five years and a bit, and I still find myself pondering driving related analogies; I'm in Maui on holiday, and the Sat Navi Tom Tom in our rental car expeditiously takes us anywhere we wish to go. Gone are the days of pulling over, rolling down a window and asking a random someone for Grey Poupon – I mean, directions. We don't even have to have specific locations in mind; Tom Tom readily suggests fine dining, suitable accommodation and excellent entertainment. Here again, I realize there are so many choices to choose from in life.

So here's my question, or perhaps I should say, here are my questions: with an array of options in life – from those we're presented with day-to-day, to the more formative decisions that impact our lives on a greater scale – what are the criteria we utilize to weigh out our options? What do we believe is possible and why? How are we limited; how are we limitless? Where do we place priority – is it within a relationship, or at a specific location, having fidelity to a journey, or in pursuit of a particular purpose? Are these existentially separate, or could these priorities coalesce? What does our Personal Legend look like? Or, what do our Personal Legends look like? As we grow and change, are our callings doing the same? Are we attentive to this? Are we truly in touch with our hearts? And, do we have the courage to live out our longings? Hmmmmm...aloha, this is Elise, signing out with love from Maui.