Another Another Summer

November 9, 2020

The rattling of dry leaves on the sidewalk outside my window signals a change in the weather. This unusual (to put it mildly) warm spell has come to an end. The conditions now moving in are still tolerable but more November-appropriate. All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray, as they say.

I hate to think what the past week’s weather means for our changing climate, but it did wonders for my mood. Those who know me well know I don’t hold back about my dislike of November. I’m not a patient person, and I hate waiting that extra month for winter to descend. I’ve often wished we could move straight from the showers of colorful leaves into snowflakes and Christmas lights.

November is traditionally the time when I write things like this : “These past few days I have been thinking that there is nothing to be had[.]” Then, unsure what exactly to do about it, I take a nap.

This kind of thinking stems from time spent alone. Indeed, the vast majority of my past and recent writings are about something I did on my own. Around the time I started walking and journaling in earnest, my dad (my usual hiking companion) was laid up with a broken foot. I got used to walking alone after that; I don’t remember finding it odd. Only now do I realize that I was the only eighteen-year-old hiking the trails around town — and one of the only hikers who didn’t have a friend, spouse, or canine companion along for the trip.

By the time I entered college, I was walking practically everywhere. (Not having a car helps with that.) Those solo walks are enshrined in my journals, and they represent most of my memories of that era. I’m reliving those days now as I continue my pandemic project of typing up old journals. But it was a quick peek at a later entry that netted me this reminder:

“It’s all about the people!… I am caught up in the lives and dynamics of the people around me, no matter how hard I try to stay inside and alone… Maybe someday I’ll get that drilled into my head.

“These past few days I have been thinking that there is nothing to be had, and I feel I am about to be proved wrong once again.”

Leaving October

October 23, 2020

I’m convinced that the recent spike of CoViD cases in Wisconsin is due to the onrush of cold weather. People are scrambling to hold family gatherings, attend athletic events, and visit that restaurant one last time before we all dig in for the winter. For my part, the weekly trips to my “office” outside a local coffee shop have come to an abrupt end. It’s a crying shame, but I had a good run.

The hills surrounding my town are looking a little rusty now that we’re past the peak of fall color. I’m pleased at how long this fall has lasted, reminding me of my four years “up north”. The window in which the weather matches the colors, however, is rapidly closing. It truly is time to move indoors (and lay the garden to rest).

Still, there are a few days each fall when I get the uncanny sense that I’ve stepped into a time machine. Something about the wind, the moisture in the air, and the occasional robin makes it seem more like March or early April than October. Last night’s rain, which caused the river to flood like it does every spring, has added to the feeling. I like the idea, however foolish, that this change in weather could mean a fresh start to the year.

Yet spring it is not. Winter isn’t quite here, either — we still have the dreaded November to plod through. But if a fresh start is on the way, it will have to involve mostly indoor activities. Writing is one of these. Music is another. This season could be a very “productive” one for me. (I’m crossing my fingers so that you know I’m not making any promises.)

Whatever this turning inward might bring for everyone, I hope the net result is calm and renewal. I hope that when we emerge in the — actual, legitimate — springtime, we’ll be ready to face whatever new challenge gets thrown our way.

“And surely as you breathe the gentle air of peace, this land shall shelter in the light.” – The Tannahill Weavers

From the Archives, Part II

October 13, 2020

Between work, socially distant coffee meet-ups, and what I hope is a healthy amount of staring out the window at fall foliage, I’ve started a personal project.  I’m slowly typing up the journals that I’ve kept on and off since the spring of my senior year of high school.  My hope is that revisiting my writings — journaling was the only writing I did back then — will reveal some common threads and get me started down the path to writing a book with a personal theme.

Though I haven’t gotten far, a few interesting things have come to light.  I should mention that I started journaling as a way of recording what I saw and thought on a series of walks around my hometown.  Later, I did the same in my college town.  (Taking regular walks was a graded assignment at my environmental liberal arts college.)

Some of the revelations are amusing.  I can’t even begin to picture what a “flat rise” might be, and seemingly every path I disliked was recorded as being “muddy and overgrown”.  Early on, when I made a list of things to bring with me on my walks and hikes, item number six was “[m]oney in case of ice cream truck”.  Clearly I had my priorities straight.

There are glimpses of my interest in natural resources management, which started about a year before I took up journaling.  Once I had learned to identify the invasive bush honeysuckle (Lonicera japonica), I let loose with the following rant: “ I have seen more honeysuckle this past week than I’d ever care to see in my life.  It’s along every highway and on the slope of every hill.  I’d hate to be the DNR worker in charge of removing that… oh wait, there isn’t any.”  Interestingly, I also had politics on the brain the day I fell in love with prairie.  I was frustrated with the state of things and decided to walk farther than usual, ending up on the Cross Plains Segment of the Ice Age Trail.

In another entry, I attempted to locate the edge of town.  I walked up a broad street in the town’s northeast corner, in a subdivision I still thought of as new even though it had been around ten years or more.  By the time the road dead-ended, I’d already realized that the town didn’t really have a defined edge.  Farm fields, country homes, and other human constructions stretched across the landscape.

One question I’ve had to ask is whether all my observations were sincere, or whether I was trying to mimic the “nature writing” style I’d recently discovered.  I think the former is true.  My walking and my writing were, and still are, inspired by the beauty of the place where I grew up .  While it was sometimes hard to motivate myself to walk, I always ended up wanting to stay out longer and drink in the landscape:

“[M]ine is a beautiful town, and I feel the need to get to know it… to be in the place where I grew up but in a more natural part of it, and to know that my own feet had carried me there.”

“It felt good… to be walking without any clue where I was going — no, it felt great!”

“Other people are driving — I am walking.  My feet carried me somewhere, and except for my breathing I left no carbon ‘footprint’.  This gives me a sense of joy and power and wonder.  Woo-hoo!”

Woo-hoo indeed.

Calm Before the…?

September 23, 2020

I’ve finally adjusted to the idea that my actual, paid job is to sit at home and write. Looking up from my laptop for what seems like the first time in months, I find that fall has arrived. The colors in the hills across the river are stunning — and across the street, an inflatable ghost grins in my direction. If not for the risk of illness, I would hop in my car and not stop driving until I’d traveled a few degrees of latitude farther north.

In some respects, it isn’t a typical fall. I don’t get to feel the thrill of change that used to come with moving or starting school. As I mentioned, I’ve settled into a lifestyle I hope to keep up for a long time. And with no end to the pandemic in sight, I’m not going anywhere. This September just feels like a continuation of the world’s longest April.

Still, all around me are hints that nothing will ever be the same. People who don’t normally talk about such things are spouting prophecies of doom. It sure sounds like the worst is yet to come. And there could always be unexpected changes in my seemingly stable life. It’s happened before.

But, not knowing what to expect, I’m not going to spend too much energy worrying about it.

I’ve had an enjoyable month measured by such indulgences as prairie seed collecting, outdoor dinner parties, a weekend celebrating a dear childhood friend’s upcoming wedding, evening walks, books, Netflix, many cups of coffee, and did I mention coffee? Though I may not know what’s coming, I’m pleased with what’s already here. As someone close to me recently put it, “these are the good old days!”

A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to August

August 24, 2020

We in the Driftless seem to be mired in the final heat blast of the summer. Of course, I also said that two heat blasts ago.

On my walk this muggy evening, I reflected on why I didn’t keep up my blog over the summer. I can’t claim that I was busy, though there were times when I felt I’d lost control of my schedule. For the most part I was merely existing in my apartment. And I was missing the key social events that reinforce my identity and give me the motivation to write.

Still, a lot has happened since last I wrote (most of it good). More than a month ago now, I traded my customer-service job for a position with a conservation group. I’ve been volunteering with the group for five years, but this paid job was unexpected and beyond anything I could have hoped for. I get to write while increasing awareness of and support for Wisconsin’s native landscapes.

As a side effect, I now have my very own wi-fi connection at home. No more sitting in the library parking lot and hoping the router signal is strong enough that I can upload a post.  It’s downright luxurious. On top of that, I get to work from home — the magic phrase in this era.

It was less than magic at first. I struggled to motivate myself and build a routine from scratch.  As much as I complain about working customer service, there’s nothing like clocking in and out at preordained times. I miss being able to physically leave my work at work (not on that laptop over there on the coffee table). After several false starts, I finally seem to have hammered out a schedule that works for everyone involved.

Meanwhile, my mom and I accepted an offer on our family home. This means that all of the places I’ve ever lived, except the one I’m in now, have strangers in them. Without a “base” to return to, I now officially live in the place where I’ve been laying my head. Mom isn’t far behind: she’s moving into an apartment just three miles from mine. It’s a short drive back to my childhood town if we want to revisit the past.

If this heat ever ends, we’ll be left with that delicious fall feeling — sharp pencils, new backpacks, and whatnot. But instead of having to move in to a strange dorm room, I’ll be firmly planted. I know the value of home more than most, and it’s the only thing that can keep me grounded when everything else is up for debate.

The Announcement

July 2, 2020

I couldn’t wait until next week!

A piece I wrote based on a concept from this blog — “shelter” as a noun rather than a verb — was just published in our local arts magazine, Voice of the River Valley. I am beyond proud to have my words next to those of my friends and neighbors. They are a bunch that truly appreciates PLACE, as the name might suggest.

I’m a guest author for the “Driftless Terroir” series (note the extra “i”; we’re not trying to scare anybody). Link here. Check out the cover while you’re at it, fittingly provided by a friend who’s a talented photographer and devoted prairie restoration volunteer.

Another Summer

June 9, 2020

Despite constant reminders that all is decidedly not well in our world, life in my town appears to be returning to normal. The businesses on our main street have been open ever since the demise of Safer-at-Home. Kids are back on the playground; locals and visitors alike are back in our bars and restaurants. My place of employment has need of me again.

Re-opening has been a less measured process here than in some counties, one of which lies just across the river. (Sure hope the virus doesn’t catch on.) Even there, though, I get the sense that people are looking for any excuse to go back to “normal”.

Normal is as yet out of reach for me. I knew my job would look different this year, but I surprised myself with how strongly I resisted the changes. One week in, I still feel displaced and uneasy. The special appeal that this job once held for me is starting to fade. Chalk it up to a global pandemic combined with the loss of my precious at-home routine.

I know I’m extremely lucky to get to choose where I work, or don’t work. I don’t mean to complain so much as to comment on the irony. At the start of the CoViD-19 outbreak, it seemed for all the world that I was being kept from doing what I loved. This included returning to my seasonal job. Now, two short months later, it feels more like my freedom will end with the end of social distancing.

Just as surprisingly, I’m proud of the way I handled isolation. Recall that I was struggling not to dismiss this era as unproductive. While there could be long-term negative effects that have yet to make themselves known, over all I moved through this spring with grace.

My garden provides a handy metaphor: progress was slow at first, but as the weeks passed the very air became filled with growth and promise.

I assumed that having my life altered by world events could only be a bad thing. Instead, it has put me in a decent (if not good) position to face the future.

From the Archives: “The Naked Truth About Humanity”

June 3, 2020

My cousin shared a post from my late father’s blog this morning after it popped up in her Facebook “memories”. Revisiting the blog myself, I found this post that Dad wrote in 2018 shortly after our Father’s Day trip to downtown Madison. I’m sharing it with you now for countless reasons. If you have to ask me why, you should probably just read the piece.

*

I’m beginning to think people are just… beautiful.

This morning, I went with J and G to the farmer’s market in the culturally-diverse city of Madison, Wisconsin. We saw a lot of people. And some of them we saw a lot of (more about that in a minute).

People of Lord-knows how many nationalities — forty, fifty? When we’re smiling, don’t we all seem as one? Excited children tugging their parents onward, eye-rubbing children wanting to be done with it, every skin tone and hair color you can imagine, people buying and selling, cash flying, thank-you’s exchanged in a hundred different accents, people admiring and petting each other’s dogs, people gobbling up fresh strawberries and sugar snap peas and pastries and cheese curds, people bumping into each other and saying, “excuse me,” and nobody seeming to care about how anybody else looked.

Good people wearing serene expressions on a sunny morning in what appears to be, relatively speaking, a good life.

May I suggest, if you ever want to have your faith in humanity restored, find some people to be around. Then relax yourself, suspend all judgments, expect nothing in return, and just smile or be at peace or think kind thoughts or observe the ways that other people are just like you, and just see what happens. It doesn’t have to be a happy place like a farmer’s market; it can be a frantic place like an airport or a hospital or a busy store. Just go there with the right attitude and you’ll see — they are just like you.

People are expressing a lot of anger against other people these days, blaming other people for the problems of the world, pointing fingers, questioning motives, drawing unfair comparisons, making thoughtless and snarky and insensitive remarks. It’s a losing game. It’s easy to say, as whining children do, “they started it.”

I won’t speculate on who started it, but I can tell you that somebody profits from it. Pick any mean-spirited or one-sided meme on Facebook, and if you could follow the money, chances are it was planted by a think-tank with some political or corporate backers. Somebody wants us to distrust each other, because distrust is the basis for whatever belief system they are trying to promote.

Hatred is effective, and I have lost patience with anybody who participates in it or any institution that politely shies away from confronting it.

As it happens, our visit to the capitol square coincided with the 9th annual World Naked Bike Ride, Madison edition. As the name of this event suggests, it’s a naked bike ride featuring naked bike riders, probably more than a hundred of them.

What’s the point, you ask? I wasn’t riding with them, so I can’t say. But if you had been there and looked some of them in the eye (yes, they were close enough that you could see their eyes, and everything else), if you had seen the fun they were having and the frivolity they inspired and heard their interactions with the crowd, you wouldn’t need to ask what was the point.

As the commotion approached, and word spread about what was causing it, people started to laugh. Because that’s what you do when a potentially awkward situation approaches. But as they rode by with their body painting and funny signs and outrageous attitudes, people started to cheer and to shout encouragement, and to laugh some more and smile and feel good.

Because that’s what you do when people do something that takes courage and a little craziness. And that’s what you do when people aren’t afraid to be human, and to show they are human.

Warts and all. Emphasis on all.

But some of the riders showed they really did have an ulterior motive. I saw a couple of them looking directly into the crowd, and I heard them shout, “Love your stuff –

“You are all beautiful people!”

And How Does That Make You Feel?

May 25, 2020

The specter of my job starting up again has caused a flurry of commitments to appear on my calendar. Not all of them are work-related, but their net effect is that I feel my free time slipping away.

If I’m being honest, the past two or three weeks have been the hardest stretch of this lockdown. Feelings that I’ve been dreading have finally landed and settled in my brain. They are the effects of physical isolation from the people and places I Iove. Why I haven’t succumbed to them until now, I couldn’t say. The initial shock and the novelty of moving may have combined to keep April relatively carefree. Maybe it’s good that I’m returning to work and society now, before I get bogged down further.

The rest of me doesn’t think so. I prize my routine and the ability to do what I want when I want. The Routine has continued apace during these dreary few weeks. Case in point: I started this blog post last night after my evening walk, which I have yet to tire of despite taking the same route every day.

In patrolling my territory, I came upon some stems of dame’s rocket, which is Public Enemy No. 1 this time of year. Its purple flowers taunted me from a patch about the size of my car. I considered pulling them, though I was overheated from my walk. One small heroic deed in these dark times. But then I looked up to see that the whole woods was purple with a dame’s rocket understory. Instantly, the darkness of these times rendered futile any good deed I might have done.

It does seem that a little brain stimulation is in order. I’ll go to work again, try my best. In time I will have carved out a new routine. I’m not likely to forget these days of strange freedom, of letters and replies (keep ’em coming, folks!), of walks that are routine and not an occasion. Whatever comes next, I am better for having been stuck with myself these past two months.