Waiting Patiently for Spring

The temperature in Anchorage this morning is forty-one degrees Fahrenheit.  I would wish it to be much warmer considering we are six days into the month of May.  Down in the lower forty-eight, the people have been celebrating spring, planting seedlings, tilling the soil for gardens, and are well on their way into the growing season.  The soil is frozen in Anchorage.  The tillers, unable to cope with the icy humus, lay unused in sheds waiting for the warmth to soften the landscape.

Patience will see me through the frustration of seeing my seedlings reach peak and begin to wilt.  A willingness to wait until spring truly arrives will be my comfort as I survey with dismay the frost on the ground in the mornings, or search in vain for the first shoots of vegetation.

God will lay hand to our part of the world when it is most fit to do so, and I will be patient.  I will be grateful.  I am powerless today, but soon, with His help, I will be granted the power to plant, to sow and to reap.

Amen

The Pros Show Me How to "Let Go, Let God"

These dogs know how to "Let Go, Let God."  Never had a lesson in their lives, but they nail it every time they make the attempt.

Why not me?  I pace.  I prowl.  I sit down.  I stand up.  I do to bed early.  I say a mantra.  I cannot seem to get the knack of kicking back.

My dogs eat, then beg to play, then play, then with little or no fanfare, they plop down in a comfortable spot and...  They are out like lights.  How do they do it?  I helped to raise them.  They should be somewhat influenced by my presence.  Why are not they even somewhat dysfunctional with respect to the ability to relax?

The answer is simple beyond my ability to understand intellectually.  They don't care.  They trust me, their surroundings, their physical condition, and they don't worry until there is a reason to do so.  Oh, as you can see in the eyes of the big one, there is an element of suspicion, but only for the most basic of reasons.  "You really don't think you have enough room to join us, and I am certain you do not expect any of US to move do you?"  That sort of logic.  They do not engage in my logic, which were I to wear the same expression, could be interpreted as, "Oh, God, if I do not organize the shelves in the kitchen, I will fall behind," or, "I am certain some major issue will rear up tomorrow, and then I will have two major chores to complete.  Why are you looking at me like that?"

I am not simple.  God saw fit to adorn the female of my species with a wide pelvis and birthing canal perfect for expelling infants with over sized craniums.  Those bulbous, brain globes are blessed with two hemispheres of frontal lobes, and those lobes carry memories.  We human bobble heads take an inordinately long time to develop, and when we eventually do, we have managed to store and classify millions of bits of memory.  Some good, most bothersome, and useless to our survival.  Why?  Because we no longer walk habitually upright through tall, savanna grasses peering furtively over our shoulders in search of wicked, fanged carnivores or gazelles hell bent on pounding us into the mud for daring to peek at their non bulbous headed offspring.

God gifted us with the capacity to learn from our mistakes, and those of others (the eaten and the trampled).  We store those memories with a dose of chemicals attached.  Chemicals which we fondly refer as "fear."  We spent many, many years developing this capacity, and became so good at it, we were motivated to go to any lengths to remove the causes of our fear.  We slew, herded, stampeded and corralled all the beasties, trees and fauna of the world into tidy piles we could manage in our attempts to relieve the fear that stalked us through the wilds of the world.   We were successful, but the fear did not leave us, and our memories still lurk in our over sized craniums provoking us with regular bouts of anxiety.  The causes have all been managed to one degree or another, so many of us do not even fully understand why we suffer from such unreasonable fear.

Now, the species we corralled have certainly benefited from our frantic efforts to "fix" all that was violent in the world.  Even those we eat do not seem to be overly burdened with worry for the future.  Why?  No inordinately large heads.  They do remember but only enough to stave off the most pressing dangers.  Even when the creature comforts are cut back or even cruelly refused them, they maintain memories of what worked for them as opposed to what threatened them.  How remarkable?

I have no idea how to emulate the efforts of my beloved pets.  I wish I could.  I try to be the Taoist "un-carved block," but with little success.  My mind begin to fancy it can help the block or beautify it, and I am off and running.  I am, as the author of the Tao of Poo describes, a "Bisy Bakson."  I will not explain further.  You must read the book by Benjamin Hoff.  My best results come when I just look at them "letting go" and join them.  We stare vacantly off into space, and I concentrate on watching them not concentrate.  It works.  Give me another decade and perhaps I will give up my claim to being another "Bisy Bakson."

Repelling Doomsday

Doomsday preppers.  Doomsday bunkers.  Advertisements on the television praising a man for accurately predicting terrible events in an attempt to convince us we need to buy into his plan to spare us all from the end; whatever that may be.

This picture, this slice of my life circa sometime in the near past, keeps me here in this skin.  All the bad forebodings of all the sad, unhappy people can wash over me leaving me intact so long as I keep this picture or one very near like in my head.

I have bad memories.  Yes.  They hound me.  They hurt me, but I have many good memories, and they sustain me.  My memories can be both hindrance and help depending on the condition of my soul.

I never felt the need to collect photos.  I may now just to keep the shadows at bay.  Dealing with my own deep sadness can be difficult enough.  I do not need the doomsday forebodings of money changers and king makers.  I have so many excellent mental imprints to lift me above the darkening water that gathers.  Rising waters always recede, and images can be captured in a thousand ways.  

Viral.  Viral.  The strength.  The spiral.  Mutations.  Tiny spaces.  Traces.  Homogeneity, then the race to change.  Fractured combination.  Split the spiral.  Viral.  Viral.  Watch the ever changing strands move constant to the source.

Deep Snow Soothes The Soul

Tent, Front Yard, Anchorage, AK

If I am to live comfortably in Alaska, there needs to be snow on the ground.  I much prefer deep snow to bare ground in the depths of winter.

Snow enhances the beauty of Anchorage in many ways.   Bare branches are softened and made less ominous by a blanket of white.  Moon light strikes the snow and is bent and refracted in all directions leaving little in shadow.   Monsters cannot hide when the moon waxes fullest.  Objects are illuminated in a royal blue making them magical to behold.

Sounds are hushed by snow, or rather the vibrations that comprise sound are absorbed into a deep layer of snowflakes.  Even normally loud noises such a planes flying overhead, or garbage trucks lumbering down the city streets are muffled.  The ears are soothed as the snow subdues the most jarring of noises.  One can stand out of doors, close the eyes, and imagine you are far away from the center of the city even when you live right on it's outskirts.  All sounds gain a mysterious quality, and one must listen carefully to catch fine details.  Voices can seem to come from many directions at once.

Only when snow is snatched up by the wind can one fully appreciate the power and diversity of the atmosphere.  Funnels and wind shears may be seen by the naked eye as the snow binds itself to air and is flung about carelessly.  One may witness the glory of air, the way wind goes where it pleases, moves what it likes, and is limited only by its own strength.  And when the winds cease, the landscape has been rearranged in a fashion to be envied by any landscaping enthusiast.  The hapless homeowner grabs their shovel and goes about the business of taming the mounds of snow into piles and paths knowing full well that the wind may well return to undo all their efforts.  If one is willing to be awed, one cannot help but admire the effect even as one curses the strain to arms and back.

Snow in ample quantity provides all that is needed to construct a snow fort.  Some may choose to make an igloo type with bricks carefully constructed and stacked into walls and ramparts, walls and roofs.  Others may opt to create a snow dome, but this takes patience.  Either way, snow may be molded into nearly any shape that the mind can imagine.  I haven't made snow fort in a decade, but this year as the snow continues to accumulate, I may well have to put my hand to it.  Snow forts provide the most amazing sort of fun. 

One can ski down a hill in the snow, grab snow shoes and trod through the snow in any direction,  strap on your favorite pair of cross country ski and do the same.  Snow makes all sorts of recreating possible.  The same area of ground could not do the same if laid bare of its white, and chilly mantle.

I love the snow, and prefer it to barren ground even if it limits my mobility around town.  I am childlike in the snow.  I can see possibilities in the piles of snow.  The snow allows me to forget what lies beneath its blanket, and reform it into what I most desire it to be.   I can be comfortable in the snow if I put on enough of and the right type of clothes.  I can never get cool enough in the heat even if I strip down to my bare essentials. 

I burst into this world amidst warm and water.  As I grow older, I grasp that I may leave it cold and dry as the bones of trees in winter.   Near the end of my life, during my winter, I would love to gather my friends and family around as if they could form a mantle of snow to cover me.  Cold.  Yes, but protected.  The mantle will transform me, and the light of God's moon would be reflected off of them, and nothing around me will be in shadow. 

the Life of Snow in Anchorage

My partner and I worked out of doors all morning clearing snow, mountains of snow that has accumulated over the past few weeks.  I estimate the depth to be about three and a half feet.   Luckily the flakes have been fluffy and light, so moving it was not too taxing.  Still, I am tired, and ready to relax for the remainder of the day.

Light, fluffy snow is a rarity in Anchorage.  Rumor has it that the Inupiat people of Alaska have over two hundred words for snow, because it come in so many textures.  Seldom is it suitable for making snow men or snow balls.  Snow here has a life cycle, and its texture changes with time and temperature.

Often it is heavy and has the consistency of corn starch.  Once, years ago, I ran theater lighting for a show, "1940s Radio Hour."  The show was about a live radio broadcast during WWII from New York city.  The sound effects for all the skits and commercials in the show were accomplished by one man using a cart containing a variety of sound making devices, bells, train whistle, and xylophone amongst others.  The sound of footsteps in the snow was made by putting a bag of corn starch up to a microphone suspended above the effects cart.  The sound man physically squeezed the bag to replicate the rhythm of footsteps.  The sound perfectly imitated the way footsteps sound in the corn snow in Alaska.  I remember being delighted by that discovery when I experienced my first real snow fall in Anchorage.

Another unique feature of the snow fall, at least here in Anchorage, is the way the temperature always plummets a day or two after the heavy fall.  The temperature during the fall will be basically tolerable, but once the humidity has been expelled in the form of snowflakes, the dry air becomes very frigid.  You learn quickly to get out and enjoy the snow the very day it accumulates, for if you wait, you will surely be recreating in a deep freeze.

 
I spent many hours playing in the snow when I was younger.  I loved to cross country ski, downhill ski and winter camp.  Now, I am content to shovel snow from the yard and from the roof.  That tends to take the wind from my sails, but I still enjoy sightseeing.

The drive south from Anchorage to the Kenai Peninsula or to Seward is spectacular.  The mountains transform from vistas of green to white seemingly overnight.  You can see avalanche tracks in the gullies and magnificent cornices overhanging the ridge lines.

The snow creates a winter garden from the familiar everyday objects of summer.  It blankets all the trees, the bushes, fences, outdoor furniture leaving only shapes vaguely resembling the original object.  Your imagination can run wild.  What was once a concrete bench can become the layer of mythical beast.  When the temperature drops, the hoar frost forms on the trees, and other woody vegetation.  The longer the span of cold, the more fantastic, flower like shapes materialize as the crystals grow and metamorphose using the moisture exhales from the living branches.

Even in the dead of winter, life thrives and beauty prevails. 

Avoiding Negative Energy

I love all that is beautiful in this world.  I accept the bad, but I am grateful for the presence of kindness and good in my life.

These flowers, Alaskan Poppies, could not be more delicate.  A raindrop can smash the petals, but they will pop back up.  Poppies are not on the earth for the sake of beauty.  Their function, which dictates their structure, makes them beautiful, but they were not made that way for my personal pleasure.  I find them pleasing in color and symmetry.  I benefit spiritually from the good feeling they engender within me.  I do not know why, but I accept it.

I want to avoid the negative in life.  Can that be wrong?  If I encounter it, I will deal with the consequences, but can I not do what I can to keep negative emotions and events out of my life?  I am told that I cannot.  So, if I cannot keep out the bad, I suppose I must work harder to find and appreciate the good, to seek beauty wherever and whenever possible.