Returning

I've come back home on purpose, with purpose, and, perhaps not surprisingly, discovered the most profound pleasure in life...

I've found a wonderful freedom in choosing my own path home to Alaska:
to be myself,
to like what I like, 
to let others choose for themselves,
to say yes or no as the mood strikes,
to take the risks I want,
to learn from my losses,
to live each day in a way that feels right to me.

I have made a pact with myself not to shrink

for anyone.

Hard times have happened, and will happen again, but I've learned something over the last two years: I will recover. At 37 years old, I finally acknowledged the strength, passion, and wisdom within me to author my own story...and a damn good one it's turning out to be! 

One year ago, I drove the bare essentials of my life (including my son) in a tiny hatchback over 3000 miles of highway from California to Alaska, which was just a year after making that same trip in reverse...escaping from Alaska. Both trips were adventures beyond the horizon of my known universe and the limits of my emotional comfort zone. Both were giant leaps of faith and stubborn determination to get across the yawning chasm that separated me from the life I wanted to be living. My landings were those painful kind of affairs where the leaper just barely catches the edge of something solid on the other side of the gap, banging shins and forearms, and has to claw and scramble and heave oneself up over the edge to stable footing. I did it twice. 

Each leap took me six months to heal and another six months to feel really glad I'd done it.

And now I'm in a beautiful place in life where everything seems to have fallen into its proper place. Each self-affirming decision has created a "pay it forward" momentum that continues to cascade toward more positive happenings. The abundance of joy, affection, support, and gratefulness between myself, my son, and my former spouse is actually ridiculous! We are each finally being who we were meant to be and loving each other better for it.

I am gobbling up the long Alaskan days, the steep trails, the sunshine, the moments with friends, the informing encounters with new people, the late-night campfires, the live concerts, and every possible experience that catches my fancy. 

I feel awake and like life is all re-prioritized to suit my needs and adventurous desires. 

And while it may seem counter-intuitive, all this energy toward myself has actually freed my dearest ones to also pursue their heart's desires. For the first time in years, my boy and the man I once called "mine" are discovering their own pleasures, with vigor! And we all continue to support each other, probably more genuinely than we ever did before. 

So, I guess I'm here to say...I'm back, baby! And things are gonna be different from now on. Better. More real. More affirming. It's not always gonna work out, or feel good, but it's gonna be what I make of it. And when I feel out of sorts, like the choosing has gotten away from me, then I still find solace and focus in the great outdoors...the WAY OUTDOORS! And I learn to get my choices back.

My world can be set right by the moon rising over lavender-lit mountains, the flutter overhead of a bat at dusk, or the crackle of wood-fueled flames licking the night air and throwing sparks up to the stars.

This is a moment in time where I feel perfectly where I ought to be...and I want to create a reminder that it is possible. If I am willing to take the risks, to not hold back, to be my best self...truly lovely things can happen. They HAVE happened. Wherever I go from here, I'm grateful for each connection, every moment of vulnerability, all the opportunities I've had to test my mettle. I think things are just getting interesting.

Comparison

I've begun an adventure to live 3000 miles away from my lifelong home, accompanied by my 13-year old son.  My husband remains in Alaska with my family on a multi-generational homestead where I grew up, while our son and I explore living in Northern California near his family.  I've traveled south to seek sun, heat, and new opportunities. Along the way, I'm sharing my journey about pursuing dreams, discovering what matters most in life, and finding the strength to be brave in the face of uncertainty.  For me, healing and strength are often found in simple pleasures and frequent communion with nature, so join me as we embark into the outdoors to reveal what's inside of us.

~

COMPARISON

(ANOVA - analysis of variance)

"The road of life twists and turns and no two directions are ever the same. Yet our lessons come from the journey, not the destination." - Don Williams. Jr.

Alaskan Homestead or Californian cottage

I can't help but look upon my new surroundings and notice how different they are from where I came from.  I'm constantly comparing.  My tiny cottage, my bed, my job, my routine, and my friends are not the same as what I had at home. 

The differences may seem like an obvious
 outcome of a move, but my concern is 
about what those differences mean to me. 

How important are the lingering desires for what I used to have: to see my mom and dad in the flesh, to casually call them up to meet for lunch, to watch my brother grow in his new marriage, to snuggle into the broad shoulder of my husband, or to wake up in my own bed with a view of the homestead out my window?  What does it mean that the everyday words, "let's go home," still have a pang of falseness and longing?

Golden fall aspen or Golden grassy oakland

When I'm on vacation, I accept that my surroundings will be different and I can revel in it.  The variation is the  goal.  I let go of all expectations and take everything moment by moment.  I seek to devour as much newness as possible and widen my experience.

But, this time, I keep looking back.  

I can't let go of what I left behind, I can't stop comparing what is around me to what used to be around me. Why?

Unwittingly, I'm stuck in an cycle of analyzing the variables of my life. This kind of experiment is called ANOVA for short (ANalysis Of VAriance).  It's a scientific term for conducting an experiment to measure specific differences in groups - otherwise known as variables. Basically, an ANOVA determines if the difference between several variables is statistically significant.  And that's what I want to know.  What differences are significant, and how so?

I want to know what the significance is of having my son with me, but not my husband? Will this be detrimental to our family on the whole? How much effect will there be on my son if he is near his paternal grandparents instead of his maternal grandparents?  Has he lived long enough with one side of the family to balance a few years living near the other side? What about his high school experience and his proximity to colleges? How important is this proximity to his success in adulthood? How important are the next four years to establishing my own future - my family connectivity, my incremental work experience, my contribution to retirement?

Ultimately, I want to know if the benefits of living in California versus Alaska will translate to long-term benefits for me and my family.  

Is is better to stay here in California and hope that my beloved family follows my lead? Or, should I go back to my home state of Alaska, where my life is more stable, and work with my family to make a joint venture beyond Alaska?  I'm trying to weight the risks and benefits - but I feel swamped by too many variables.

Skilak Lake or Lake Shasta

In my experiential ANOVA, I have created categorical differences that align with my observations. The big ones are:

• weather (sun and heat impact my daily happiness - but cold is inevitable, even in Redding)
• family (loved ones to make life seem worthwhile and provide support)
• opportunity (a meaningful career for me and a launchpad for my son are immediate concerns)

Alaskan kitties or Californian kitties 

If I observe that we spend more time outside in California, which is an important factor in our overall enjoyment of life, then I have to determine what category of comparison best illustrates this difference and how different it is.  

Based on the variables above, it seems useful to compare the differences that weather, family, and opportunity have in our lives, based on whether we are in Alaska or California. Subconsciously, I think I am always making these comparisons.  

I am looking for an answer is these logical comparisons.  But maybe life is not as simple as a scientific experiment.

Frozen toes or Sweating toes

Making a decision about where to live is not necessarily as easy as conducting an ANOVA and going with the results.  There's a lot of emotion and relationship involved that defies scientific analysis. I also have to go by my gut.  

I'm trusting my inner compass to guide me to the correct path. I'm relying on a 
supernatural belief in the outer workings of all things for our ultimate good.

Keep journeying with me to see where our path leads...

Know Me By Name

My name is Lindsey and this Alaskan shrub is known as Willow.

Familiarity is such a creature comfort, and not just for human creatures.  In the animal kingdom, creatures base their lives on familiar routines, environments, and relationships.  It is life ecology.  Animals adapt to their habitat through repetition over long periods of time to establish their niches for dwelling, traveling, eating, and reproducing.  Some animals become extremely specific in their routines, like the Giant Panda that eats ONLY bamboo, or Koalas that eat and live ONLY in eucalyptus trees, or the Bachmann’s Sparrow that lives ONLY in the branches of a pine tree recently affected by fire.  Home, even for animals, is a place of predictable circumstances, a mini-world of givens, where risk and uncertainty is minimized to create stability.  Comfort in the familiar is a universal instinct.

 

I married this man named Peter and we once sat next to an Alaskan river named the Little Susitna.

In the wild, a robin doesn’t simply up and decide one day, “Y’know, I don’t really feel like migrating this spring.  I’m gonna stay in Mexico this summer.  And while I’m at it, I’m sick of worms.  I’m going vegetarian and eating just berries.”  This change in familiar routine would have a huge ripple effect: imagine no robin song synonymous with misty spring mornings; picture robins ravaging the berry bushes rather than plucking worms out of the lawn; and consider the competition created between the robin and other berry-eating creatures (not to mention the population explosion of worms going uneaten).  Only humans make such decisions that utterly change our routines and habits so completely.  Some have even evolved a persistent nagging for change.  Routine of the daily variety is really not their thing.  But, deep down, on a primal level, they still crave something familiar amidst the newness.

 

Peter and I named our dog Samson, because we thought he would be strong,
 and our first kitten was named Nina, because she was a nincompoop.

I am one such human who has a penchant for change and has taken an opportunity to relocate to a completely foreign territory, where I am trying to carve out a new niche.  I’m a hitchhiker, a transplant, and an ex-patriot.  I am 3,000 long miles from the place I was born and raised, and from where I birthed and raised my own offspring.  I can count my lineage in the Alaskan ecosystem by generations, so the feeling of utter disconnection from my home habitat is overwhelming.  The thoughts Why did I come here? and What am I going to do? make for unsettling bedfellows each night when I close my eyes.  So, how do I learn to thrive in an unfamiliar habitat?  How do I ever feel comfort or familiarity again?

 

Our son we named Izak, which means laughter.

The only thing that keeps me grounded, makes me feel like I’m still on the same planet, is my family and the outdoors.  As for the outdoors, birds, butterflies, plants, and sunshine are my comfort food.  Food (especially fatty and starchy stuff) is also my comfort food - but that’s another blog.  Anyway, when I’m feeling the most out-of-sorts, I retreat to nature.  Maybe because it was my coping mechanism as a child, but the infinite intrigue and complexity of a wilderness always makes me feel better.  There is a certain kind of perfection in how all the elements of a forest work together and survive that makes me feel that everything is going to be okay.  There is predictability to the organization and occurrence of living organisms in a known ecosystem.  For instance, in the woods back home, I know I can find paper birch, quaking aspen, and white spruce growing out of an almost impenetrable tangle of grasses, wild roses, currents, horsetail, and 50 other shrub-sized plants vying for the endless summer sunlight.  I know that walking in the woods in Alaska requires a trail, or scratch-resistant pants (not to mention a good dose of mosquito dope). The composition of my northern woods feels right to me; it's predictable.  When my life doesn’t make sense, I go for a walk and am encouraged by the persistence and beauty of living things that I can call by name.  I think to myself, If that foxtail grass can grow out of poor soil and add its graceful splendor to the world with only the will to survive and adapt, then so can I.  

 

This is my favorite Alaskan place to explore, and it goes by the name Hatcher Pass.

But my new environment is not at all predictable to me. In Alaska, I know that if you want to see the stars, you need a down parka.  Consider this.  I grew up knowing that the sun never totally sets during the warm summer months.  Likewise, darkness goes together with cold winter temperatures - lots of dark and lots of cold.  Stargazing in Alaska, therefore, is an extreme winter sport, and only half the constellations could ever be learned. 

 

This is Alaska in Winter, which is not my favorite season, because there is too much of that white stuff called snow.

Now that I’m in California, it’s a whole different ball game.  On a recent camping trip with Chrysalis Charter School (my new employer), our middle-school science teacher gave a late-night astronomy lesson that blew my mind!  Up on the slopes of Mount Lassen, without the detriment of light pollution, the Milky Way materialized before my eyes with at least a dozen constellations I’d never seen before.  And I didn’t even need to wear a jacket or hold my breath to prevent the ice fog from obscuring my view.  Kids lay in the scrubby grass on their backs all around me and identified the circumpolar constellations that rotate around the North Star like the hour hand of a clock: Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Draco, and the Swan (or Northern Cross).  I watched Scorpio and his Red Giant “heart” rise like the sun over the silhouetted tops of Lodgepole Pine trees as Leo the Lion chased the moon along the same elliptical path behind the opposite horizon. This knowledge made the night sky over California more familiar to me.  I felt comforted.

 

This is familiar Alaskan weather, which I can't do anything about.

Naming everything new to me is one way I’ve tried to discover my niche and find familiarity.  We need names to communicate and to relate to objects in our environment.  Native names of natural landmarks are often adopted by incoming cultures in order to speed familiarity.  I also seek to learn the local knowledge, to adopt it, and thereby feel more at home. Guided walks with the California Native Plant Society provide me with just the kind of knowledge that I desire.  The surprising bonus is that I meet other people like me who are making this place their new home and are also looking for ways to connect.

 

Here I am in Northern California, next to Cliff Lake, trying to learn the names of new plants.

 Naming is like claiming.  If I can identify something by name, I own that knowledge and somehow it allows me to take the thing into myself and make it a part of me.   By giving something a name, I own it.  Did you ever bring home a stray animal and hear your parent’s say, “Don’t name it, because you aren’t keeping it.”  They knew that if you put a name on something, you were responsible for it.  Family is like that, too.  We give our children names that we hope will imbue our greatest desires into their lives.  We look backward to past family members to glean characteristics from their names and nicknames.  We cling lovingly to all that is familiar - and familial.  Don't these two words have the same root?  We learn about our history through family, and sometimes we understand ourselves and the paths we've chosen better because of knowing them.

This is part of me.  My paternal grandmother claimed Fairbanks
as her home when she was still called by her maiden name in,
Mary Siebenthaler, in the 1920's.

So, now I'm claiming responsibility for the path I've named for myself and for the new environment I'm adapting to.  I'm owning up to my choices and doing my best to act natural.  I'm following in the footsteps of my adventurous ancestors.  However, it is still foreign to me and more than a bit scary.  I know I've left ripples in the wake of leaving my familiar niche, like a bird erupting from a lake to take flight, but I've committed to this adventure for a reason and I aim to see where it leads.

My maternal grandmother, Ellen, was a brave woman who learned to call Alaska home.  Here she holds a King salmon and looks natural doing it!

I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to make such a departure from the familiar.  In fact, the genesis of my deep-rooted familiarity with Alaska began with exactly this kind of journey to a foreign land.  If my maternal grandpa had never mustered the guts to leave his home (and, temporarily, his family) in Colorado, then I never would have known Alaska.  He, like me, took a job in a far-away place for a year before moving his whole family up north together.  Their homestead adventure must have been fraught with uncertainty and challenges, but it endowed a rich legacy of independence and camaraderie in their descendants.  I am grateful for my grandpa's bravery and adventurous spirit.  My dad's parents also made the same journey to Alaska, though they did it separately, before they met, and about three decade's earlier.  Had any one of those people opted to shy away from the risk of a grand adventure, my parents would never had met and I would not exist.  I feel privileged to have some of my grandparents' intrepid spirit running through my veins and I'm choosing to honor it.  My name is Lindsey and I am a highly-adaptable creature with long migratory routes scoping out a new habitat.  Now that you've begun to get to know me, let's go on this adventure together!

This journey into Alaska belongs to my grandparents.  My journey continues from here.

The Chrysalis

Change is hard.  Even for someone like me who really likes change.

The other night, I crawled into bed after dark and glanced over at the photos of my family I keep on the nearby table.  I had just the light on my cell phone to see by.  As I shone the LED on their two-dimensional faces, I suddenly felt homesick and longed for a strong hug from each of them.  I imagined the sinewy squeeze of my 13 year-old's lanky arms and the broad embrace of my bear-huggable husband.  I then found myself switching the light on and off, like Tom Hanks did in the movie Castaway.   When I turned off the light, I missed their faces, so I turned it back on so they would reappear.  It brought me some comfort reassuring myself they were still there.  Then I remembered that I wasn't stranded on a desert island with a volleyball for a friend, so I used my phone to call them.

I have been working at my new job in California, at Chrysalis Charter School, for a little more than a week now, and I think I'm starting to get the hang of it.  Some days I feel completely overwhelmed trying to comprehend all that is required of me, but other days I feel like I might, just might, be able to do a satisfactory job of filling my new role.  My role, by the way, is to manage the technical office operations of an outdoor science-based charter school for grades K-8.  Chrysalis was the first charter school in Shasta County and I'm taking over the job of someone who has been with the school since the beginning almost 20 years ago.  Every time I am introduced to someone affiliated with the school, I hear the statement, "Wow! You have some really big shoes to fill…"  And it's true!  There's no way I can be everything that my predecessor has been to the school.  She's like the school mother who knows the story of every child who ever passed through the doors.  She and the school have grown together for 17 years.  I can't compete with that, nor do I want to.  She has nurtured the school like her own family and is now retiring her position, bravely releasing the school (and herself) to a new phase of life.  Coincidentally, she began working at the school when her son entered his eighth grade year (just like me and my son).  Now, I face the task of helping envision the future of this school and equipping it with some organizational tools to continue being successful.  Likewise, the original founder of the school is also retiring his position next year as school administrator, passing the torch to a highly qualified and capable woman who is also the mother of a young Chrysalis student. Everyone at the school is facing this new phase with surprising optimism and hopeful expectations.  It seems that Chrysalis really lives up to its name by embracing inevitable change.

In nature, a chrysalis is formed by a caterpillar when it is ready to go through metamorphosis, the most amazing and complete transformation undertaken in the animal kingdom.  The chrysalis is built by a juvenile butterfly caterpillar with silken strands and a thick, spit-like substance that hardens into a tough shell.  It's like a bivouac bag (one person tent) the caterpillar tucks itself into and zips up all the way to the top.  A cocoon is a similar woven encasement made by moths. The result of metamorphosis is akin to a plump, naked baby curling up for a long nap and unfolding as a fully grown adult wearing an Armani suit and driving a Ferrari.  In fact, the metamorphosis of a caterpillar is actually more amazing than that, because what emerges from the cocoon doesn't remotely resemble what went in.  It's more like the change from a baby to a rainbow striped hot air balloon.  Bada-bing, bada boom!  It's the magic of the chrysalis!

There are other key features involved in chrysalis formation: wide dispersal from home territory, secure attachment to a base, camouflage, and defense techniques.  The caterpillars leave their source of food to enter metamorphosis in a solitary location, because it increases their chances of hiding from predators.  The camouflage enhances the success of survival while in the chrysalis, mimicking a leaf or leaf bud.  The defenses of the chrysalis can be quite elaborate, such as spines, involuntary wiggling when disturbed, or even squeaking sounds emanating from tiny air holes to scare away predators.  Sometimes, ants help guard the chrysalis.  If all goes to plan, a magical transformation occurs within the chrysalis as a tiny creature turns inward and somehow finds within itself another creature entirely, which it allows to burst through its skin and embark on a new phase of life.  The fat, crawling, leaf-eating machine gives its life to become a graceful, flying, ephemeral nymph.

But I wonder about the caterpillar.  How does it know to change?  Is it afraid?  Does it ever hesitate to enter that second phase of life, questioning its instinct to build the chrysalis?  Is it aware of what will happen when it enters the chrysalis?  Does it have any idea what life awaits it on the other side of its transformation? Is the transformation difficult for the caterpillar? Is it painful?

I wonder these things because I feel like I am forming my own chrysalis.  I am wrapping myself in new threads of experience: a new job, new co-workers, new environment, new climate, new social circles, and new routines.  I'm sticking all the threads together with my sweat and tears.  And I am missing my home base, I am scared of what will become of me, I am unsure of what I'm doing, and I have no idea what kind of life will emerge from my metamorphosis.  I can also assure you that this transformation, for me anyway, is fraught with difficulty and pain. But it is also graced with moments of beauty and inspiration.

If I could talk to a caterpillar and a butterfly, I would ask a lot of questions.  How do you know what to do?  Is it scary to be something different, to suddenly be an air dweller where you used to crawl on land?  What does it feel like to unfold your wings for the first time and feel them expand?  How do you learn to fly and choose your favorite flower?  Do you ever miss your other form or regret the change?  Is the change ever so hard you feel like giving up?  Obviously, natural instincts play a major role in the behavior of caterpillars and butterflies, and I envy that.  I know that somewhere down deep, that I am probably following my own instincts, acting on my own internal drive to survive and serve my intended purpose.

At the Chrysalis school where I work, I have witnessed former students return to thank their teachers for helping them transform into new, healthy, and confident beings.  The philosophy of learning through nature frees children to discover the unique qualities within themselves.  The children are open, caring, and thoughtful.  I am touched by daily accounts of  how the Chrysalis environment nurtures change and growth, especially in kids who face the biggest challenges.  In spite of my homesickness, I feel grateful  to be in a place that so lovingly embodies the process of metamorphosis, that views it as a natural step toward becoming more ourselves.  My hope is that something as beautifully purposeful and instinctual as a butterfly emerges from this time spent in my own chrysalis.

A Multi-Faceted Outlook

Global warming in NOT universal.  What I mean is that it doesn't happen to the same degree (pun!) all over the world at the same time.  It is a sum of averages, which are highly influenced by global ocean currents and geography.

I'm sure you've noticed that the East Coast has had an unusually cold and snowy winter.  In fact, TEXAS has had an unusually cold and snowy winter.  Nearly all areas of the U.S. added new temperature and weather records this year, but they weren't all on the cold side.  Alaska experienced Spring-like temperatures in January!  We reveled in our warmth and hated it all at the same time, because we knew it was too good to last this early in the year.  Places in Alaska set records for earliest open water, warmest January, least snowfall, and most confused plants (okay, I made up the last one).  But it's still true, the willows budded sooner this year and some people claimed their raspberry plants started swelling as if spring was around the corner.

If you headed further south, California was also experiencing a hotter and drier winter than usual.  Much to my chagrin, my sister-in-law in Redding, CA, was still watering her flowers in December!  But these weather anomalies are fluctuating.  Global warming is an average of extremes.  So, while Alaska might be warmer than California one week, it's bound to balance itself out to the natural order of things eventually.  Alaska will NEVER be warmer than California ALL the time, it's simple geography.  But, over years of temperatures analysis, we might discover that Alaska's temperatures are, on average, not as different from California's as they once were.

This is all to say, that the balmy 40 and 50 degree thermometer readings I was enjoying at the end of January are no more.  They are gone and replaced by the 20's and 30's (or colder) with high winds, frost, and icy roads.  And everyone in Alaska sighed and said, "I knew it wouldn't last."  Of course, maybe the skiers and snowmachiners gave a giddy jump for joy, but there still isn't much snow to speak of.  We do have plenty of ice, though!

I know there's a saying, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." It's a good bit of advise that has universal application.  I think the equivalent for Alaskan weather could be, "When Alaska gives you freezing temps, but forgets the snow, admire the ice!"  It's not very catchy, but it is usable.  The other day, my husband and I were driving home after dark and he commented about how he liked the glittering sparkles of ice crystals that reflected in the headlights off every surface.  Even the drab frozen dirt glinted like a kindergarten art project.  After days of bitter cold, the frost and ice builds up on everything, like a slow-growing white stubble.

The shape and texture of the ice depends on the exact weather conditions, amount of moisture, and the substrate it grows on.  I learned that all ice and snow has a hexagonal shape.  Even the needle-shaped kind has six sides if viewed as a cross-section.  And the reason that no two snowflakes are identical is because it's growth is so intricately designed by the minutest atmospheric conditions.  As a snowflake falls through the sky, its form is influenced every moment by temperature, moisture, wind, and other subtle factors.  Frost forms similarly.

Frost can be deposited on surfaces by water vapor in the air cooling, or by objects releasing their own water vapor as they cool.  The latter type is called Hoar Frost and is quite beautiful and ornate.  There are lots of other types of icy things that happen when the temperature drops: ice fog, wind frost and fern frost, rime, black ice, icicles, and a myriad of cool stuff involving standing water and trapped air bubbles.  Check out my "Ice Castles" post to see some of that.  Anyway, all this beautiful ice got me thinking about my outlook on Alaska, weather, and my attitude in general.  It seems like I have to continually remind myself that something good can ALMOST ALWAYS be found in any situation.  It's the whole 'silver lining' thing.

For example, I really hate the cold.  I mean REALLY!  But I would never be able to see the pretty glittering ice unless I lived somewhere cold.  On a non-weather related topic, I have been on about a dozen job interviews in the last four months, and put in more than thirty applications, in an attempt to secure a job in an environmental job sector.  I'm not even picky about what environmental field I get into, just something to utilize the expensive college degree I worked my butt off to earn!  Luck does not seem to be in my favor, however.  The upside, if I have to come up with one, is that I have more time with my family, and to cook healthy food at home, and snuggle with my kitties by the wood stove.  I do have a part-time job (three in fact) for which I am extremely grateful.  Maybe my multi-faceted lesson is that the varying conditions of my work are forming my exact shape.  Along the idea of What would a snowflake do? maybe I should just go with the flow of my current atmosphere and try to make the best of it.

I really don't know what new conditions will develop in my life as I pass through, but I'm sure they will have some effect on my overall appearance and function.  Much like a water drop emerging from a blade of grass and growing into a unique six-sided work of art through the stress and influence of its surroundings, I also grow.  So, maybe I will try to keep in mind that every change in weather, or change in circumstance, is an opportunity for me to develop in a new direction, to add another facet to myself.  And even if some outside force not under my control, akin to global warming, seems destined to alter the trajectory of where I thought I was headed…other forces are at work to balance it out.  Growth is also an averaging of extremes.  Struggle in one area will be compensated by serenity in another.  As an analogy, the ice crystal and I have a lot in common.  I hope, in real life, to inspire as much creative thinking, wonder, and appreciation for the beauty of complex processes as that glittering speck.

Back To My Roots

It's time that I get back to my roots, the roots of my blog, that is.  Fittingly, the roots of my blog have a lot to do with actual roots…and trees, and flowers, and bugs, and weather.  I began this digital writing adventure many years ago with a purpose in mind: to explain my wonderment at the nature that surrounds me and to inspire others to wonder.  I have taken detours into travel writing, recipe sharing, and family philosophizing, but nature is almost always the common thread.  The natural environment is both the draw and the backdrop for many a family vacation, as well as some part of the food sustenance that ends up on our dinner plates.  If I've learned nothing else in my years of contemplative writing, it's that people never live completely apart from the influence of the natural world that surrounds us.  And that is a beautiful thing.  It gives me hope and joy to see that, even in our industrialized world, nature is never very far from our experience.

I find this truth to be no different during the crazy holiday season of consumerism that peaks on Christmas morning.  So, today, I'd like to reflect on the tree that stands in the corner of my living room, adorned with lights and ornaments, formerly crowded with wrapped presents, now dropping its needles in the drying heat of our wood stove.  The Christmas tree I'm describing is the first real tree I've ever had for this occasion.  Although I grew up on over a hundred acres of wooded Alaskan landscape, the only Christmas tree I ever knew came out of a cardboard box and was made of painted green metal and plastic.  When I started a family of my own, I also bought a new, fake Christmas tree.  Mine was a much smaller, gold tinsel-branched affair that we pulled out of a golden-glittery tube each year.  It was almost festive enough even without any lights or decorations.  Our 3-ft tall golden tree did the job and brought us joy for more than a dozen years, but, this year, I wanted a real tree.

I don't think I'm being environmentally hypocritical here.  To be sure, there is debate as to which is the more environmentally friendly option: real tree or fake tree.  I think it depends on a number of factors, like how often a fake tree is purchased, whether the old fake tree ends up in a landfill, what the environmental impact was of making the fake tree, and similar questions regarding the origin and impacts of choosing a real tree.  For instance, my childhood Christmas tree served us for almost 20 years before it met a sad fate in a storage fire and became a large, hard, lump of melted green plastic.  Apart from the fire, our fake tree seems like a pretty sustainable choice.  Alternatively, my husband's parents traditionally spend the day after Thanksgiving seeking the perfect tree at a local tree farm in Western Oregon.  The wet climate in their area makes tree farming a fairly sustainable, and lucrative, venture as well.  But, arguing the merits of fake versus real Christmas trees isn't really the intention of my blog tonight.  It's merely an aspect I wanted to acknowledge.  Actually, I'm far more interested in the connections formed between people and their trees.

As I stated earlier, my childhood included one manufactured Sears & Roebuck Douglas Fir that my mom wrestled into being every year.  My brother and I loved that tree!  It was a right of passage to grow big and strong enough to help her wedge the bent metal "branch" hooks into the barely-big-enough holes that ringed the metal "trunk."  When it was properly erected and fluffed to hide the gaps, we would lie on our backs under the tree and look up through it's hollow middle to view the lights from the inside.  I don't know why that made it more magical, but it did.  Sometimes our cats would climb up inside the tree to perch on the branches, presumably to admire the view as well.  There was simply something primally satisfying about having a tree, decked out in twinkly lights and silver tinsel like it was going to a ball, smack in the middle of our family room for all to enjoy.  Similarly, it seems that our brave little golden tinsel tree I bought at a craft store for $10 is just as special to my 12-yr old son.  Despite my decision to install a real tree this year, he insisted that the old one be put up as well.  He spoke of it like it was an old family member that shouldn't be left out of the festivities just because someone new came to town.  I wondered if the act of heading out into the snow to pick a real tree from the woods of our homestead, all Norman Rockwell-style, would have any effect on his fondness for the tinsel tree.  I'll wager that it won't.

When I asked my husband to come with us and help select a tree outdoors this year, he let out a little groan.  See, his childhood was exactly that picturesque situation of going with his family to a tree farm, riding a tractor-drawn sleigh piled with hay bales out among the rows of conical evergreens, having the perfect one wrapped and mounted on top of the car, and then erecting it in the 10-ft ceiling dining room of their Victorian home.  It was an all-day family outing that he came to dread.  He doesn't quite know why, but, to this day, he cringes at the very thought of hanging garland.  When I assured him that our Christmas tree outing would take less than 20 minutes and would require no more than a hand-saw, he became pleasantly obliging.  And so it was brief.  We found a decent little black spruce on the edge of our field not more than a hundred yards from our front door.  It was once a seedling that gained a foothold in that highly diverse edge boundary between my grandfather's formerly cultivated land and the wild woods that surround it. It is demonstration of that process of succession, whereby disturbed land returns to its native ecology over generations of plant life.  Though we ended the life of an adolescent tree, we cleared the way for half a dozen more saplings sprouting under the shade of its branches, of which maybe two will gain enough nutrients and sunlight to one day reach maturity.  I'm justifying, I know.

The point is, the tree from my grandfather's field, with branches missing on one side near the top, now stands in a place of honor, looking dapper hanging with gold balls, nutcrackers, and glass birds.  Its days are numbered, for sure, but it is pampered with fresh water daily and will be revered right to the end.  Its green-glowing glory is the first thing we see every morning and it brightens our day.  It reminds me that nature's form is perfect, even in its imperfection.  It imbues a sense of specialness to the atmosphere of our home and fills it with the fresh smell of its spicy sap.  It makes us cheerful on the long nights of our dark winter and brings hope for the changing seasons.  Is it better than a fake tree?  I don't really know.  I think it's a privilege that we have access to a thousand more just like it right out our back door, so we can harvest sustainably.  But could I get just as much enjoyment from a fake tree?  Probably.

The importance, for me, is in the symbol of the tree.  And I don't mean the religious symbols that have been hijacked by rival beliefs throughout history.  I mean, simply, that people relate to the Christmas tree as something rooted in their traditions that brings them joy.  We desire to have a living thing, or a replica of it, adorned and beautiful in the middle of our lives.  We want it to look as if its perfectly happy growing out of the carpet.  If people could bring the tree indoors, roots and all, we would.  And we would having real birds nesting in the branches, and squirrels storing nuts, and glittering snow sparkling in the moonlight.  We just want to bring the outdoors in and make it comfortable.  I think that is the beauty of a Christmas tree.  It is an excuse to be a tree hugger, to admit that we think nature is pretty awesome and we want it a little closer.  My husband may not like getting the tree, or stringing the lights on it, but he still enjoys admiring it.  Don't we all?

Might a Christmas tree just be an attempt to bring this beauty indoors?