Element 22

Flight Feathers

2012-02-02T01:50:00.000Z

She studies the bottom of her glass, slowly swirling the ice cubes against the root beer bubbles. She’s been talking for more than an hour and I’m listening with ears, heart and clenched teeth. Sixth grade politics are taking their toll, she’s grateful for the simple things, the uncomplicated things and people who care enough to listen.

I don’t have any answers. In fact, I give her the option of talking to me woman-to-woman, instead of to me, her mother. Sometimes, she needs to do just that. It’s probably for the best that I set my mom-hat aside, because tonight I’m hearing things that any self-respecting mother would lose her religion over. As a mom, I have a responsibility to act on things I hear. Things I know. Tonight, we are just two individuals. No hats, no titles.

She’s sorting things out as she speaks, carefully choosing her words and looking straight through me with that Look. Tonight, she won an award for her photography on a regional level and her photo project goes on to the state level this month. We should be celebrating this, and we are- in our own way.

We’re going off the grid, unplugging and catching a flight out of the ice fog, very soon. There will be sunlight and warmth and grass-green and liquid water. There will be laughter. There will be tears. There will be time. Together.

February, 2007 Des (J Fryberger Photo)

I'll catch you on the flipside... in a couple weeks.

Fahrenheit's Farrier

2012-01-28T00:05:00.000Z

The cold waffles, nuzzling the outside of my down jacket and insulated pants. I think I’ve confused it, momentarily. It’s a living Thing at these record-breaking temperatures (with a personality and everything). It’s a big, bored Clydesdale, I think, with sharp, enormous hooves and destructive fence-chewing.

It insists. I’ve accommodated it all I can and it still demands. More energy, more fuel, more water.

I walk. Slow, steady, consistent steps- refusing to be hurried.

Afternoon sunlight cuts through the ice fog and frames a snowflake suspended from a flower basket hanger.

The camera's cantata is light-music, shifting perspective, cold-shoeing

winter's horses shake frosty manes

stomp impatient feet

canter away.

Fire on Ice

2012-01-26T21:19:00.000Z

Hockey Therapy.

2012-01-26T01:32:00.000Z

Alaska Nanooks hit the ice

Senior Nanooks goalie, #35 Scott Greenham

#5 Aaron Gens, ice dueling

#7 Nik Yaremchuk, getting down to business

Fist-bump for the photog: hockey-style.
#38 Sean Cahill, goalie

Alaska Nanooks settled the score with the Bowling Green Falcons on Saturday night, January 21st in a rousing game that saw Cody Kunyk scoring twice, Carlo Finucci and Justin Filzen cleaning the plate with a goal each.

When I wasn't stomping my feet, whistling, yelling, cheering and slugging a quad-shot espresso... I was capturing the event with child-like delight.

#6 Michael Quinn and #35 Scott Greenham

Rawr.

I typed this with my knuckles. That IS movement. Right?

2012-01-24T23:40:00.000Z

January 22, 2012 - Taekwon Do Tournament

It will not be simple

It will not take long

It will take all your breath.

__________

We arrived at the dojang early on Sunday afternoon, based on the scheduled times for the competition (different age brackets were slated to compete at staggered times). Des was reassigned to compete in the 13-18 year old age group (she is 12) and I was bracketed with 2^nd and 3^rd degree Black Belt competitors, as no other adult women showed up to compete in color belt sparring/board breaking.

It was not simple.

Ninety-eight percent of competition is fought between the ears long before a match ever begins and is either won or lost before one sets foot in the ring.

The moment I bowed into the ring, I was grateful for every. single. miserable. oxygen deprived. training run. Two-minute rounds. 3^rd Degree Black Belt and 2^nd Degree Black Belt. Back to back. I won both rounds.

Des and I both earned first place in pattern work and sparring for our respective divisions. We each took second place in board breaking.

Leading up to this tournament, I spent hours running through crystalline powder snow. Breaking through the crust, stomp-charging forward through -35F temperatures, ice fog, lung-smothering particulates, I stretched the envelope of cardiac capacity while sucking air through a frost-encrusted Buff bandana. The confines of a helmet and mouth-guard have nothing on biking/running in extreme cold and trying to huff oxygen through a face mask.

It did not take long...

It took all my breath.

I am smiling. This is my happy face.

Thanks to each and every one of you who contributed to the fundraiser for St. Jude's, who supported Des and me in person and in spirit, near and far. The encouragement and the reinforcement are valuable beyond words.

The photos shared today are all courtesy of Chef Jeff. He patiently accompanied me on many a snow-run, allowed me to use him as a crash-test dummy for kicks/punches/sparring/flailing, kept us fed and hydrated and generally held up my half of the sky and his for the last two months. To say that I couldn't have done any of this without him is to wildly understate it.

Writing with my feet.

2012-01-14T02:14:00.000Z

“You can always do more than you think you can.” - Des

_______

She ran a mile in under eight minutes, completed two hours of martial arts training and asked only for a strip of medical tape to brace her re-aligned nose after a particularly aggressive round of sparring.

Her quads are hurting, today. She’s got bruises. She’s also got a gleam in her eye and a set to her jaw that defies explanation. Her grades are solid, her demeanor is confidence, squared.

It could all change tomorrow- but for today, for this moment, she knows who she is and where she’s going.

____________________

In one week, we compete in a martial arts tournament as a fundraiser for St. Jude Children's Research Hospital. Because there are a world full of twelve year old girls who are too sick to stand up, much less break boards with their hands. Because there are a world full of Moms (and Dads) who are hurting, scared, worried and exhausted and depleted. Because, for today, Des and I can bring something to the table: our belief that each one of us can do more than we think we can.

This isn’t the glossy, glamourized, Facebook-edition of life: this is the real thing. Each one of us gets one shot at it, this time around. It’s not meant to be pretty, airbrushed, shiny or easy to look at; occasionally, though, it just explodes with unbelievable beauty, simple authenticity and genuine inspiration.

Right on cue, I’m certain to lose a few more “followers” from the sidebar as a result of this post. It makes me laugh, actually. If I were writing this for an audience, it might matter. I’m not and I don’t. Ever. In fact, if there were a formula for ways to make people squirm, look away, cringe and stop reading altogether- I could have patented it by now. If it mattered.

Training is hard. Commitment is hard. Actually DOING anything is hard. Follow-through is practically unheard of. Writing about it while it’s all in process? Is beyond difficult.

Pay the price for the attitude you want.

Something else I’ve learned lately? A good attitude is one the drives you to DO what must be done. To BE. You can be an absolute HAG while it’s all happening, you can be angry and ferocious and madly WRONG in every possible way… and then you get the thing done. And that, my friends, is just another kind of good attitude.

Culturally, we’ve been conditioned to avoid the negative. Words like “anger” and “fear” and “stress” and “frustration” and “failure” just send us right to the edge of tomorrow, looking for comfort, solace, soul-nourishing quiet. Sometimes, the only way down is UP. Sometimes, there is no calm until you’ve rowed your boat right into the middle of the storm.

I know. This post is clumsy. Wearing clothes a little too big, a haircut a little too long, sentences a little too choppy. That's what happens when you write with your feet.

For more of the WHY behind the WHAT, click here.

_________

Also, thank you. Yes, YOU. For being here today, for reading this. For sharing this part of our journey. You make a difference every. single. day. right where you are- because you keep on showing up, keep on holding up your half of the sky.

________

This one's for Nanna.

2012-01-04T19:40:00.001Z

* * My alarm chimes and the phone rocks itself closer to the edge of the shelf above my bed. Surfacing from beneath layers of down comforter and the cocoon of an impossibly soft fleece blanket, I extend one very sore arm toward the source of the unwelcome interruption to a deep sleep. The sound is easily silenced, as is my internal training clock. The bike will have to wait. My quads are shredded, my hamstrings are seized up and I couldn’t even walk in a straight line yesterday- today promises to be no better.

Training.

___________

I'm proud of the saggy, scared, water bottle-hugging people who crowded Purple-Planet ~~Fitness~~ yesterday. Resolute, overweight, undernourished, sad, frightened, hopeful, ready for a change they can believe in. Yes, them. I do, actually, care about them. See, I tried not to. But it didn't work. I tried to hate the way they overran the locker rooms, took up all the treadmills, avoided the free weights, travelled in pairs, carried towels everywhere, bulged their eyeballs and left the floor after 20 minutes. I couldn't. Hate them.

I loved them. Their timidity was refreshing. Their neophyte excitement was contagion. I drank it in. I used it. It powered me through a wretched leg workout.

_________

I limped into the dojang, just flying below the radar. Sometimes, everything I’ve got is nowhere close to being enough. I bring what I have. The thermometer in the Jeep reads -38F and it hasn’t budged for days. The cold seeps into every aspect of life, draining batteries in the soul. I’m here to recharge, to put something Life-like back in to the equation.

My scalp starts sweating before I even put my sparring gear on. I don’t dare sit down to finish putting on my ‘feet’; I may not get back up. Stiff, awkward, aching- I move as swiftly as possible, trying not to let it show.

It shows.

Sparring a black belt, I take a punishment. I’m blocking, but not landing many kicks of my own. Suddenly, a turning kick comes flying out of nowhere. Instinctively, I turn half-facing and take the shot directly to my glutes. Double-ouch. The movement sets me up to fire one of my own and the pain wakes me up. It’s gonna hurt whether or not I fully engage.

I engage.

Balancing on the balls of my feet, I find a little something More.

________________

Des and I have committed to competing in a Taekwon-Do tournament: pattern work, sparring, board breaking. Our dojang is hosting the competition as a fundraiser for St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital; all proceeds from the fundraiser go directly to Martial Arts for St. Jude, all costs are absorbed by our school.

The tournament is Sunday, January 22, 2012.

The links to our individual fundraising pages are on the sidebar of this page. And hey, if you’re local, why not stop by and watch us do what we do? If you live in the Fairbanks area, email me and I’ll get you details on the where/when.

So, why St. Jude? He is the patron saint of hopeless and desperate cases. St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital is one of the world’s premier pediatric cancer research centers. St. Jude is the only pediatric cancer research center where families never pay for treatment not covered by insurance. No child is ever denied treatment because of the family’s inability to pay.

Enough said?

Thematic Photographic #177: Favorites

2011-12-31T21:43:00.002Z

Cracked cement floor, patchwork soundstage, midnight sun streaming through the metal bleachers- it all fades to the background in this shot.

This shot, of the more than 20,000 photos I took in 2011, captures the year for me.

This is Narmaya. For the rest of the story behind this shot,
click here.

When you get the choice to sit it out or dance...

I hope you dance.

(Click on over to Written, Inc. to enjoy the year in photographic review...)

Marking Time

2011-12-29T18:05:00.003Z

Last chance! Save! (insert percentage) OFF!

The email barrage won’t stop, so I do. I decide to unplug, sign out, walk away.

There’s a frantic desperation in the attention-grabbers, the peddlers, the flea market of arm-twisting, manic, panicked retailers. I want none of it. In fact, I might arbitrarily give away some of my own things just to protest the mayhem.

You see, they're right. It is my last chance. Only chance. Today is all I’ve got (and even that’s uncertain). I am saving. My life, my sanity, my dreams- I’m saving it all from this. This madness.

Let’s talk about 20% OFF, shall we? How about twenty percent of my current body fat? Off. Now, we’re having a conversation. Wait. No. I won’t buy into it. Any of it.

Resolutions? Whose? Why?

They’re a swelling blister, those resolutions. Skinned rubbed to the point of detachment, fluid-filled pockets of misery begging to be drained and put to rest, once and for all.

It’s all temporary, transient, impermanent- attachment to the good and the bad cause suffering in equal measure.

All I have is today, this moment, this Present. I hold it gently, openhandedly, lightly. I’m a little bit in awe of it, really.

_________________

For her twelfth birthday, my daughter asked for one thing: a clean slate. The privilege of not being reminded of days and ways that she’d repeated the same lesson again and again and again was all she really wanted. Don’t we all? I can offer her my compassion and understanding and the brand new-ness of each day and its opportunities, help her see the wider scope of things both good and bad and how necessary all of it is, and is not, all at once.

I told her that I give her a clean slate with me, hour by hour and day by day. It is as it should be. Perhaps, I thought, I should ask her to do the same for me. She is the memory-keeper, the Reminder, the prompter- after all. My mistakes are harder to forgive, I think. My unlearned lessons more painful for her, as I go back again and again until the aggregate is part of my skin. She doesn’t think so, though. Just wishes I’d stop yelling at the drivers of other cars from the composite bubble of my own, but mostly because she is the only one who hears it. And she is weary of it.

I wrap my frustration, fear and impatience into tight little sighs, now. Not nearly as cathartic as pounding the steering wheel and cursing like an ice road trucker, but my sighs don’t make her shrink into her puffy jacket. So.

Above all else, do no harm.

I mark time in years by her birthdays. They match the year, pound for pound, number for number. We are here, we are Now. We will write on our clean slates with Metolius super chalk, we will not etch permanence where it doesn’t belong. We will be mindful, gentle, leave behind no record of wrongs or rights. The new year doesn’t care, either way. It doesn’t need our resolve, our determination, our single-minded focus. It is arbitrary, it is Gregorian, it is recently installed- practically still shedding its papyrus all over January the First. It is what we made it, what we make of it.

Today. This moment. THIS requires attention. Celebration. Determination. Purpose.

That is all.

That is enough.

Des's tropical cake, courtesy of my friend, PJ.

* * *

55- Panda-monium

2011-12-23T00:58:00.000Z

She wears a little white hat

With panda ears, eyes and nose

And two panda-paws on strings

Ice skating, we play tag

Dodging others

(Sometimes even successfully)

Laughing, she’s a happy panda

Until I skate by, tapping her elbow

and she’s “IT”

Angry panda-skates tear up the ice

the chase is on-

I am Bamboo.

________

Got 55 words burning a hole in your pocket? Toss 'em toward G-Man.

To be fair, I was skating backwards at top speed when I caused a ruckus-on-the-rink last night. No one was actually injured, although many people laughed. A lot. I think it might be good for them- it sounded a little rusty, unused, this whole laugh-thing.

Get out there, people. Laugh some. Live a lot.

* * *

Esperanza

2011-12-20T01:52:00.000Z

You really should come in,

sit down for a while

rest your elbows on the table

sip some exquisitely brewed Darjeeling

with just a hint of cream

The season is crowded

The sun is in hiding

The earth is sleeping

The world has gone mad

You really should

let me take your jacket

exchange it for a soft lap blanket

good conversation

about everything and nothing at all

You can leave your obligations

out on the front porch

(they’ll be okay for a while)

give me your list, I’ll hold it for you.

You really should exhale

you’ve been holding your breath

for so long

you can breathe, here:

this is the space between thoughts.

This is a place where

hope dances in the Dark

defies the absence of light

and brings her own.

______________

This week, Carmi of Written, Inc. has brought us the theme "Strangers Among Us". For many reasons, the strangest of strangers in my house is the christmas tree. I don't celebrate this particular holiday, but my daughter does- so the little critter sits in a corner and quietly glows in spite of me.

For me, this time of year is a time of quiet reflection. Waiting. Exhaling. Renewal. Darkness. Companionable Silence. Contemplation. Solitude.

For the next two days, the sun will dip lower on the horizon and scarcely surface long enough to brush the edges of the sky with the softest of distant rays. While the rest of the world is plugging in strands of lights, decking the halls (and maybe even their relatives), wrapping presents and frantically doing all the last-minute things... I'll be sipping tea, riding my fatbike, running in the snow, making snow angels and plotting a winter camping trip.

Need a reprieve from the madness? Stop for a moment. Breathe. Allow hope. Don't become a stranger in your own House.

* * *

Praxis

2011-12-16T18:35:00.000Z

* * *

[You] Understood

2011-12-15T23:59:00.000Z

You wanted More.

when it came,

it wouldn’t have you

in whole or in part

You built a ship made of glass

and set sail on a concrete sea

weeping as fragments of a dream

splintered, sliced, shredded

through illusions hand –crafted

into future ill-timed

onto shore made of sand.

You stood on shaky legs

leaking opposites and apologies

for life unlived

roads not taken

hope deferred

and you tore your shirt

the rest of the way through-

strung it as a flag

to remind you

of who you were,

the last time you set sail.

Now, your path is unfolding

ocean surging in moonlight

waves frothing, cleansing wounds

with biting, salty spray

leaving behind all

the things you thought you needed

with only a silvery moon to guide

and a dagger between your teeth

diving beneath the waves

You find

Yourself.

______________

Selāh

2011-12-11T20:00:00.001Z

Start where you are.

_________

Selāh ( Hebrew: סֶלָה ) is a concept word, an instruction on how music or words should be read,
which translates approximately as "Pause. Listen" or... stop and think about it.

So, tell me...

2011-12-09T18:00:00.000Z

Yes, tell me.

Tell me about the days

and the ways

that nothing

and I mean

NOTHING

was going right.

At all.

Not even a little bit.

And then

you realized

that really, everything

EVERYTHING

Was more than okay,

More than good

It was flippin’ SWEET.

Maybe it was reading

about third-world problems

or someone else’s difficulty,

Loss

Fear

Anxiety

That put yours in perspective.

Maybe it was waking up

and feeling pain

and remembering that

it means you’re still alive.

Maybe.

Perhaps it was the depth

and breadth of your own loss,

Darkness

Soul-gripping grief

that reminded you

that Life

is NOW.

I know.

You know.

So tell me.

Tell me how it feels

To be holding

The SWEET life

In the palm of your hand.

Today.

____________

55- Teeter-totter

2011-12-08T19:46:00.001Z

Father-Daughter | Teeter-Totter

Should the sun go down

Before that last game of tag,

That last teeter-totter challenge-

Turn a headlamp on

And keep on playing

Youth is a state of heart and mind,

Not a chronological measurement

Not a yardstick

Just a playground of the soul.

I’ll hold on-

(you will)

We will.

Shared for G-Man's Friday 55

Wordless Wednesday: Light Breaks Through

2011-12-08T01:05:00.001Z

Basecamp (those little dots all in a row), Pika Glacier - Alaska Range

"Phone Col" - Pika Glacier

L to R: Chetan Mishra, Ti Conkle, Bill Rice & Glenn Johnson (front row)

Double-click on any photo to see a larger version | slideshow.

* * *

Thematic Photographic # 174- Seeing Red

2011-12-06T18:06:00.000Z

Sequim, WA - November 2011

Unfinished Poetry

Peace be to this House.

fragile strength lives here,

dreams await flight feathers

the future rests on small shoulders.

Peace be to this House.

curiosity, intellect and tenacity

abide here

though seasons come and go.

Peace be to this House.

storms will rage and winter’s cold

will fracture ideals, goals, hope-

the fire inside will burn on.

Peace be to this House.

delicate, tenuous grip

on Life’s spinning tilt-a-whirl

Hold on, Little One.

Peace be to this House-

to your House.

May your doors be solid,

your windows to the world, clear.

_________

For Claira

Exactly a month ago, I had the privilege of doing a photo shoot for my brother and his family in Washington State. His oldest daughter, Claira, holds a special place in my heart. I treasured our time together and found that words evaded me, both then and now.

In choosing these photos for Thematic Photographic, it was the vivid red that drew me back to the shots again and again- but also something more. It's rare that I'm at a complete loss for words to describe something, but this is one of those times. I see something in Claira, something in these photos, that I can't find words for. So, for her, a gentle blessing. An unfinished benediction. A bowed head and a promise: Auntie Ti will always have your back, Little One.

Thematic Photographic # 173- 'Flash of Color'

2011-12-02T17:49:00.002Z

`

The sun rises at 10:22 AM and will set at 2:58 PM today, if it shows its face at all. From where I sit, the Alaska Range is obscured by hundreds of miles, clouds, city skyline and work deadlines.

I power up my computer to the familiar greeting of near mountains, the memory of rainfall, the crisp wind that only blows down the valleys where the wild things are.

I inhale. This.

Alaska Range, Denali National Park

I remember. Vividly. Spreading out my jacket on the red tundra carpet, stretching out and using my human-tripod to balance and stabilize the camera. Breathing softly. Keeping the fog away from the lens. Peering over the edge of the gorge, in the vest pocket of the Alaska Range, I snapped these shots "for later". Stashing them away against the cold, dark, icy days of deep Winter, I silently absorbed the Now.

In the northern latitudes, the earth has retreated from the sun- withdrawn herself to cold and quiet, resolved a solitary renewal. There is a simple magic to the dark, the silence. Embracing the shadows, the long winter's sleep, the human spirit can restore, recover, renew in this space.

When the dark closes in, we search for light. Unlike bulbs wintering over in a basement cellar, we writhe and struggle and demand warmth of soul. Somewhere in the letting go of Light, there is renewal. In the absence of warmth, there is a necessary cold. Inhaling it, accepting it- still, quiet and awake- we grow roots.

Roots, like any foundation, don't flourish in sunlight, heat, warm summer breezes... they require the dark.

Wonder Lake, Denali National Park

Understanding, acknowledging, embracing all that is this wintering-season, I find the genius loci here is a benevolent thing. It matters not- to the mountain- whether I climb or not. It matters not- to the Dark- whether or not I grow roots.

- Denali -

The inability to observe something does not preclude its existence.

Denali- obscured by clouds

Sometimes, the 'Flash of Color' is understanding.

_______________

Ride to the Sun

2011-11-28T19:26:00.004Z

Ti Conkle, fatbiking the flats

A solitary raven breaks loose from a perch on a spruce branch, winging across the trail in front of me. With temperatures solidly in the -30F range, every sound and movement is magnified in the frozen stillness. Each flight feather seems to brace itself against the pale blue of the afternoon sky as the bird disappears through the trees.

Humidity has nowhere to go in the fierce, dry cold. It lingers, creating great ice formations on my balaclava, freezing my breath in a halo around my head and shoulders, coating my pack and welding zippers shut.

The sound of the fat-tires on the snow-packed trail is a reassuring growl-hiss, their wide stance and low pressure creating flotation that sends the bike dancing freely, like an oversized elf, over the tussocks and through the woods.

Jeff Fryberger

We bike toward the promise of sun. Low on the horizon, the vague yellow orb whispers of unmentionable things… sand, palm trees, ocean waves, warmth… and chuckles through black spruce, tiny rays twinkling on snow-covered boughs.

Condensation builds behind my face mask and the feeling of suffocation makes me hyperventilate. I lose concentration for a moment and my cadence is reduced to a clumsy, muddled, pedal-stomping. There is no grace in small things when oxygen deprivation rears its ugly head. Squinting through a lattice of ice globs coating my eyelashes, top and bottom, I focus on the blinking tail light on Jeff’s bike as it coasts out of view. Between my sprained left ankle and propensity toward pedaling in a higher gear than necessary (to limit the number of pedal rotations), I’m redlining.

I draw inward and simply inhale, exhale, pedal. Feeling the cold, feeling the discomfort, feeling the silence- the sense of just BEING in the moment- I find rhythm, balance, cadence and a stupid grin. These trails (40 miles or more) have been here all along. I’m just exploring them by bike, in the dead of winter, for the first time. Ever. Because I can.

Wearing bunny boots to compensate for the inevitable swelling in the left foot/ankle, I rely on the soft collar of the boot to work with the movement of my foot instead of yanking on it with each pedal stroke. It works for the first hour. By the second, the pain is a monstrous thing. Circulation is critical to the vitality of extremities, digits, soft tissue- numbness is certain loss. Ergo, pain is Good, I argue to myself- aware that the existence of the argument is folly in its own right.

Without an x-ray, there’s no definitive proof that my purported ‘sprain’ isn’t, in fact, a fracture. I become increasingly aware of this as crepitus grinds its way into my consciousness. I can still feel my toes. I can definitely feel all of it. The boots are performing, my bike is still lapping up the miles of trail… the ankle will hurt whether or not I sit on the couch or whether I ride. I ride.

We ride to the sun. An opening in the trail leads to a natural bog, a clearing of some kind, and the sun pours over the trees and face-blasts both of us as we round a corner. We stop. I turn my face to the light and just breathe it in. These darkening days leading up to the Winter Solstice promise fewer and fewer minutes like this one. And this one is mine.

Sun Salutation

This Dark, this Cold, this Sun, this day… it is mine, it is ours.

Live well. Laugh Often. Love much.

2011-11-25T19:07:00.000Z

My phone started ringing at 7:30 AM on Thanksgiving Day. I blissfully slept through it. Turns out, my family was calling to share THIS with me.

It’s okay, I’ll wait. You really do want to read the article. And if you haven’t read our story (the trip Dad and I took was two weeks earlier in the same month, on the same trail), you’ll find it here:

Part I

Part II

So. Things I’m thankful for? Let’s see…

The fact that after reading the article in the Peninsula Daily News, I was able to go out and run several miles (and the weather had warmed up to a balmy -5F) and go fat-biking for a couple hours, with Jeff.

Also, in order of importance, from the ground and up:

Bread. Artisan. Bread.

Gyoza

Family Game Day | Night

Fat Bikes

Motor vehicle accidents that DON’T injure me, even though the Jeep is trashed (that was Monday).

A safe (epic) hike with my Dad (11/6/11)

A non-traditional, vibrant, strong family unit that refuses to be defined or corralled on any day, much less a holiday.

Yep. That was Thanksgiving Dinner, Chef Jeff-style. Guess what? Not very many dishes to wash, loads of time to play outdoors in the snow and plenty of time left over for high stakes arm-wrestling, Attack Uno, Aggravation and Stratego.

* * *

Wordless Wednesday

2011-11-24T01:43:00.002Z

* * *

Outrunning the Cold

2011-11-21T21:34:00.002Z

Lesson #749: There is such a thing as being too warm while running at -30F.

In this photo, the scowl is a direct result of over-layering. I miscalculated the amount of heat produced when running laps on snowy trails in Keen Targhee boots. On the plus side, it looks like this lovely cold snap will hold for several months, so I should have plenty of time to get it all sorted.

What a treat.

Shared for Thematic Photographic #172: Muted

* * *

55- In Process

2011-11-18T19:57:00.000Z

First and second knuckles of both hands

Swollen, reddish-purple bruises

Nearly filling the gaps between bones

Clean, swift, solid hits to the heavy bags

Knuckle pushups on boards

Hands in training.

Calloused palms, fingertips cracked

Peeling, cuticles full of chalk

Rock claims skin and fear,

Mind focused, quiet, clear.

Molten mercy

In the Middle Places.

______________

Training process, in 55 Words- shared for Friday 55, hosted by
none other than G-Man himself.

Here for the Party

2011-11-17T23:52:00.003Z

Start at the beginning...

Part II

* * *

The temperature was in the mid-forties, foggy and mercurial. Hypothermia weather. The rainforest floor peppered with fallen maple leaves, paving the trailhead into a yellow-gold-red-orange tapestry. No alpine start needed, here- just a beautiful drive along scenic Highway 101.

Dad chose the destination- Pyramid Peak- for our first official mountain scramble together. He’d been training, climbing Storm King on weekends, biking hills and preparing for this day for months. This day had been 20 years in the making. By my best estimate, it had been about that long since we last shared a hike, hunt, camping trip or outdoor adventure of any sort.

Prior to heading out on the weeklong business trip that prefaced our short time together, I pulled some route beta and deemed the trail (and the peak) to be well within our capability and our collective comfort zone. All things considered, I was looking forward to good conversation (always a given, with Dad), a leg-stretching afternoon jaunt (7.2 miles roundtrip, 2, 400 ft. elevation gain) and the shared camaraderie the journey would afford.

We covered the first two-thirds of the trail with matched, long, easy strides. Catching up on the weeks and months since we last saw each other, laughing and talking, we roamed upward.

The mud/rock slide obliterated the trail and our conversation. As we stepped from the edge of the forest and onto the edge of the 1,000 foot gash, we both stopped in our tracks. Took in the view of Lake Crescent below, watched the clouds between us and the lake moving rapidly below snow-dusted peaks across the valley. We evaluated. Discussed. Made observations. The traverse looked dicey, but doable. We agreed that I’d take the lead and that we’d work our way across together.

Lake Crescent, viewed from the beginning of the traverse

Before the crossing, I took time to stow my camera, zip my jacket, tie up all loose straps on my pack and put on a lightweight pair of ice-climbing gloves. The sticky, perforated rubber on the palms and fingers provides superior grip and the snug fit makes it easy to consider them second skin. I verbalized my thought process and explained that it’s way too easy to have something snag at the worst possible moment and lose balance in the process of untangling/freeing yourself.

* * *

As he began navigating the treacherous slide-zone, Dad found that his glasses were fogging up. He couldn’t see his feet, couldn’t assess his footing or make out what lay ahead. Gaining solid footing, he paused and removed his glasses- evaluating the merits of letting them hang from their neck-strap while he finished the difficult segment of trail. Deciding that his vision was improved without them, he carefully let them go.

In that split second, he became vividly aware of just how easy it is for a person to tumble off a cliff-side trail to their death. The neck-strap that he customarily attaches to his glasses was back at the house; the strap visible around his neck was the one connected to his floppy-brimmed hat. When he let go of the glasses, they sailed over the edge of the cliff. Instantly, the moment his hand let go, he knew what he’d just done. He never twitched. Never reached for them. Never moved.

“That was stupid.” His voice was calm, even and steady.

The majority of people would have reached, simply out of habit. Attachment. Need. He had purchased those progressive/graduated lenses only a short while before the trip and needed them, just to see. To drive. To read. To work. Because he didn’t reach, didn’t twitch, didn’t abandon his solid stance- he remained balanced. Lived to climb another route.

On the other side of the traverse, as we sat looking back on the way we’d come, I pondered options for a potential rescue mission for the glasses. It would require a 60 meter climbing rope, belay device, a couple slings/8 mm prusik cord and a few biners. I’d traveled to San Francisco with my climbing harness, ATC Guide and shoes in order to work some routes at Mission Cliffs; conveniently, those were back at Dad’s house, in my suitcase. My brother-in-law, Nate, being a professional high climber for Blue Mountain Tree Service, would likely have everything else.

As we started up the steepening trail toward the summit, Dad and I fell into a companionable silence. It occurred to me that journeying with him is much like walking in synch with my own twin. We are so similar in so very many ways. The difficulties we’ve faced individually in the last 20 years have refined, annealed and changed us beyond measure.

The forest began to fall away and soon the trail was running ridge lines leading to the summit. As the peak of the Lookout Tower came into view, I stepped behind Dad to capture a few shots of him reaching his hard-won prize: the top.

Roof-line of Lookout Tower

We scavenged the lunch Mom had packed for us, downing sandwiches with a ferocity that took no prisoners. Ever the licensed home inspector, Dad couldn’t help but notice that support beams had been replaced in the original structure. Someone had done an incredible amount of work to keep the Lookout Tower operational long past its original use.

We paused to admire the tenacity of weather-battered, ancient tree that anchors the corner of the summit platform. Gnarled, broken, twisted, deformed and termite-infested, it's stood through countless winter storms and seen a few hundred spring days melt winter's icy grip on the mountains.

Weathered.

Heading back down the trail, we contemplated the return across the expansive mud/rock slide, each lost in our own thoughts. Arriving at that spot in the trail, I was looking for a way out. Around. Down. Anything but back across the miserable thing. A game trail, probably carved out by deer, led down a ridgeline adjacent to the slide zone. I hypothesized that most game animals are more trail savvy than even the most capable human, and it might be worth investigating THEIR method of traverse.

We cautiously picked our way down the ridgeline, working back toward the slide zone about halfway down the cliff. It looked promising until we ventured into it; we quickly discovered that the slide was unforgiving and likely to penalize us severely for our lack of perception. We retreated. Reassessed. A full hour had gone by and we were more than a quarter mile hard climb just to get back up to the trail and the traverse point. The other option that beckoned was a total crapshoot: we could attempt to navigate the sketchy downhill terrain, avoid the hidden thirty foot drop-offs that seemed to explode behind every fallen tree giant, and make our way down toward Lake Crescent and the road.

I took stock: we’d ravaged nearly three liters of water out of the four that we were carrying. We had some carrots and a couple cheese rounds, trail mix and a random teriyaki stick that’s lived in my pack for about a year. Either direction we headed, we only had about one hour of daylight remaining, half hour of respectable dusk, then stygian rainforest headlamp-swallowing darkness.

We chose to continue navigating downhill, hoping to intersect with one of the two dry creek beds that we’d crossed in the earlier part of the trail. Shin-bashing, ankle-smashing, stomach-churning, semi-controlled flailing ensued. The undergrowth thickened as we descended, threatening to swallow our sense of direction and progress in a single gulp. Dusk arrived without mercy, fog rolled off the lake below and swirled through the trees. The forest became a live Thing, branches appearing out of nowhere to grab at arms, legs… rocks that appeared stable suddenly crumbled out of mossy moorings and broke free, clattering out of sight and dropping far below.

We stopped frequently. I listened for the sounds of the woods to tell me where the cliff-bands lay, shuddering as near-miss after close call as we avoided tumbling over edges shrouded in darkening foliage.

My instincts drove me to my right, leaning toward the hope of those creek beds and their inevitable journey toward the road. We nearly fell right into the washout when it finally appeared. Moss free boulders never looked so promising; mere ankle twisting seemed a welcome reprieve in exchange for increased visibility and the guarantee of intersecting the road.

“I was wondering how we were both gonna fit into my one emergency bivvy sack.” I cracked wise and was relieved to see Dad grinning, as well.

"Well, I didn't exactly come up here to camp out- but it's good to know you've got backup gear..." he managed, through a mouthful of Babybel cheese.

"Hey, I'm here for the party. You know me."

Headlamp illuminating the terrain, we made our way off the mountain. It took only a short while for both of us to find our voices again, and soon the evening warmed with conversation and reflection.

As we sat down to Mom’s cooking, later that evening, a whole-body shiver shook me from head to toe. Only two hours before, I had been looking long and hard at Plan C and calculating the last of the evening light- far from a hot dinner and a warm bed.

As my Dad bowed his head before dinner, we held hands around the table. Somehow, we held on tighter. Knowing. Appreciating.

We did not choose this journey, this experience, this Path that led us to this day and evening; it chose us. On my edgiest day, in my most hair-raising adventurous mood, I would have never opted to begin our climbing experience in this manner. The hours Dad and I spent together were a treasure, excavated from the crucible of difficulty. I wouldn’t have chosen it, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. He says he’ll climb with me again. That is all a girl could ask for.

Somewhere out there, on the side of a nasty rockslide, Dad’s prescription eyeglasses balance in neat repose. As they fell, their little arms folded together, providing a tidy bobsled that carried them, lenses up, to their resting place on a small ledge.

Time ran out and I did not make it back to the traverse before I headed home, thirty-six hours later. The winter snows will trigger more rock fall, mud slides, washout and within a matter of a few weeks- they will become part of mountain. Dad’s vision, however, is more clear than ever. We will continue to share this Journey, this life-path and whatever it brings.

All these things that come and go

Are handled best by Hope

That through Storm and Stillness

Somehow, the better Spirit leads

And from this, though we cannot know-

There is deposit for Good.

* * *

Inscribed on the plywood interior of Lookout Tower, Pyramid Peak

(Not my inscription, I just photographed it)

Breathe: It's your only obligation.

2011-11-17T20:17:00.005Z

His breathing was shallow, ragged and altogether too fast. I didn’t dare turn my head. The comprehensive fear gripping my own lungs was so powerful that I didn’t trust myself to make eye contact.

* * *

Part I

When I’m afraid, my hands and feet sweat so badly that they actually hurt. A deep throbbing itching pain grips my fingertips and toes, long damaged by frostbite, and all circulation to those extremities just grinds to a halt.

I was fine on that exposed traverse, carefully choosing my footing and working my way around blind corners deep in the heart of 1,000 ft. mud/rockslide washout. And then the rock-hold I was reaching for, trusting, needing… broke off in my hand. I didn’t have three points of contact, unless you count the fact that I instantly leaned into the rock face with my face and dug in with everything I had. Face grips are not reliable, however messy.

He trusted me. He asked me to lead this section. I inhale, I exhale, I put one shaking foot in front of the other. I’ve moved about four feet in seven minutes. Not super good. The footing ahead is a ledge about four inches deep. Practically a highway, if you don’t count the fact the rock wall is bulged out, causing the traverser to lean away from the foothold, against gravity, and scooch along- fully exposed to the near-vertical drop below. I scooched.

“That was stupid.” His voice was quiet, steadier than I would have imagined it might be. I didn’t dare turn my head just then.

“Everything okay, Dad?”

“I just lost my glasses”.

“Retrievable?”

“Maybe for you- until they bounced another 30 feet down the cliff.” He was calm, still.

“Can you see your feet without them?”

“Yeah. But that’s about it. I can’t see what’s ahead of me, really.”

I frantically attempted to stow my errant trekking pole, piercing my Icebreaker jacket clean through and stabbing myself in the lumbar. Angry with myself for getting us both in over our heads, I felt the heat of frustration melting the fear. Somehow, it worked. Still holding the wretched trekking pole, I backtracked over the ground I’d just covered. Found the Middle Place, the space between thoughts, the eye of the storm- and dialed it in.

It was a conscious choice and not an easy one to put myself within striking distance of another human being, exposed and afraid. If he fully panicked, he’d take us both off the wall. One inhale, one exhale. I covered his outstretched hand and placed it on the next hold.

“I’m right here. We’ll take it super slow, I’ll clean the holds and place your hand. Just breathe and take your time. We’ve got this.” I dropped my voice down a full octave, almost growling the words out, softly, slowly, and with a confidence I was clearly renting-to-own.

He followed. I took his trekking pole, carried it with mine, looped around my wrist to keep my hand free. We moved in synch, inching our way- he, trusting. Blindly. Me, reassuring. Cautiously.

His breathing became more shallow, more rapid. “He’s not perfusing adequately. His glycogen stores are depleted by the adrenaline dump and the cortisol jolt- he’s fragile and I’ve just wagered both of our lives.” The voice of the internal medic was pragmatic, logical and slightly less than comforting. I wanted to slap her for being so right.

“We’ve got this. About three more yards and we’ll be on solid ground.”

“Uh, does it get any worse than we’ve already seen?” He was shaking, now, unsteady, ashen.

“It’s a bit crux-y. Nothing we can’t get through.” I lied. It was pure, unadulterated, unmitigated crap for the next three yards. Half again as janky as anything we’d seen. I reasoned that a lie was the lesser of the potential evils and kept moving forward.

He knew. He’d always known when I was lying. Even eighteen years spent apart don’t change parental intuition.

He chose to trust me anyway, and we progressed, by inches, together. Through. Around. Using my feet and the trekking pole, I made a trail when it ran out. I flung great handfuls of chossy rock down the ravine, using my elbows to excavate when my balance wouldn’t allow arm’s reach. I ground it out, carved it out, willed footholds into the soft, precarious, slippery slope.

We reached the end as abruptly as we had begun, stepping into the arms of the rainforest. Shrugging my pack, I extracted a Z-rest sit pad and a liter of Hydralite. Buffering his glycogen stores was the first order of business. I tried not to think about the possible condition of his heart. Or the fact that we were solidly halfway through our trek to the top of this peak.

Ahead lay solid, switchback trails to the summit. Behind us, the traverse. And Dad’s $500 pair of progressive lenses, a prescription that compensates for his fragmented near-sighted combo pack. I looked at him, inquiringly. He chuckled.

He’s come so far in the last five years. From powerful, invincibly strong- to broken, fractured, tormented- through the slow process of healing from mental puncture wounds, healing from the inside out. Gathering strength, gaining ground, seizing moments and days and Life- he’s back and ten times the man that he was. I realized I’d been holding my breath about the time that I finally exhaled. He’d made friends with Fear. Sat down at the table with Anxiety, made dinner for Panic Attacks. He had come more than full circle- he had taken ground. Lots of it.

We hydrated, snacked and repacked our gear. Assessed the trail conditions, time of day and weather. And we climbed upward, onward.

“There’s a Lookout Tower at the very top, a relic from World War II. I really want a photo of that thing- proof that I made it there.” He spoke with the energy, the drive, the initiative of someone half his age. With a smile that started at the soles of my trail-running shoes, I led the way.

Continued, here.

* * *

Wordless Wednesday- "Otherwise Occupied"

2011-11-15T21:39:00.000Z

This Is Where It's At

2011-11-14T21:51:00.003Z

* * *

Running inside a ping-pong ball

Headlamp catching swirling snowflakes

Driving toward frosty breath

Gathering strength for the days, the weeks ahead.

Fourteen hours and two thousand flight miles,

Missed connection, flight delays, cancelled appointments

Palm trees, fog swirling over the Golden Gate Bridge

The lighted dome of City Hall glowing benevolently

Ambulance music, sirens singing in harmony

Cadence of a city alive and dying, all at once.

Market Street, San Francisco

Five days in the furnace of intense debate,

Effective communication is harder, more costly,

More necessary-

Than harboring your right to be right and mine

To be silent, observant and solitary.

Five days to work, to interact, to build, to create.

San Francisco Federal Building

Pressure builds, weight of responsibility

Tightens shoulders in a way that only

Rock climbing can cure

Touchstone Climbing- Mission Cliffs

To the rescue.

Sequim, WA

A flight to the Emerald City, Jazz Alley called-

My table is ready, but I’m already taken…

I choose to drive for hours, in the dark

Interstate blends to Highway, carries me

Toward the people that are Home.

L to R: Ti, Sarah, Susan, Michelle

Sisters. Four strong, plus the woman

Who brought us all into the world

For the here, the Now, the later

We, Five.

Walk, laugh, dance, share…

Fall colors, fine cuisine, glassblowing...

Mom

Susan, Sarah, Michelle, Mom

Morning breaks the spell cast

So many, many years ago

Strong, determined, resolute-

Dad. Me.

We drive to a location where even

Trails are uncertain of their place

Lake Crescent, from Pyramid Peak trail

We hike. Trek. Traverse.

Sketchy, fierce, unforgiving terrain

Threatens, takes a part of us

And gives us Today in return.

Safety was never guaranteed,

Partnership, companionship, forged.

Dad

Time unfolds a little magic,

My brother and his family arrive

To share an afternoon, family photography session

Reconnection. My brother, me.

So close in years, so far apart for too long.

He, a corrections officer. Me, an investigator.

We: analytical, enduring, determined, strong.

Five nephews, two nieces (and one on the way)

Three sisters, one brother, two parents,

One grandmother, two brothers-in-law, one sister-in-law,

Family, all. Together.

Laughter. Tears. Work. Play.

Rainbow of color, light, shadow and nuance

Intense participation in Life.

A drive, a flight home…

Re-entry into familiar Earth’s atmosphere.

Gravity takes hold, but feet are light.

Snow Biking

Fresh snow has fallen and fallen again,

Trails are thick with powder, unpacked

Mountaineering skis, Scarpa Inverno boots…

And off we go. Jeff, me…

Matched pair in early morning light.

Night Rider

Three days. Before dawn until long after dusk,

Skiing, winter biking…

Floating on impossibly fat tires, sailing over moguls,

Laughing, sweating, frozen smiles that simply refuse to quit.

Miles of snowy trails eaten by Surly tires,

Chewed up, spit out, reassessed and floated-

For three days.

Fatties. Drying Out.

This year is mine. It’s the one I’ve waited for,

Perhaps for too long.

Fire Dragons in our 35th year,

We celebrate all that IS

And all that is no more.

___________________

Some experiences simply don't fit into tidy little boxes, paragraphs, forms or formats. The past two weeks have been overflowing with hundreds of these. From photojournalistic forays into Occupy San Francisco, to the top of a peak on the Olympic Peninsula- and the myriad places, people and things in between- there are so many things to contemplate, to reflect on, to share.

It's good to be back.

Living. Room.

Wings of the Morning

2011-10-26T17:28:00.001Z

Sunrise found me on a Wednesday, wedged into a biscuit-sized seat on Alaska Airlines, hurtling across the state from Fairbanks to Juneau. With my camera, I tried to play hide-and-seek with the mountains, but they were having none of it. Layered beneath goose-down clouds, they slept serenely and fully uninterested in the pod of aluminum above.

The glow of the sun’s first rays at -40 never ceases to amaze; the soft pink and purple haze lights from within and pastel yellow and tangerine emerge from the corners of the sky.

Quietly, as if to avoid disturbing the universe at rest, I broke out the Handpresso and brewed rich, dark espresso with frothy crema in a tiny, stainless steel cup. I toasted the Sunrise, the wings of morning, the challenges of the days and weeks ahead.

____________________

From Fairbanks to Anchorage and back, then on to Juneau for a rapid turnaround… all ramping up to San Francisco next week (and then Seattle), traveling for work and play is keeping me more than busy these days. I'll be back soon enough and will be around to visit and catch up...

Until then, keep the magic alive. Listen for sunrise, watch for laughter, make much of the little things.

Shared for Thematic Photographic

hosted by Carmi of Written, Inc.

* * *

55- Calling Home

2011-10-13T23:26:00.000Z

Sunlight filters through low, banked clouds and scatters alpenglow like fairy dust across the foothills. I sit perfectly still, lest any movement break the spell cast by the mountain-kings.

They’re calling, these mountains of mine. In the silence at sunset, I hear them whisper down the valleys, across glaciers and moraine.

Soon enough, I’ll go.

____________________

Fifty-five words.

Months of planning.

A couple years of training.

Tired yet? Go see G-Man and tell him all about it.

* * *

Thematic Photographic # 166 - Triangular

2011-10-12T17:46:00.000Z

Triangulation is the process of determining the location of a point by measuring angles to it from known points at either end of a fixed baseline.

* * *

The day begins and ends for me, in this field. On these trails. Long before the morning sun lights the frosty grass, while the ground is frozen and hard underfoot- I run. The peak of the day brings laughter, play, and companionship with Tiny Toes. Our combined silliness is the Point.

As the sun sets and the moon rises, the trails await. The stillness in the trees, the wind holding its breath, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot- these are my baseline. The geometry of time is synchronicity, the coordinates are both known and unknown in equal measure. The day is a triangle, part of a fractal that is life's cycle.

Shared for Thematic Photographic

hosted by Carmi of Written, Inc.

* * *

Details, details

2011-09-30T18:12:00.001Z

Ortlieb and Deuter, Surly Troll and Utopia

Any given Tuesday, you may find these load-haulers parked outside the local grocery store. With the price of fuel bouncing around four bucks a gallon, it's not a bad way to go, really. I hesitated to post these shots, because on the day I took the photos, as Jeff and I were pedaling away from this box store (slowly and heavily weighed down with things like a case of protein shakes), he was hit by a car in an intersection.

It was a few weeks before I could even look at the photos without cringing. The only injuries incurred were damages to the rear pannier on Jeff's bike- it took the full impact of the car's bumper (which missed his leg by centimeters). The whole thing shook me up quite a bit, as I was riding behind him by about ten feet and watched the whole thing play out in slow motion.

There are days when he's delayed on his bike commute home and the loop starts replaying in my head. I pace the floor until even the cat starts to get annoyed- and I imagine the worst. All in all, even in this less than bike-friendly town, both of us would rather mash bike pedals than a gas pedal any day of the week, even if it keeps us out on the roads long after dark.

Given the choice, I'd put some kind of composite bubble around him with a neon sign that clearly indicates that he is somebody's precious husband, someone's dad, someone's son. I don't know if it would make a difference, but maybe drivers would see past his glowing reflective vest, blinking rear light, powerful headlamp, reflective tape and measured pace and see that he is more than a cyclist. More than a commuter. More than a dynamic, dedicated construction management engineer. He's Jeff, dammit.

The devil's in the details, people.

`

Semper Fi, Marine.

2011-09-29T19:49:00.000Z

Ken Fryberger, November 2008

_____________________

Jeff Fryberger Photo

One year ago, today, my husband's father died. He is remembered in the sound of his beloved geese, flying south in the cool mornings of the changing seasons. He is remembered in the dry sense of humor his son shares with him, in the sparkle of blue eyes and warmth of spirit that never fails.

There are no words for days like these.

My thoughts, prayers and heart are with Jeff, his Mom and his sister today as they mark the passage of time that has no boundaries.

Ken Fryberger

02/10/1948 - 09/29/2010

______________

Semper Fi, Marine.

You are remembered. Always.

Negative Space

2011-09-27T20:27:00.000Z

Everybody loves a winner. A professional. An individual who’s mastered their art, their sport or craft, who’s arrived at the pinnacle of their chosen vocation, carries a sort of inspired confidence. Standing in their shadow, mere mortals feel that somehow, they too can achieve greatness.

Beginners are hard to stomach. Ever listen to a freshly-minted violinist wielding their instrument like a weapon? Ever watch a full grown adult lace on ice skates for the first time? Or try to talk someone over 75 through the process of learning how to use The Email? It’s physically painful. To stand in the presence of a beginner is to feel vulnerability; it pierces the soul with a reminder of all beginnings.

Every person who has mastered anything was first a student of the process. A beginner. Neophyte. Novice. Rookie. Newbie. We are born with little more than instinctive knowledge and all the world is new. No one looks at a baby with contempt for their lack of understanding, inability to read or to articulate words. Universally, we cherish the clean slate. The simplicity of an infant’s brand new-ness is a source of awe, of pure joy.

Where do we lose that appreciation? That delight in beginnings? Somewhere between our first day and our last, there is power shift. An expectation shift. No one is born alive knowing how to do anything except take that first lung-searing breath, and yet we’re all born in to a hierarchy of some sort.

Most people reach their middle adult years and have had their fill of beginnings. Content to build on what they began long ago, fulfilled by whatever ground they’ve gained, they find beginnings frightening. Awkward. Painful. Far easier then, looking down at those who are starting out, is the self-satisfied smile and the polite refusal to engage in anything outside their chosen comfort zone. The disparagement comes in all forms, all shapes, all sizes. Sadly, if each sentence is analyzed fully, it contains a hidden, self-limiting describer- usually in the form of “I can’t, because…”.

That’s not to say that everyone should aspire to do everything. A world full of people who are exactly alike would be boring beyond words. There’s a significant price to be paid for choosing to fully engage in any given art, sport, craft, trade or vocation.

We lay a foundation, life-long, that leads us to choose to engage in something brand new. Life experience in other areas becomes the ‘negative space’, the backdrop for the new beginning. May each one of us first be a student of life, dedicated to boundless learning, fearless sojourning and committed to follow-through. We are not defined by our beginnings nor by the endings of things which should never have begun.

If you don’t have time to do it right, when will you have time to do it over? There’s a certain humility in accepting instruction, in choosing to dedicate time and energy and effort to the practice required to master anything.

Go. Do. Pay the price for the attitude you want.

Thematic Photographic # 164 - It's in the details

2011-09-26T23:07:00.001Z

Somebody has been spending a good bit of time behind the camera lately and it hasn’t been me. Des has managed to catch me in her crosshairs a few times over the past couple of weeks and it’s only fair that I give her photos some space to come out play, here. Funny how so much of life really is in the details... big and little ones...

Tiny Toes

(walk softly and carry a big camera)

She's werrry quiet... and hunting a two-legged animal...

Do I get any credit for capturing her in the process?

__________________

Shared for Thematic Photographic, hosted by

Carmi of Written, Inc.

Sending, You

2011-09-24T00:23:00.000Z

There will be times when life is full of the uncertain, the uninhabitable, the unthinkable. It is precisely then, as you wander the outer reaches of the tablelands that you realize, in solitude, in utter desolation, that things are as they should be. Perhaps you are a migratory bird and winter’s relentless return is ruffling feathers and wilting grain stalks, driving you up, and up and away from the familiar. Eventually, you’ll catch a thermal current and float well above the uncertainty below, but first you have to peck the neck feathers of your neighbor, who kept stealing your nesting spot every time you got up to pee.

This undoing, then, is the Thing.

The unsettling, the fracturing, the calls of a thousand other birds doing their thousand other things when all you want is to sleep, to fold your head beneath your wing and not be part of the change that insists- ah, that is migration. Transition.

You shift from one foot to the other, as if to wake each leg from a long sleep. Preparing to fly and flying are not the same thing, you reckon, and chart a course that includes extracting your head… from under your wing.

Off you go, then. I’ll be here, well-worn blue fleece shirt keeping me warm against the big chill creeping over the tundra. Send me a letter when you get where you are going- perhaps I can trace your route and draw sky pictures with paintbrushes made of dream-fibers. They’re the best kind, you know. Never quite filling in all the blanks, always leaving room for something more.

________________________

Photo courtesy of Des

August 2011

55- Forecasting

2011-09-09T18:56:00.000Z

Autumn laced her cold fingers through mine

with each frosty breath, every stiff pedal crank

Northern breeze rustled the trees

defogging sunglasses as I climbed a hill.

Calendar says it’s September

fireweed has flamed out

rich with vibrant oranges, yellows, reds

reflected in frozen early morning puddles

crackling beneath my tires

forecasting early winter ahead.

Fifty-five words to welcome a season in transition... shared for

G-Man's Friday 55

* * *

Thematic Photographic # 161 - White

2011-09-09T00:43:00.000Z

Dall Sheep Ram, Denali National Park

September 4, 2011

This week, Carmi served up a theme that made me chuckle (when I finally unearthed my internet connection and arrived back in civilization). This ram observes no niceties regarding the wearing of white after Labor Day- in fact, he got extremely annoyed when I posed the question. (See the first photo)

Dall sheep (Ovis dalli) are a very favorite of mine, both as photography subjects and as a species I enjoy studying at length. I've spent a good bit of time in the mountains of Interior Alaska, observing their habit patterns and learning their movements; the more I learn, the less I know for certain.

Wordless Wednesday- "Faces of Denali"

2011-09-06T19:33:00.000Z

Wordless Wednesday

2011-08-30T22:26:00.000Z

Traveler

2011-08-26T23:05:00.003Z

Narmaya

Scott Jeffers, Traveler

The music captivated me long before I could see the man wielding the violin bow. My feet were physically pulled in the direction of the sound and my body just followed. World travelling violin virtuoso Scott Jeffers and his band, Traveler, had made it to Fairbanks, Alaska.

Kevin Essar & Joshua Carro

The sights, sounds and smells of the Fair faded out as the guitar, rabab, drums, table, dumbek, tanpura, sarode, kaval flute, oud, darbukas, riq, djembe, tonbaks, mandolin, bouzouki and fretless bass exploded in living color. Defying the constraints of the temporary sound stage, Scott played the bleachers, dancing among, around and with the growing crowd. Electric, fierce, medieval, elemental: the sounds invoked generations of Bedouin and gypsy folk and carried the pulse of a thousand voices. As the opening notes of Awaken the Light streamed through the musicians and their instruments, a Middle Eastern door swung open as wide as could be and pure magic came dancing through.

He'll bring you to tears

and to your feet

...and then I saw Narmaya. Balancing a cane on her head, moving through intricate steps of a dance so primeval it seemed to channel her ancestresses.

Justin Bartik on the fretless bass

This week, the theme is "Vibrant"

the host is Carmi, of Written, Inc.

and the place to be is right here.

If you have something (or someone) vibrant living in your world, renting space in your head or just kicking around the yard- get out there and get some photos. Share the story, your story. What brings you to your feet?

* * *

Photographic fractal, created from a shot of a ride-in-motion

late that night, at the Fair (below)

Chasing the Wave Train

2011-08-25T19:13:00.002Z

35th Annual Nenana Wildwater Downriver Race & Whitewater Rodeo

Where else can you…

watch whitewater kayakers compete in a race

…in a tuxedo?

Photograph a tandem canoe paddlers

taking on big water without ever missing a stroke?

Go.

Do.

Nap.

Shared for Friday 55, hosted by the one and only G-Man.

* * *

(link to the digital albums from the downriver race and whitewater rodeo

are on the sidebar to the right of this post)

Many thanks to Kris Capps and Denali Outdoor Center, 49th State Brewing Company and all the good folks who made the Denali Adventure Festival, downriver race and whitewater rodeo possible.

Thematic Photographic # 159 - Vibrant

2011-08-23T16:51:00.003Z

Colors and flavors from Pike Place Market in Seattle, July 2011

Shared for Thematic Photographic, hosted by Carmi of Written, Inc.

and Wordless Wednesday

________________

"The purpose of life is

to be defeated by greater and greater things."

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

55- Not your mama's recipe book

2011-08-18T22:25:00.000Z

make a casserole from yoga pants

separate light with your backpack

determine whether (or not) your umbrella is a communist

insert your Opinions into a blender:

push all the buttons at once.

train your jacket to fetch meat.

Forget everything you know-

basically, you don’t know where you’re going

(and that’s a Good Thing)

* * *

Breathe.

_________________________

Confiscated from a thoroughly-read Moosejaw catalogue, shaken with bits of frozen gravel, stirred around with an abacus and shared for Friday 55 (hosted by the one and only G-Man) in honor of this post of his.

Also, if you have no idea what Moosejaw is, consider yourself introduced. If you are the guy from Moosejaw who is just now going, "Hey, man, this Titanium-thing like totally ganked our verbiage from, like, Experiments 2011, yo"... well, consider this free advertising and send me a t-shirt. By email. Or something. (and I don't mean a homemade squirrel tunic, either)

Oh, and the gratuitous pansy photo? That's just in case you don't own any yoga pants, backpacks, light separators, opinions or blenders. You can try scratching and sniffing these. Go ahead. Do it. Nobody's looking (except the Ceiling Cat).

On the road...

2011-08-17T22:25:00.000Z

(click on any photo to see full size view)

Wordless Wednesday- "Seriously?"

2011-08-16T19:43:00.000Z

Thematic Photographic # 158 - Made of Glass

2011-08-16T00:41:00.001Z

Seattle Glassblowing Studio

Shared for Thematic Photographic, hosted by Carmi of Written, Inc.

Dona Nobis Pacem

2011-08-15T19:35:00.000Z

River Path to the Sky

Things my husband says...

2011-08-08T18:49:00.002Z

"So I looked it up to be sure: the medulla controls autonomic functions in the body; respiration, cardiac center, nerve relays etc.

It is also responsible for reflex centers; vomiting, coughing etc.

I think I can narrow it down: mine is swollen and overworked for a Monday and the next person that causes a change in the autonomic functions, including shortness of breath, dilated eyes or generally pissing me off is going to reflexively have vomit in their shoes.

It’s a condition. It can’t be helped."

___________

Got Hair?

Okay, people. We were all long overdue for a visit from Chef Jeff, here in Ti-Land. Here he is, flinging glitter and bringing back a dose of The Humor.

In other news, it's a damn good thing we both commute to and from work on our bikes. As of yesterday, there is not a single operational vehicle in our household. Yeah. Good times.

Life's short.

Laugh. Love. Live out loud.

Walk on.

2011-08-05T17:14:00.000Z

Write your truth, then

Spare. Raw. Sourced.

Don’t varnish it, dress it up

Clean it up

Just write.

Pen out loud

And those two halves of your one soul

Will find each other again.

You will be whole

In this cauldron

In this crucible

Though utterly destroyed,

Wretchedly melted

Ideals shattered

Your third eye will see again.

_________

55- Willys (Can't Touch This)

2011-08-04T18:47:00.000Z

The license plate said my 55 was here, somewhere.

Believe me, I looked everywhere.

From the transfer case to the bumper- I couldn’t find anything

except a sign that said, “Do Not Touch”.

If I can’t touch the Willys, how am I supposed to have any fun?

I know! I’ll send it over to G-Man.

1955 Willys Pickup

(click on the photo to see the "Do Not Touch" sign in the windshield)

Actually, I did send the photo over to G-Man shortly after I took it.

A "My 55" shot? It was just too good to pass up, really.

__________

Shared for Friday 55, hosted by none other than G-Man, himself.

Manifesto

2011-08-03T16:46:00.000Z

___________

I see their faces, their forms. These people, real live humans, racing by on the metro-rail of life- all in a blur, encapsulated in worlds and words of their own making. I hear their voices as I read their words; inflection, reflection and a kind of somber authenticity woven through the tapestry of it all.

I want to own an Airstream Basecamp, squeeze a Long Haul Trucker and my kayak into the trailer and just pack my Jeep for the open road. Put away my laptop, stash my phone in a bank vault (where no one can hear it beeping when the battery gets low), and just… go.

I want to fill up days with miles of road, unbroken by the sound of human voice. I want to chase sunsets and stand in a penguin rookery on South Georgia Island. I want road grit, dust, grime and dirt embedded in my feet until no pedicure on earth can erase time tattooed in the creases.

I want to sit on the rim of the Grand Canyon and have coffee with Gaelyn. I want to drop by Patti’s place and hear her stories in person. I want to test drive the most expensive car on the lot, with G-Man handing me the keys. I want to crew for Tea, just once, and tell her a hundred times how much of an inspiration she is. I want to climb a peak with Snowcatcher, lungs screaming for oxygen, and laugh as Lizard laps us twice on our way to the top. I want to climb mountains in Patagonia with Alexandre and watch him making photo magic. Sit in the sunroom with Enchanted Oak and listen to her laugh, in person. Meet up with Paige in Kathmandu and trek Tibet and Nepal until we don’t recognize ourselves in the mountain streams. I want to run the Maui marathon with my other sister (the one I rarely talk about).

I want to acknowledge the wayfaring stranger that occupies my skin, shed the confines of the electronic medium and dance into a library, flinging windows open as I go. I want to open my umbrella indoors- then leave it upside down on the floor while walking under ladder, carrying a black cat on my shoulder. I want to build a house and burn it down as a reminder of my own impermanence. I want to gather the ashes and spread them over a volcano, from a Hughes 500 with the doors off.

I want to sit Shiva and grieve my losses monumentally. I want to meditate in the silence of a Buddhist temple, melting in the understanding that comes from knowing and not knowing. I want to celebrate unrivaled joy and know its origin hides beneath my Fedora.

The corners of my mind are bent open, the sunlight is streaming in… and out. For this little window in time, I am here and I am now. Until I am not.

______________

Thematic Photographic #156 - Red

2011-08-02T17:52:00.001Z

Nothing says 'summertime' quite like a lazy evening sun, a parade of classic vehicles and the company of a friend.

Shared for Thematic Photographic, hosted by Carmi of Written, Inc.

and

Wordless Wednesday

On your mark, get set...

2011-08-01T18:32:00.000Z

Hanging together...

2011-07-28T15:42:00.001Z

Soccer tournament this week. All week long.

__________

Things are busy 'round these parts, but not worry- the words are just hanging out over at Niamh's place with their feet propped up. I had the honor of being interviewed by Niamh Griffin, a freelance journalist in Ireland (and extraordinary athlete in her own right).

Please join me over at Inspiring Sports Women today!

Interview, Part I

Interview, Part II

55- Wistful

2011-07-28T11:00:00.000Z

Every time the thunderstorms roll in

And shower curtains of rain sweep the hills

It’s an instant transport to the island of Kauai

And the scent of the ocean as it changes colors

Under a darkening sky

If I look at this picture long enough

Perhaps I’ll be standing under that tree

Again, with you.

___________________

Shared for Friday 55,

hosted by the inimitable G-Man

About the photo: changeable weather, a deserted beach, backpacking a tropical island with unparalleled topography... Scotty's BBQ at the trail's end... it doesn't get any better than this.

`

Wordless Wednesday- Moooose

2011-07-26T23:23:00.000Z

Selāh: ABC's of Life

2011-07-25T15:30:00.000Z

Accept differences.

__________________

Selāh ( Hebrew: סֶלָה ) is a concept word, an instruction on how music or words should be read, which translates approximately as "Pause. And Listen" or... stop and think about it.

55- Doubleheader

2011-07-21T19:20:00.003Z

My friend, PJ (Northern Zazu) and me
courtesy of Chef Jeff

If I said the words 'belly dancers', 'classic cars', 'stripping without music' and 'Nikon and Canon coexisting' all in the same sentence... would I get struck by lightning?

(waits. taps fingers)

I thought not.

However, all you get to see is the photo of the cameras having a jolly good picnic.

For now, anyway...

_________________________

Count 'em. That's fun, summed up in 55 words...

(oh, yeah... I went for a double. Click here.)

55- Postcard from the Edge

2011-07-21T18:43:00.000Z

It matters not whether you’re at the base,

buried beneath, or ascending the summit

-To the rock.

It exists in a wind-scoured world,
watered by sheets of rain
and blanketed by a thousand snows

-In the summer.

Its layers of crumbling, metamorphic shale
will peel and flake and disintegrate like doubt

-Under your feet.

_________________________________________

Shared for Friday 55

Perspective. It's a beautiful thing when the viewfinder captures the big picture, both internally and externally.

`

Wordless Wednesday

2011-07-19T16:46:00.001Z

Selāh: Repair

2011-07-18T17:07:00.000Z

Stepping off the porch into a soaking rain, I hesitated for the briefest of moments before lowering the bike from my shoulder. Following fresh moose tracks up toward the paved road, I sampled the air warily and wondered if s/he was enjoying the shower or feeling moody. Sure enough, the unmistakable, musky scent of wet moose hair was vividly available. I decided not to hang around and conduct a survey on the rangy ungulate’s morning constitutional.

Turning my face into the wind, I headed the long way to work without a second thought. Within a minute, my soft-shell pants were soaked completely through. Splashed groundwater drove through my bike shoes and sloshed around in the heels, a rhythmic soundtrack to accompany the road grit grinding through the newly replaced bike chain.

Metallic, flaky chips of road surfacing peppered my face in steady stream provided by the bike’s front tire. Gears shifted happily, delighted by yesterday’s maintenance.

                                     "It is not because things are difficult
                                                  that we do not dare;
                         it is because we do not dare that they are difficult."
                                                           - Seneca

Aligned

2011-07-15T19:21:00.000Z

San Francisco Federal Building, June 2011

55- Pocketful of Passports

2011-07-14T17:06:00.000Z

The world in hybrid view

Uncharted territory calls

And I feel like travellin’ on

Plan A is nothing without

Plans B through D

And it all fits in a car-top carrier

Down the road we’ll go

A driving force

In a ’55 Fairlane

Rainmaker, dreamer, artist

Mechanic, builder, farmer

Arm in arm

Father and daughter.

_______________

Shared for Friday 55

So, I mixed metaphors and added water- threw in a little daydreaming and a sprinkle of hopes for the future and served this one up after more than a year of sitting on it. Turns out, poems don't hatch themselves. Neither do photographs.

The photo is completely unstaged, unplanned. Des and I had just returned from Victoria BC and I unzipped the pocket of my vest- setting our passports on the steamer trunk in our cottage. The light streaming through the window caught my eye and the photograph simply happened.

As to my Dad... ah, my Dad. I've held my breath for several years now, waiting and hoping against hope that he and I would have the chance to travel together 'some day'. Whether it be aboard a ferry on the marine highway or camping in alpine meadows, or sharing a beer in a pub in Scotland- it matters little the destination, only the opportunity. This time, for the first time in many, many years, I have hope that he and I will have the chance to share some journeys together. I wrote this poem for his 55th birthday, last May (and it would have posted precisely for a Friday 55, too). It just wasn't the right timing, though. I saved it, held it close and shelved it against the day when I could share it and just Know.

He is well. He is healthy again. He has a world full of possibilities in front of him- and now, in front of Us. Many folks don't know this- but during his darkest days, I changed my name to share part of his. To unequivocally create a Force for channeling courage, tenacity, strength and endurance directly to him when he needed it most.

When a person walks through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, they should have Someone who has their back.

December, 2007

Playin' with the boys...

2011-07-13T19:03:00.001Z

My nephew, Zane (aka Professor Z) June 2011

Many of you remember clearly the events of January 31, 2010. It was the day we nearly lost a precious little boy, the day when time stood still and seemed not to breathe for hours. That Zane has recovered fully and has experienced no lasting deficit from the accident, will always be a source of deep, silent thankfulness in this corner.

He has grown from a precocious baby to an busy almost-three-year-old, seemingly overnight. During my recent trip to his corner of the world, I had many opportunities to enjoy his boundless energy and the bond he shares with Des. As far as he's concerned, that's HIS Des.

Sandflinging. A local sport.

Thematic Photographic #153 - Parallel

2011-07-12T17:37:00.002Z

Ahhh, the Emerald City at night. She glows in shades of cobalt, city lights sparkling like tiny diamonds against velvet.

At first, I arm-wrestled my camera through the protective bars surrounding the viewing deck. Unable to properly stabilize it, I stepped back and embraced the expansive horizon (cage and all). It has its own beauty and symmetry, this protective web of steel.

Experience Music Project (building), Seattle

What do you see when you read between the lines?

Thematic Photographic is hosted by Carmi of Written, Inc.

shared for Wordless Wednesday (words and all)

Selāh: The Cure

2011-07-11T18:50:00.000Z

"The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea."

- Isak Dinesen

* * *

Selāh ( Hebrew: סֶלָה ) is a concept word, an instruction on how music or words should be read, which translates approximately as "Pause. And Listen" or... stop and think about it.

Approach Shoes and Chalk... not just for climbing

2011-07-08T23:58:00.000Z

What captivated me first was not the brilliant rendering of Vermeer’s ‘Girl With the Red Hat’, as fine as it was, delicately etched in pastels on the brick sidewalk. It was his shoes. Well-worn 5.10 Guide Tennies, sage green, peeking out from beneath his black cargo pants.

I would have stopped anyway, shared my coffee money in exchange for permission to take a few photos, and quietly slipped away. His shoes. They stopped me dead in my tracks.

I sat down, then, right there on the sidewalk of Government Street and just took it all in. He didn’t know what to make of me, but had lived outdoors long enough to have lost the need to fill perfectly good silence with words. Piercing blue eyes, compact build, blown out knee and those shoes. It fit.

I wagered on words that matter to me and ventured, “Do you climb?”

He stopped chalking, brushed work-worn hands across his pants and smiled broadly, a rusty grin rarely used.

He talked for nearly thirty minutes, while I sat transfixed. We exchanged first names, but I knew without knowing that I was in the company of none other than Ian Morris.

Photos are shared here with permission of the artist, Ian Morris

We talked for a fine long time. He, sharing expansive knowledge of light and shadow and the secrets of creating three-dimensional drawings. I, listening intently, feeling the gift of words shared by a man of few words.

If ever you should pass through Victoria, British Columbia and chance to walk down Government Street, take a moment to look around for something extraordinary. Something magical. Someone magical.

`

Geneology

2011-07-08T06:00:00.001Z

I am from empty spaces and silent places

And sun-dried, windblown, waist-length hair

I am from farm country, flatlands skirted by magnificent mountains

Deep in the heart of Alaska

I am from the alfalfa, the barley, the bent-headed stalks of ripened grain

Shivering in a silt-ridden wind that blows the Delta without rest

I am from awkward family portraits and a collection of powerful wills, from Ulrichs and Schneiders and and those of us who’ve changed our names to protect the innocent.

I am from the powerfully built Hessian mercenaries who lived through the War, settled in the Midwest and traded their daggers for plows.

From “if you can’t say something nice, best to say nothing at all” and “cleanliness is next to godliness”.

I am from fundamentalism in its severest form; I nurture compassion for all sentient beings.

I’m from a long line of wayfaring strangers who never met a meal they didn’t like.

From the attic of a dairy cow barn, where my mother gave birth to me- comforted by the sounds of the mothers below, who pined for the young they would never know.

I am from a place not called home, always tending toward high places by narrow paths

I am from the stillness left behind in the absence of faith, hope and love

And the measures it takes to acknowledge and befriend the emptiness.

I am from the mountains and to them I will always return

I am from temporary and I hold it gently

Knowing without knowing

That no matter how far I’ve yet to go-

I’m already there.

`

No Easy Way Down

2011-07-07T21:53:00.000Z

...you must know in the end

when it's time to descend...

there is

easy

way

down

* * *

Homing

2011-07-07T18:24:00.001Z

`

I stand, unsteadily, balanced unhappily-upright on my two feet under a steady stream of hot water. Even the shower can’t thaw out the bronchial infection, the tortured sinus passages and the throbbing where my cerebrum used to live.

I feel thick, ponderous and vacant all at once.

Outdoors, the sun is shining hot and fierce, blazing away under cloudless skies… I squint through swollen eyes, running clumsy fingers through shaggy hair and a smile breaks through a face made of glass.

It’s good to be home.

_________________________________________

It’s been a long few weeks. This trip started out in San Francisco, a week-long intensive conference for work. From San Francisco, I travelled north to Seattle for the better part of three days, then on to the Olympic Peninsula. For family.

Yeah. You read that correctly. Not mountaineering, not a sea kayaking adventure… Family. Capitalized. Italicized. Underlined. No quotation marks, though… this was the real thing. Three generations of stubborn Germans managed to somehow co-exist, breathe each other’s air and live to tell the tale.

There were moments of breathtaking beauty, moments of raw anxiety.

There were sunsets over the water (and a couple of breakaway treks into the snow covered peaks of the alpine world above).

There were tears and gales of laughter, four sisters reunited in celebration of my youngest sister’s birthday- for the first time in eighteen years.

Good things. Heavy things. Things to share, things to hold in silence for years to come.

It's good to be Home.

East Sequim Bay at sunset,
taken from the front porch of our cottage
at Sunset Marine Resort

*Homing is the process of determining the location of something, sometimes the source of a transmission, and going to it.

Wordless Wednesday- San Francisco

2011-06-21T14:39:00.000Z

So... just a few words, after all. I'm in San Francisco this week (business trip), but had to take a little time out to enjoy the 85 degree temps and sunny skies. Whether it's Tuesday or early Wednesday morning in your corner of the world, take a moment to look around and capture a thought with a photograph and share it for Wordless Wednesday!

Thematic Photographic # 150 - Signs That Make Us Wonder

2011-06-16T16:53:00.000Z

Denali National Park - sign is embedded with nails

to prevent grizzly bears from rubbing against it and destroying it.

Courtesy of the National Park Service: you'd think the sign would be posted to protect delicate tundra/taiga from blundering tourists. You'd be wrong. This sign was stuck in the ground two feet from my picnic table at a camp site. The "sensitive area"? Grass. Dirt. Compacted gravel hauled in by the park service. Yep.

This one is self-explanatory. I might even go out on a limb and suggest that maybe a few hockey FANS should park their butts in the snow and cool off for a bit... but that could lead to them having a hairy little fit. Again. Or rioting. Or something.

Thematic Photographic is brought to us by Carmi of Written, Inc.

Midnight on the Lake

2011-06-13T19:56:00.000Z

Apparently, I provide access to scenic places for my daughter to read books.

2011-06-10T19:56:00.000Z

She's grown an aversion to having her picture taken, so most of my shots of Des these days are taken when she least suspects it. Like, when she has her nose buried in a book. While we're camping. In one of the most scenic national parks in the United States.

To be fair, she was recovering from pneumonia and had very little energy to do much more than slowly chew dark chocolate M&Ms while reading her book... and hang on for dear life when we did a two hour whitewater rafting trip through the canyon on the Nenana River. Because, yeah. There was no WAY I was going let a respiratory illness get in the way of a perfectly good adventure.

I'm glad she's discovered the untold wonders of the world inside the pages of a good book. If I'm doing my job correctly, when she finally resurfaces and looks around, she'll find the world that surrounds her to be every bit as adventurous, surreal, deliciously inviting and full of magic and adventure.

_________________

This week, Carmi has brought us the theme "Family" for Thematic Photographic. In this particular group of "persons of common ancestry", we share a rabid love of learning, of reading, of exploring the world around us and the universe within us. In our little family, we each have a powerful sense of personal identity. Each of us has our own last name. Each has our own personality, interests, agenda and history- some of which intersects, some of which does not.

The beauty of having an unconventional family is that we are happily surprised when we find commonality, similar interests and have our bags packed for shared adventure. It's never taken for granted, it's never assumed.

The word "family" is a lot like the word "adventure". Many people think that if they go in search of it and if all the right components are in place, it will Happen. I contend, to the contrary, that it lies within us. We bring a sense of family, we bring adventure with us- or we do not. Just as a person can stand in the middle of the most beautiful scenery in the world and yawn, look around for the TV remote, and climb back in their camper- so a person can be surrounded by other humans of common ancestry and have absolutely no family in the room.

Children do not make a family. (I know, right? Shock and horror all around.) Becoming a parent does not a family make (gasp!). Being likeminded, riding the same train, paddling the same boat... does not make a family.

Partnership. Integrity. Communication. Trust. Reliability. Durability. Consistency. Affection. Respect.

Without these, without an internal mechanism that drives each one of them, we are no more than the sum of our genetic flaws.

Wordless Wednesday- Surly Troll

2011-06-08T15:55:00.001Z