I am on retreat - in Anchorage of all places! I’m thankful for this time to put the brakes on and slow down, and yet, it feels quite uncomfortable to do this for any length of time. My life as of late has become overwhelmingly strategic and calculated. With precision, I measure out each day as if it were a recipe, so that I may arrive at the end of the day with a sense of accomplishment. My ducks are all in one line, and while this is briefly rewarding, the bigger and deeper part of me whispers, “You’re missing out, Elise!”
I am lucky to have my spunky little one, Citori Marie, to help me become a bit more imaginative, silly, curious and spontaneous. My faithful sidekick will say, “Hurry up, Momma! Let’s get on the airplane and find an adventure!” For weeks on end, Citori has been packing up her ladybug suitcase to embark on worldwide travels, joining her aunties in Costa Rica, venturing back to South Korea or Japan. As the game has gone, she packs and I unpack, but a few days ago I finally threw my hands up in the air and left her bags untouched.
We received a great gift recently - Q&A a Day for Kids, with space to record responses. It has become one of my favorite conversation starters with Citori. Sometimes she’ll ask, “What does it mean?”, and other times she’ll give an answer that blows me away. The other day I posed the question, “What do you want to be?” Without hesitation she said, “I want to be Momma.” I spoke out loud as I wrote, “I want to be a Momma.”, and Jeff corrected me from the background, “No, she said she wanted to be you, Momma.” All at once I welled up, moved by my daughter’s insights. What a simple statement, and at the same time, how profound.
“Maybe she has forgiven me, after all ”, I thought. Just a few hours earlier I’d raised my voice when the toilet clogged and overflowed. Citori has been trying to become more independent, and this journey has been full of trial and error. And then, the day before Citori went to throw something away and saw that I’d ditched a painting she’d made. I can still see the sadness on her face as she stammered, “Momma, why did you throw this away?!” I felt wretched - I’d failed her again.
And yet, Citori never gives up on me! She showers me with love in so many ways. “Ugga Mugga”, she’ll say, as we rub noses. And, “Here Mom, I made you a present!” This usually involves a ziplock bag with odd and ends stashed inside - Q tips, toothpicks, Dora bandaids, chunks of chaga tea and a treat of some kind. Citori is almost always at my heels chattering away, mimicking my movements or trying to get me to stray from the task at hand. A day at a time, I’m learning lessons of balance - when to say, “Just a minute, love bug” or “I’ll do this later - let’s go on that adventure!”
11 November 2014
When my daughter was born I started writing to her. I don’t write with any frequency, but I try to sit down every couple of weeks and record milestones and memories. More recently, though, I’ve been thinking about what I wish to impart to Citori as she grows. The following letter is part of my reflection, and I wanted to share it with you. Whether you’re a parent or not, at some point, hopefully we all become a little more mindful of the footprint we wish to leave upon this Earth, and then let our lives reflect this.
My Love Bug,
I want to give you the world, and yet I wish to teach you how to balance acquisition with simple appreciation. I want to smother you with love, and at the same time, give you space to become your own person. Each day with you is this amazing gift, and when I can allow time out of the regimentation of task mode, we find ourselves rolling around on the ground giggling, hiding behind corners to pop out at each other, and singing aloud to our hearts’ delight. Your presence is already keen, and this is something I wish to nurture as you grow. Our ability to be present is sometimes lost along the journey into adulthood, and then the onus is solely ours to bring it back into being.
Be gentle, my little one, with all life. Everything is connected now and throughout time. The breath you’re taking at this very moment has been recycled time and again - what your ancestors breathed out, the Earth breathed in, and in turn, what our Earth creates, supports your life today. Be thankful for what touches your lips - who made it and where it came from - and let your touch on this world be one from your heart. Shed the burden of expectations, and lead your life authentically, truthfully, creatively and with joy.
Be willing to yield to the spirit of spontaneity - in its simplest and more complex forms! It’s not as though we jump towards every inclination, but that we foster an awareness of our longings and take leaps of faith when opportunities arise. When we do this, there is a period of time where we do not feel the ground beneath our feet - we’re somewhere in the middle and unsure of where we’ll land. The spaces in between this or that, and here or there comprise much of life. It is good to become more comfortable with not knowing, and at the same time, trust we are exactly where we’re meant to be within our own unique journey.
Take action, my girl, with what impassions your spirit. And, be reflective of your thoughts, words, and doings. Create enough space to hold paradox - no one or nothing is all good or bad. Find grounding, with who you are and what you believe, but understand that what is true for you may be different for someone else. Respect this, and see our beautiful and diverse world through the lens of a kaleidoscope.
Understand that there will be both great successes and failures in life, but that every experience is valuable. Our successes build up our confidence, but our failures create space for greater compassion and connection. Invest yourself in loving and just relationships. Give generously without expectation, and receive gratefully with no sense of obligation. It is good to be selfless, but first and foremost, nurture your own body, mind and spirit. If you are taking good care of yourself, you will naturally reach out with love.
Let yourself laugh wholeheartedly - until your belly aches and your eyes brim with tears. And, allow yourself to feel sadness too, for life is some of both. Learn to give greater acceptance to ambiguity and contradiction, and truly, you will be on a path to union with all. As one ripens into maturity, opposites no longer exist - two things are not separate from each other, but one integrated whole with any number of facets. Life is like a prism, shining its different faces in a plentitude of directions.
Above all, my love bug, please know that I will always love you, and nothing can ever change this. My greatest hope is that you will also feel this way about yourself. The other day I saw you looking at yourself in the mirror. Your face lit up with absolute joy as you admired the image that looked innocently back at you. It was beautiful to be able to stand back and just watch you in this moment, and it’s one that I will never forget!
I love you, Itty Bitty,
Mum
My Love Bug,
I want to give you the world, and yet I wish to teach you how to balance acquisition with simple appreciation. I want to smother you with love, and at the same time, give you space to become your own person. Each day with you is this amazing gift, and when I can allow time out of the regimentation of task mode, we find ourselves rolling around on the ground giggling, hiding behind corners to pop out at each other, and singing aloud to our hearts’ delight. Your presence is already keen, and this is something I wish to nurture as you grow. Our ability to be present is sometimes lost along the journey into adulthood, and then the onus is solely ours to bring it back into being.
Be gentle, my little one, with all life. Everything is connected now and throughout time. The breath you’re taking at this very moment has been recycled time and again - what your ancestors breathed out, the Earth breathed in, and in turn, what our Earth creates, supports your life today. Be thankful for what touches your lips - who made it and where it came from - and let your touch on this world be one from your heart. Shed the burden of expectations, and lead your life authentically, truthfully, creatively and with joy.
Be willing to yield to the spirit of spontaneity - in its simplest and more complex forms! It’s not as though we jump towards every inclination, but that we foster an awareness of our longings and take leaps of faith when opportunities arise. When we do this, there is a period of time where we do not feel the ground beneath our feet - we’re somewhere in the middle and unsure of where we’ll land. The spaces in between this or that, and here or there comprise much of life. It is good to become more comfortable with not knowing, and at the same time, trust we are exactly where we’re meant to be within our own unique journey.
Take action, my girl, with what impassions your spirit. And, be reflective of your thoughts, words, and doings. Create enough space to hold paradox - no one or nothing is all good or bad. Find grounding, with who you are and what you believe, but understand that what is true for you may be different for someone else. Respect this, and see our beautiful and diverse world through the lens of a kaleidoscope.
Understand that there will be both great successes and failures in life, but that every experience is valuable. Our successes build up our confidence, but our failures create space for greater compassion and connection. Invest yourself in loving and just relationships. Give generously without expectation, and receive gratefully with no sense of obligation. It is good to be selfless, but first and foremost, nurture your own body, mind and spirit. If you are taking good care of yourself, you will naturally reach out with love.
Let yourself laugh wholeheartedly - until your belly aches and your eyes brim with tears. And, allow yourself to feel sadness too, for life is some of both. Learn to give greater acceptance to ambiguity and contradiction, and truly, you will be on a path to union with all. As one ripens into maturity, opposites no longer exist - two things are not separate from each other, but one integrated whole with any number of facets. Life is like a prism, shining its different faces in a plentitude of directions.
Above all, my love bug, please know that I will always love you, and nothing can ever change this. My greatest hope is that you will also feel this way about yourself. The other day I saw you looking at yourself in the mirror. Your face lit up with absolute joy as you admired the image that looked innocently back at you. It was beautiful to be able to stand back and just watch you in this moment, and it’s one that I will never forget!
I love you, Itty Bitty,
Mum
07 October 2014
Autumn is quickly turning into something that looks a little more winterish in Ninilchik, AK. I can tell it’s getting colder when cinnamon sounds good in just about anything, and I reach for a toque before walking out the door. Frost now greets my windshield every morning, and forecasts predict temperatures will continue to drop. With mountains all around us, people look to the peaks for signs that winter has arrived. Freezers are chock full of fish and wild game, woodpiles stocked, and propane and oil tanks are filled to the brim.
A quality of imminence characterizes general sentiment while we are on the vanguard of waiting for white fluffy stuff to fall down and blanket the ground. Some of us wait excitedly, waxing skis and snowboards, while others are euphemistically less enthusiastic about all that accompanies the season of winter. It’s true, there is more gear to put on and tote around, it takes longer to get anywhere, and there are days when it just won’t stop snowing and blowing. On days like these, getting cozy with my Kindle and steamy mug can be especially helpful.
There tends to be a lot of hype about life in Alaska from people who have never been here, giving popularity to shows like “The Last Frontier”. I find the dramatization of our “rustic” life is quite humorous, actually. I cannot speak for all of Alaska, of course, but I can say that day-to-day life on the Kenai peninsula - where “The Last Frontier” is filmed - is relatively comparable to most small towns in the United States. Almost anything is accessible within a 60 mile radius, or with the click of a button if one can patiently wait for their package in the post.
I think that there is something substantial about subsistence living and Alaska, though. It’s not that people have to live off of the land anymore, but that many of us choose to do so in one way or another. It’s an integral part of Alaska’s past, and these values have been carried forward to today. I feel a little bit silly writing about Alaskan sentiment, because many people would call me a “cheechako”, or newcomer. I don’t know how long it takes for one to obtain “sourdough” status, but I sure hope that I do some day, and that it won’t require proficiency with an ax!
A quality of imminence characterizes general sentiment while we are on the vanguard of waiting for white fluffy stuff to fall down and blanket the ground. Some of us wait excitedly, waxing skis and snowboards, while others are euphemistically less enthusiastic about all that accompanies the season of winter. It’s true, there is more gear to put on and tote around, it takes longer to get anywhere, and there are days when it just won’t stop snowing and blowing. On days like these, getting cozy with my Kindle and steamy mug can be especially helpful.
There tends to be a lot of hype about life in Alaska from people who have never been here, giving popularity to shows like “The Last Frontier”. I find the dramatization of our “rustic” life is quite humorous, actually. I cannot speak for all of Alaska, of course, but I can say that day-to-day life on the Kenai peninsula - where “The Last Frontier” is filmed - is relatively comparable to most small towns in the United States. Almost anything is accessible within a 60 mile radius, or with the click of a button if one can patiently wait for their package in the post.
I think that there is something substantial about subsistence living and Alaska, though. It’s not that people have to live off of the land anymore, but that many of us choose to do so in one way or another. It’s an integral part of Alaska’s past, and these values have been carried forward to today. I feel a little bit silly writing about Alaskan sentiment, because many people would call me a “cheechako”, or newcomer. I don’t know how long it takes for one to obtain “sourdough” status, but I sure hope that I do some day, and that it won’t require proficiency with an ax!
19 September 2014
Citori recently took her second trip to Japan, and after one month she came home with at least two more words to add to her repertoire , “onigiri” - a Japanese rice ball traditionally stuffed with fish or seaweed, and “gokiburi” - a cockroach! Needless to say, we dealt with a few more creepy crawlies than we would have liked to during our stay. After one sleepless night on my futon, however, it dawned on me that there are greater concerns in life than a - relatively - harmless bug.
This shifting of perspective is something that I have found to be true time and again during travels. Even on the smallest of scales, the insights that come to me while I’m living out of a suitcase seem grand and life-changing. On a personal level, there is something revolutionary about plopping down in the middle of somewhere else and becoming part of the fabric and feel of everyday life. It’s as if I’m stepping out of the shoes I ordinarily walk in, and finding limitless freedom to try on as many pairs as I like. I feel more spontaneous, carefree and present - it’s completely, marvelous.
Our corner convenience attendants at 711 soon knew us well, and the roadside produce stands in front of Tama train station quickly learned that Citori and I are quite fond of avocados. The moment we’d walk into Parivaar, a local Indian restaurant, our palak paneer and kabocha naan was in the making, and I’m pretty sure that the bakery we frequented had to increase their daily production of sugar donut twists in order to keep pace with our demand.
Scorching temperatures kept us inside during much of the day, but a late afternoon breeze and the cool of the night called to us, “Come out and play!” It was then that we hopped on our bicycle for an adventure to search for ice cream, or strapped on our sandals for a skip through the streets. It’s really something to travel with a child who has bright blue eyes and blond ringlets - Citori drew smiles wherever we went, and most of the time, thank goodness, she was gracious enough to smile back.
While we were in Tokyo, Citori fell in love with cold drinks from ubiquitous vending machines - milk ice teas, sweet peach juice and Japan’s popular sports drink, Pocari Sweat. I bought her a coin purse at the 100 yen store - which is the equivalent to the dollar store in the U.S. - and she almost always left the house with it in one hand, and her baby doll in the other. The coin purse and baby doll made their way to Tama Zoo, Shiraitodai Pool, south to Yokohama and north into Shibuya.
We’ve been home for almost a month, and Citori is still jabbering on about Japan. I cannot help but to secretly smile at her comments and questions, because conversations were all about Alaska while we were away. I guess she’s already learning that while explorations away from home can open up our hearts, the consequence of this is that we will forever yearn to be in multiple places at the same time. The balance, then I suppose, is to give some space to memory and dreams, but place even greater intention to being present with whatever lies in front of us at a given moment.
This shifting of perspective is something that I have found to be true time and again during travels. Even on the smallest of scales, the insights that come to me while I’m living out of a suitcase seem grand and life-changing. On a personal level, there is something revolutionary about plopping down in the middle of somewhere else and becoming part of the fabric and feel of everyday life. It’s as if I’m stepping out of the shoes I ordinarily walk in, and finding limitless freedom to try on as many pairs as I like. I feel more spontaneous, carefree and present - it’s completely, marvelous.
Our corner convenience attendants at 711 soon knew us well, and the roadside produce stands in front of Tama train station quickly learned that Citori and I are quite fond of avocados. The moment we’d walk into Parivaar, a local Indian restaurant, our palak paneer and kabocha naan was in the making, and I’m pretty sure that the bakery we frequented had to increase their daily production of sugar donut twists in order to keep pace with our demand.
Scorching temperatures kept us inside during much of the day, but a late afternoon breeze and the cool of the night called to us, “Come out and play!” It was then that we hopped on our bicycle for an adventure to search for ice cream, or strapped on our sandals for a skip through the streets. It’s really something to travel with a child who has bright blue eyes and blond ringlets - Citori drew smiles wherever we went, and most of the time, thank goodness, she was gracious enough to smile back.
While we were in Tokyo, Citori fell in love with cold drinks from ubiquitous vending machines - milk ice teas, sweet peach juice and Japan’s popular sports drink, Pocari Sweat. I bought her a coin purse at the 100 yen store - which is the equivalent to the dollar store in the U.S. - and she almost always left the house with it in one hand, and her baby doll in the other. The coin purse and baby doll made their way to Tama Zoo, Shiraitodai Pool, south to Yokohama and north into Shibuya.
We’ve been home for almost a month, and Citori is still jabbering on about Japan. I cannot help but to secretly smile at her comments and questions, because conversations were all about Alaska while we were away. I guess she’s already learning that while explorations away from home can open up our hearts, the consequence of this is that we will forever yearn to be in multiple places at the same time. The balance, then I suppose, is to give some space to memory and dreams, but place even greater intention to being present with whatever lies in front of us at a given moment.
21 October 2011
Postprandial Musings
I find myself swaying – with and without baby Cito in my arms. It's marvelous to feel her close to me; sometimes, at night, we practically touch noses. She is my inch worm, and no matter where I place her on the bed, shortly thereafter she is at my side.
Citori is finding her smile. Sometimes I'm given a lop-sided goofy grin, other times it's full fledged – almost ear-to-ear. These moments enthrall and amaze me, captivate and make me, mirror her uninhibited glee back to her. Babies have this remarkable gift – people cannot help but to gravitate towards and be positively affected by them.
Citori's trusting innocence is something I wish to protect forever. She gazes into my eyes with absolute assurance that she is unconditionally loved and well taken care of. She looks at me with admiration I sometimes feel I don't deserve, and is ever forgiving of my endless mistakes. Babies are not capable of holding grudges – they're entirely in tune with the present.
Citori's latest great interest is light. Sensing it in any direction, Cito will try to turn full frontal towards it. Each morning she awakes, I usually find her rolled on her side, serenely looking out the window. This is one of many moments I wonder to myself, what is she seeing? What is she thinking? At 2 ½ months, I'm know my girl already has much to say.
And wow do we talk, exchanging babbling sounds of buzzing lips, clicking tongues, throaty growls and high-pitched squeals. While words impart structure – concrete ideas, Citori and I share a spectrum of emotion in our own little world. It's lovely. And this is Elise, signing out from Ninilchik, AK.
Citori is finding her smile. Sometimes I'm given a lop-sided goofy grin, other times it's full fledged – almost ear-to-ear. These moments enthrall and amaze me, captivate and make me, mirror her uninhibited glee back to her. Babies have this remarkable gift – people cannot help but to gravitate towards and be positively affected by them.
Citori's trusting innocence is something I wish to protect forever. She gazes into my eyes with absolute assurance that she is unconditionally loved and well taken care of. She looks at me with admiration I sometimes feel I don't deserve, and is ever forgiving of my endless mistakes. Babies are not capable of holding grudges – they're entirely in tune with the present.
Citori's latest great interest is light. Sensing it in any direction, Cito will try to turn full frontal towards it. Each morning she awakes, I usually find her rolled on her side, serenely looking out the window. This is one of many moments I wonder to myself, what is she seeing? What is she thinking? At 2 ½ months, I'm know my girl already has much to say.
And wow do we talk, exchanging babbling sounds of buzzing lips, clicking tongues, throaty growls and high-pitched squeals. While words impart structure – concrete ideas, Citori and I share a spectrum of emotion in our own little world. It's lovely. And this is Elise, signing out from Ninilchik, AK.
02 July 2011
Peach Update
Moving into month nine of Peach's pregnancy, everything is starting to loosen up, and I wouldn't be surprised if I were to develop the characteristic “waddle” by week's end. My bursting belly feels increasingly weighted down, and at an appointment today my midwife agreed, Peach's head is dropping. This brings me running to the bathroom even more frequently – imagine a five pound weight constantly pressing on your bladder, and the ever-persistent urge to pee that would result! In earnest I must say, sitting on a toilet has never felt so wonderful.
For those in wonderment, we don't plan to follow Gwyneth Paltrow's lead in naming our baby after a fruit. “Peach” is a term of endearment that stuck while reading up on fetal development literature – it's more likeable than “prune” – and, is more or less gender neutral. We've opted to wait and see whether we're having a bambino or bambina, which according to statistics, approximately only 5% of parents ultimately decide to do. I find myself buying more blue though – it's my favorite color – so if we end up with a little girl, I'll have to at least put a headband on her.
I recently read an article about a Canadian couple who decided to keep their child's sex a mystery – even after the birth. Their hope is for “Stormy” to formulate his/her own identity, free from gender role ideas that we – as a society – intentionally and unintentionally place upon our growing children. The story stated that this parental decision has sparked a lot of controversy, and, I think it's quite the interesting discussion to delve into.
Jeff and I were pleased to learn about Alisha's Care Center, a farmhouse twelve miles west of Long Prairie on County Road 38 that has been converted into a birthing center. We'll be in one of two units, attended by a nurse/midwife, and my friend, Sara, who is a doula. It is the ideal of what I've always dreamed of – relaxed, intimate, and well-equipped to handle emergency situations we'll hopefully not have to deal with. MPR – Minnesota Public Radio – news featured a story on Alisha's Care Center, and here's a link to it if you're interested: http://minnesota.publicradio.org/collections/special/columns/ground-level/archive/2010/09/the-other-end-of-the-aging-spectrum-todd-countys-birthing-center.shtml
Jeff returns to Minnesota on July 17th, and I've kindly asked Peach to wait until then before s/he decides to arrive! We've got somewhat of a tight time frame though – Jeff's principal contract at Ninilchik School officially commences August 1st. The district supports priority to his family, but with Jeff beginning a new school year in a new place, we don't wish to tarry too long. My adorable sister, Erika, Peach and I will follow Jeff to Alaska mid-August, and I'm ever-so-lucky to have my sweet sister's company for awhile thereafter – perhaps until Christmastime! Meanwhile, stay tuned in – this is Elise, signing out from Little Falls, Minnesota.
For those in wonderment, we don't plan to follow Gwyneth Paltrow's lead in naming our baby after a fruit. “Peach” is a term of endearment that stuck while reading up on fetal development literature – it's more likeable than “prune” – and, is more or less gender neutral. We've opted to wait and see whether we're having a bambino or bambina, which according to statistics, approximately only 5% of parents ultimately decide to do. I find myself buying more blue though – it's my favorite color – so if we end up with a little girl, I'll have to at least put a headband on her.
I recently read an article about a Canadian couple who decided to keep their child's sex a mystery – even after the birth. Their hope is for “Stormy” to formulate his/her own identity, free from gender role ideas that we – as a society – intentionally and unintentionally place upon our growing children. The story stated that this parental decision has sparked a lot of controversy, and, I think it's quite the interesting discussion to delve into.
Jeff and I were pleased to learn about Alisha's Care Center, a farmhouse twelve miles west of Long Prairie on County Road 38 that has been converted into a birthing center. We'll be in one of two units, attended by a nurse/midwife, and my friend, Sara, who is a doula. It is the ideal of what I've always dreamed of – relaxed, intimate, and well-equipped to handle emergency situations we'll hopefully not have to deal with. MPR – Minnesota Public Radio – news featured a story on Alisha's Care Center, and here's a link to it if you're interested: http://minnesota.publicradio.org/collections/special/columns/ground-level/archive/2010/09/the-other-end-of-the-aging-spectrum-todd-countys-birthing-center.shtml
Jeff returns to Minnesota on July 17th, and I've kindly asked Peach to wait until then before s/he decides to arrive! We've got somewhat of a tight time frame though – Jeff's principal contract at Ninilchik School officially commences August 1st. The district supports priority to his family, but with Jeff beginning a new school year in a new place, we don't wish to tarry too long. My adorable sister, Erika, Peach and I will follow Jeff to Alaska mid-August, and I'm ever-so-lucky to have my sweet sister's company for awhile thereafter – perhaps until Christmastime! Meanwhile, stay tuned in – this is Elise, signing out from Little Falls, Minnesota.
15 June 2011
NPR - A submission for "The Baby Project"
I recently responded to a request from NPR calling for baby stories - and here it is, for your reading pleasure as well.
Our story begins in southwest Alaska, in the remote village of Aleknagik. After globetrotting through most of my 20s, the last place I expected to fall in love was bush Alaska, where there are seemingly more ptarmigan than people, but I suppose crazier connections have happened in life. I met Jeff on the south shore of Lake Aleknagik the fall of 2009; that October rainy day he was dressed head to toe in Helly Hansen gear, and as I was wearing something totally inappropriate for the weather – probably a yoga outfit of some kind since I'm an instructor.
Jeff knows my uncle, Rex, who I was visiting at the time, and had contacted me to see if I was interested in teaching at his school. "Don't drink the water here," he said "I've got two teachers who are pregnant!" Ha, in hindsight perhaps there was a bit of truth to this off-the-cuff joke, though who would have known it then. I said, "yes".
One year and two months later we found out – much to our surprise and delight – that we were pregnant! We're absolutely thrilled, and yes, slightly nervous too, welcoming this little precious one into our lives. We both come from different places – Jeff from Colorado, and myself from Minnesota – but are happy to call ourselves Alaskans.
Jeff has lived here a lot longer than I have, and is what I would consider a model "Alaskan". Like many other Alaskans, he's a pilot, and co-owns a PA-12 with a friend. Jeff is also a subsistence hunter, and invited me (a vegetarian!) on his fall moose hunt last September. It was an unforgettable experience, and Jeff said I was such a sport for holding the hind leg taut while he field dressed his bull.
In many ways, Jeff and I are like "yin" and "yang" – two polar energies that somehow complement and bring balance to each other. I'm a devout yogini, and feel passionate about yogic philosophy. A concept I seek to both live out and teach is "ahimsa" – showing reverence for all life. With this in mind, imagine my initial shock (and more-than-slight horror) when Jeff asked me if I'd like his bearskin to be made into our bed comforter! I thought it was enough that it was hanging on the wall over our heads each night, along with the other fox, marten, mink and ermine furs.
Jeff is also a runner, but not necessarily a yoga enthusiast. Still, he regularly attends my classes, twisting himself into pretzels and trying to figure out what exactly it is that draws me to my yoga mat almost every day. All in all, I think it's this – that we seek to understand and enjoy each other's interests – which keeps our ironic relationship connected. The idea of "ahimsa" not only applies to our actions, but also extends to words spoken and thoughts processed. It asks that we be respectfully open, being both authentic to ourselves, as well as granting others an authenticity as well.
So much is in flux for us right now – not only are we expecting a baby, but we recently “tied the knot”, and are also in the midst of moving out of bush Alaska, to Ninilchik on the Kenai peninsula. Jeff will be the principal of Ninilchik School next year. With so much change in the mix, we've decided to go to Minnesota for the baby's birth, where I'll be surrounded by family and friends. We've yet to solidify a birth plan, but I hope to avoid a hospital and interventions if possible, and be attended at a birthing center by a nurse/midwife and my very good friend, Sara, who is a doula.
We've kept the gender a surprise – even for ourselves – but boy or girl, Jeff is excited to give the baby two unique gifts: a necklace made out of a wolverine toenail embedded in ivory, and a parka from the marten he trapped last winter. And, I'm on the hunt for a baby-size yoga mat.
Our story begins in southwest Alaska, in the remote village of Aleknagik. After globetrotting through most of my 20s, the last place I expected to fall in love was bush Alaska, where there are seemingly more ptarmigan than people, but I suppose crazier connections have happened in life. I met Jeff on the south shore of Lake Aleknagik the fall of 2009; that October rainy day he was dressed head to toe in Helly Hansen gear, and as I was wearing something totally inappropriate for the weather – probably a yoga outfit of some kind since I'm an instructor.
Jeff knows my uncle, Rex, who I was visiting at the time, and had contacted me to see if I was interested in teaching at his school. "Don't drink the water here," he said "I've got two teachers who are pregnant!" Ha, in hindsight perhaps there was a bit of truth to this off-the-cuff joke, though who would have known it then. I said, "yes".
One year and two months later we found out – much to our surprise and delight – that we were pregnant! We're absolutely thrilled, and yes, slightly nervous too, welcoming this little precious one into our lives. We both come from different places – Jeff from Colorado, and myself from Minnesota – but are happy to call ourselves Alaskans.
Jeff has lived here a lot longer than I have, and is what I would consider a model "Alaskan". Like many other Alaskans, he's a pilot, and co-owns a PA-12 with a friend. Jeff is also a subsistence hunter, and invited me (a vegetarian!) on his fall moose hunt last September. It was an unforgettable experience, and Jeff said I was such a sport for holding the hind leg taut while he field dressed his bull.
In many ways, Jeff and I are like "yin" and "yang" – two polar energies that somehow complement and bring balance to each other. I'm a devout yogini, and feel passionate about yogic philosophy. A concept I seek to both live out and teach is "ahimsa" – showing reverence for all life. With this in mind, imagine my initial shock (and more-than-slight horror) when Jeff asked me if I'd like his bearskin to be made into our bed comforter! I thought it was enough that it was hanging on the wall over our heads each night, along with the other fox, marten, mink and ermine furs.
Jeff is also a runner, but not necessarily a yoga enthusiast. Still, he regularly attends my classes, twisting himself into pretzels and trying to figure out what exactly it is that draws me to my yoga mat almost every day. All in all, I think it's this – that we seek to understand and enjoy each other's interests – which keeps our ironic relationship connected. The idea of "ahimsa" not only applies to our actions, but also extends to words spoken and thoughts processed. It asks that we be respectfully open, being both authentic to ourselves, as well as granting others an authenticity as well.
So much is in flux for us right now – not only are we expecting a baby, but we recently “tied the knot”, and are also in the midst of moving out of bush Alaska, to Ninilchik on the Kenai peninsula. Jeff will be the principal of Ninilchik School next year. With so much change in the mix, we've decided to go to Minnesota for the baby's birth, where I'll be surrounded by family and friends. We've yet to solidify a birth plan, but I hope to avoid a hospital and interventions if possible, and be attended at a birthing center by a nurse/midwife and my very good friend, Sara, who is a doula.
We've kept the gender a surprise – even for ourselves – but boy or girl, Jeff is excited to give the baby two unique gifts: a necklace made out of a wolverine toenail embedded in ivory, and a parka from the marten he trapped last winter. And, I'm on the hunt for a baby-size yoga mat.
20 May 2011
After many months away – save for a snippet of a poem I wrote in February – I return to bloggerland, smiling. My on-line silence has been somewhat intentional; instead of committing myself to “A bit of random banter from Alaska”, I've elected to write letters, and make headway on a manuscript detailing a cross country bicycle trip I took, seemingly, once upon a time. Time can be a great illusion – it's not a pure matter of accounting, but is contextually delineated. Depending upon what immediately surrounds us, events and experiences can seem quite close, or, so far away. And yet, time is also relative to the thoughts enkindled inside of us, so where I may not be in direct contact with someone or somewhere, if I call this person or place to mind, my heart responds, bringing me to them or there.
This realization has become my great comfort when distance stretches me apart from endeared people or places, and has especially kept me feeling connected during the past year and some while I've more or less rooted myself to this remote village – Aleknagik – in southwest Alaska. In native Alaskan Yupik, “Aleknagik” literally means, “wrong way home”. Simply put, these three words tell a more complex story. The village's first settlers had no intention of staying here; they'd been wandering, lost, and it was merely by circumstances of happenstance that this expanse would become their home. In a sense, my story compares. I arrived in Aleknagik a transitory wanderer, and have since found myself making a home. Of course, unlike the hapless hunters, I've had the option to leave, but, a greater gravitational force has held me here.
“Home” can be identified as a specific location – someplace we feel especially attached to, or that evokes a certain nostalgia – but it can also be something intangible we choose to cultivate and nurture. I tend to lean towards the latter within my own understanding, associating “home” with the relationships we give our greatest time, energy, attention and commitment to. This brings me to Jeff, who entered my life as a pal, became my beau, and is now the most significant person in my life. Who would have guessed that two complete strangers – a guy in a pick-up truck, and a girl running alongside the road he was driving on – would end up together, making a home?
Fast forward through a cycle and a half of circling seasons, Jeff and I've joined our journeys together, and here we are, expecting a little one – affectionately called “Peach” while gender is still a surprise – in just over two months' time! We're full of anticipation and wonder for what is to come, and still, (attempting to) remain present to each measure comprising life's composition. A process presides everything, and as this beautiful being grows inside of me, I marvel at how fluttering movements became faint nudges, then transitioned to stronger pokes, jabs, and kicks, to bring on the full dance party of boogieing knees and swinging elbows that's jiggling my belly right now! We've definitely got a mover and a shaker coming into our lives. It'll keep us on our toes.
And, we're en pointe already, actually, preparing to move to the Kenai peninsula this summer. We'll be living in Ninilchik next year – midway between Soldotna and Homer, Alaska's “cosmic hamlet by the sea”. I don't know a lot about Ninilchik – mainly that the Lonely Planet boasts a beautiful Russian Orthodox Church, and that there's great clam-digging nearby at Clam Gulch – but we've been welcomed ever-so-warmly by many “Ninilchikens” and look forward our visit next week! We won't officially move until July, though babe and I'll most likely be in Minnesota until mid- to end of August. So there you have it, the latest and greatest...this is Elise, signing out for the last time from Aleknagik.
This realization has become my great comfort when distance stretches me apart from endeared people or places, and has especially kept me feeling connected during the past year and some while I've more or less rooted myself to this remote village – Aleknagik – in southwest Alaska. In native Alaskan Yupik, “Aleknagik” literally means, “wrong way home”. Simply put, these three words tell a more complex story. The village's first settlers had no intention of staying here; they'd been wandering, lost, and it was merely by circumstances of happenstance that this expanse would become their home. In a sense, my story compares. I arrived in Aleknagik a transitory wanderer, and have since found myself making a home. Of course, unlike the hapless hunters, I've had the option to leave, but, a greater gravitational force has held me here.
“Home” can be identified as a specific location – someplace we feel especially attached to, or that evokes a certain nostalgia – but it can also be something intangible we choose to cultivate and nurture. I tend to lean towards the latter within my own understanding, associating “home” with the relationships we give our greatest time, energy, attention and commitment to. This brings me to Jeff, who entered my life as a pal, became my beau, and is now the most significant person in my life. Who would have guessed that two complete strangers – a guy in a pick-up truck, and a girl running alongside the road he was driving on – would end up together, making a home?
Fast forward through a cycle and a half of circling seasons, Jeff and I've joined our journeys together, and here we are, expecting a little one – affectionately called “Peach” while gender is still a surprise – in just over two months' time! We're full of anticipation and wonder for what is to come, and still, (attempting to) remain present to each measure comprising life's composition. A process presides everything, and as this beautiful being grows inside of me, I marvel at how fluttering movements became faint nudges, then transitioned to stronger pokes, jabs, and kicks, to bring on the full dance party of boogieing knees and swinging elbows that's jiggling my belly right now! We've definitely got a mover and a shaker coming into our lives. It'll keep us on our toes.
And, we're en pointe already, actually, preparing to move to the Kenai peninsula this summer. We'll be living in Ninilchik next year – midway between Soldotna and Homer, Alaska's “cosmic hamlet by the sea”. I don't know a lot about Ninilchik – mainly that the Lonely Planet boasts a beautiful Russian Orthodox Church, and that there's great clam-digging nearby at Clam Gulch – but we've been welcomed ever-so-warmly by many “Ninilchikens” and look forward our visit next week! We won't officially move until July, though babe and I'll most likely be in Minnesota until mid- to end of August. So there you have it, the latest and greatest...this is Elise, signing out for the last time from Aleknagik.
27 February 2011
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
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
24 November 2010
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.
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.
31 October 2010
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.
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.
28 September 2010
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.
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.
17 June 2010
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.
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.
17 May 2010
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.
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.
22 April 2010
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.
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.
07 April 2010
"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.
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.
06 April 2010
21 March 2010
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.
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.
03 March 2010
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.
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.
28 December 2009
I haven't been making the time to write - instead, I've been mixing banana pineapple smoothies with a three foot hand-held blender in five gallon buckets, learning "One Voice" by the Wailin' Jennys on guitar, snowshoeing, skiing and snowboarding every chance I get, jamming on the djembe with an impromptu reggae band, eating an assortment of truffles, and attending Paul Hinderlie's culinary art classes - last night we had salmon fillet poached in white wine, dressed with a buttery fish sauce, and garnished with fresh parsley alongside a Napoleonic burger. Paul said if Napoleon would have actually eaten foods like Napoleonic burgers, he might not have died of stomach cancer.
I've got five more massages to gift, four more inches to knit on my woolen hat, three more shifts in the kitchen, two more yoga sessions to lead, and one partridge and a pear tree to find before I leave Holden a week from today. This is quite a full schedule for the next seven days, but I welcome with busyness with a peaceful heart.
On the 6th of January I fly to Nicaragua, and through the end of February I'll mostly be on my yoga mat moving in and out of bendy postures with other yogins enrolled in SchoolYoga Institute's teacher training course. During this time, I plan to intentionally stay away from the Internet as much as possible - and I'm also not quite sure what access we'll have either - so this will be my last entry until the beginning of March, when I'll return to Alaska and divulge all anecdotal instances which make life so incredibly interesting. Thanks for your readership, and wishing you a Happy New Year coming into 2010! This is Elise, signing out from Holden Village.
I've got five more massages to gift, four more inches to knit on my woolen hat, three more shifts in the kitchen, two more yoga sessions to lead, and one partridge and a pear tree to find before I leave Holden a week from today. This is quite a full schedule for the next seven days, but I welcome with busyness with a peaceful heart.
On the 6th of January I fly to Nicaragua, and through the end of February I'll mostly be on my yoga mat moving in and out of bendy postures with other yogins enrolled in SchoolYoga Institute's teacher training course. During this time, I plan to intentionally stay away from the Internet as much as possible - and I'm also not quite sure what access we'll have either - so this will be my last entry until the beginning of March, when I'll return to Alaska and divulge all anecdotal instances which make life so incredibly interesting. Thanks for your readership, and wishing you a Happy New Year coming into 2010! This is Elise, signing out from Holden Village.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)