Today I...

Took these photographs.

 Serious.

Confused.

 

Awkward.

I guess I did laundry too.  And I took a nap, and had lunch with mom, and these two guys.  It was a great Sunday.

©Mandible|Photography

Life in a Moment: B

Today, my whole body aches. He decided we should walk through the woods, totally oblivious that I had (quite stupidly) decided to wear heals (although they were not drastic or outrageous, they were still impractical). When he finally did realize it, he laughed and said “oh yeah, you'll have to walk over some logs... good luck!” He never was exactly sympathetic to impracticality or stupidity.

We walked down to the lake, and he climbed with expert agility over the red jutting rocks, looking down here and there at the water. “Hmm” he said, peering into the depths just off shore. 

“What's up?” I asked, as he stared down into the dark water under the overcast sky.

“Well, nothing I guess. The last time I was here we sat down there on dry rock,” he said, pointing to a crevice in which about three feet of water sat, feeding back into the mammoth lake that stretched in front of us. “But then again, I guess that's really not 'nothing'. We can blame it on the rain, or we can blame it on global warming, but whatever is causing it, it's still happening.” 

I snapped a shot quickly while he stared out across the small bay where we were wandering, watching the lake. “What are you thinking about?” I asked.

“The water is so calm. The air is so cold, but it's not really that cold. It's overcast. It smells like fall – woodsmoke, frost on the air, rotting leaves, fresh water. It's certainly not what we would call a 'beautiful' day but we're making the most of it, and that counts more than anything.” He turned to me and gave me his lopsided, mischievous grin. “And I will make you make the most of it, especially in those stupid things,” he said, pointing at my shoes.

“Oh really?” I asked.

“Yes, really. We're going to walk.” 

And we did. This avid practicer jiu-jitsu and better health pushed me to walk four miles around Burlington in heels – and my feet may regret it, but I do not.

At one point while we wandered I asked him, “What do you think about having your photo taken from someone else?”

Without hesitation, and without looking back, he said simply; “It's interesting to see yourself from someone else's perspective.”

Buying Time

I've recently begun looking at PhD programs in New England for cultural anthropology, realizing with some despair that I'll need more study and school if I want to pursue a doctorate in anthropology.  I will admit that it is quite disheartening to realize - even after four years of school - that I will need even more to continue on into a field of interest.

For example, I've always been interested in cultural anthropology of the Near East - Sumerian, Assyrian, and Persian cultures have always fascinated me (I even did a study of Sumerian mythology two terms ago).  Most programs require a "mastery of language" in the field one wishes to study in.  In this case, I would have to learn Hebrew and other ancient Semitic languages, in addition to Farsi (which is the closest living linguistic relative to Persian).  How, then, am I supposed to learn these language when I have no more than a brief knowledge of them?  I participated in a play in high school in which I learned a Hebrew song.  I don't know how to read Hebrew except that it reads from right to left (like Farsi and many other middle and near eastern languages), and I certainly couldn't translate it.  Where, then, do I begin?

It seems I must begin from, well, the beginning.  I think I fare reasonably well in learning languages, a trait I probably inherited from my father and his mother, but it seems such a daunting task to learn a language so incredibly different from the romantic Indo-European languages I've already learned.  Even while studying Sumerian mythology, and reading the phonetic spellings of the cuneographic text that immortalizes the language (and its myths), I was able to, at least to some degree, begin to understand certain pieces of it.  Ki, for example, means earth - and rib.  The creation myth (which was eventually "borrowed" by Judaism and Christianity) describes the goddess, Ki, created from the rib of her husband.  There was some wit to this myth in the Sumerian culture, as her name served three purposes; not only to vouch for her creation (from the rib "Ki" of her husband) but her name represented the earth (and she represented fertility), and in essence, her equality of her husband.  In Judaio-Christian myth, the words lost their meaning overall and so she became unequal.  The play on words was lost, thus the meaning was lost.  

It's not that I think I'm incapable of learning that which I would need in order to succeed in (one of) the fields I've always dreamed of excelling in, but there are three major problems that occur in the capitalist higher education system we are exploited by today.  The first is that they operate as a business, which I will admit they must to some degree- but I cannot afford $40,000 a year, nor can I afford to quit my job and pursue this full time.  Secondly, I cannot afford extra credit hours at another nearby college in an anthropology undergraduate program as I have, unfortunately, tapped out my resources.  Thirdly, I simply cannot devote the time to such an endeavor unless, of course, I quit my job - which is not an option for many reasons, one among them that I really do enjoy it. 

Thus comes the ever irritating questions - what are my priorities, and how exactly do I line them up correctly?  How can I afford to pursue this dream without destroying myself and my life in the process?  Oh to live a life free of worry is sometimes my only wish.  I even told my brother tonight that I would love to pursue a life in photography and writing - but how do I even do that?  I have been raised to work and earn my living, to live without crushing debt and to live without drawing on the resources of others.  I have been raised by one very conservative man (my father was a state trooper and is now full time military) and one very creative woman (painter, hairdresser, and local business owner)- both on two completely opposite sides of a spectrum, one which I feel sometimes is tearing me apart.  I feel sometimes as if I live a life devoid of some inherent happiness that I am supposed to possess; as if my life is valued by the number of other peoples' expectations that I have fulfilled.  Finding a way to complete my own life is a question of free will. Free will, it seems, is sometimes in short supply for those weak of heart, like me.  

It seems that, for now, my dreams are put on hold.  Paying a mortgage is more important than preying on the dreams of my past- and yet there they are, just over my shoulder, begging me to pull them back in front of me and take charge.  A constant struggle of wills, my conservative self, my free will, and my creative self, all pulling in separate directions.

Fretting on Nothing

her sweater blossoms
into a thousand loose threads,
like the thoughts of a Catholic priest
during Ramadan.

and while God eludes us
who are unsure of His existence,
we find solace in understanding
the fragrant noise of snow on open ground.

like the fire of weakness
we blaze a trail through fields of wheat
and feel the heels of our feet
toughen over tiny pebbles.

the faded gold of autumn leaves

fades as the cold blankets the north,
our hands tired of fighting - 

so we hibernate, while the rain and snow
march east.

Into the Dark : A Reflection of Blind Philosophy

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

Ben Gibbard

There is a heavy, foreboding sadness that sits heavy on my heart when I read the books of people who have thrown themselves into the darkness that erodes the life of the earth, facing the actions of other human beings that we desperately try to blind ourselves to, the horrors and devastation that beget more human life in the depths of violence and despair, it eats at me, the urge to try and find a way to help too; and it irks me, the excuses people make to ignore it. It may be said that it is fair to demoralize the movements of humanitarian authors through life by pointing out their grammatical mistakes, their haphazard stories written in scattered lines, brought into existence as the memories of these stories come to mind. These memories often interrupt each other in the process of being born into words on mortal paper, pushing others out of the way, struggling for breath in an overwhelming current of emotion, fear and demoralizing repression. Fairness is objective in reading and telling a story, and to demolish the morality of a story simply for its surreal representation is an action immoral and thus hypocritical. We all do it; we are human, and we are argumentative by nature. There is nothing left to argue once we have argued against the compassionate action of another, whose moral actions we cannot live up to. We find our faults in the triumphs of others, but are wont to blame ourselves, so we take the easy road and blame them for being narcissistic, unrealistic, and ignorant: of “martyring themselves”.

In A Thousand Sisters by Lisa Shannon, she is asked by a “thoughtful, politically aware friend” why she would “'help women there [in the Congo], where it's a total mess? Why not help other needy women someplace where it is stable?'” (Shannon, 45). I've had this question posed to me before in the midst of heated debate about some aspect of violence and injustice in the world, posed in some form or another. How is it right to only focus on the injustice in the stable parts of the world, and not the injustice that occurs in the “unstable” areas of the world? Is a third-world country no longer worth the notice of a first world country? Are our first-world problems more important than that of a third-world country? Is the rape and violence against women in the Congo less important than the rape and violence against women in America? When presented with these types of morally hypocritical questions, I never have an answer to hand to the one posing them, only more questions, which only leads to more debate and heated assertions of their right to an opinion, or their right to believe that the problems around them should come first. There are so many problems in so many places that one person can never see them all at once, and often they become overwhelmed by the sheer voracious capacity of problems in the world. “One thing at a time” as my mother always said.

In the introduction of A Thousand Sisters by Zainab Salbi, she writes that “we see that in every story of injustice there is a movement for the good, one in which there are always survivors who decide to dedicate their lives to ending it, as well as those who have not been victims but know of their moral responsibility to stand up and fight” (Shannon, Salbi, 12). Many people experience difficulty in understanding their own moral responsibility, and recognizing where to begin in addressing that responsibility. Our own lives can be overwhelming enough, and we use this as an excuse to ignore our ethical responsibility to the rest of the global community. Our sense of community, as my communications professor Robert Wuagneux once said, has deteriorated; We are so independently minded and dependent on virtual communities as proxies that we no longer recognize our instinctive need for communities around us. Where we once depended on the physical communities that we lived in, we now depend only on the virtual representation, and while technology is a tool that could certainly help us to expand our communities, we only draw inwards away from socialization and towards seclusion. Our virtual communities (social networks like Facebook) encourage a detached approach to communication, one which encourages us to “vocalize” opinions which we would otherwise inhibit. This can be positive, but often will turn negative – our immorality is only heightened by this lack of true socialization. Hurt feelings are easy to ignore, or even premeditate on. Consequences remain unaddressed or forgotten. Thus our general mindset evolves in everyday life to encompass this dispassionate existence.

This idea of impartial existence is outlined in the book Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. In a letter written by Chris McCandless to an elderly man who took him in for a short period, he writes “So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind...” (Krakauer, 56). McCandless is speaking of giving up security in life to enjoy the unrestrained, raw joy that naturally waits for us here in life. His statement is, unfortunately, fundamentally flawed by cracks manifested with naivete, in that the argument can be used both ways. Although he is speaking in reference to the American middle class, his statement could be turned inside out to argue, for example, that the women of the Congo are inherently responsible for their lives. Or it could also be used to argue that the people of the Congo must enjoy life immensely, because each day is insecure, and the chaos around them prevents any kind of conformity. McCandless, while intuitive to the overlooked joys of life and the freedom we take for granted in western society, seems sadly ignorant to the weight of his statements and philosophies outside the American standard of living. Often unsaid, this same ignorance pervades the lives of many in all first world countries. Our beliefs, whether we like it or not, reflect the same flag of ignorance, which we have yet to pull down. It seems that McCandless withdrew from society in a flagrant effort to understand his self-worth, his knowledge, and his deeply personal evolving spirituality. Near the end of his life, he wrote, “happiness is only real if shared”. This journey made him realized that withdrawing from people, into himself, and into the wilderness, would never really make him truly happy. For him, happiness is only enjoyable if it is in concert with another person, with other human beings. I think this same rule applies to our global community; although we must all walk a solitary path to truly appreciate the need for community. Boiled down, I think this was the point McCandless was trying to make.

To argue is to provoke thought, which in turn assists in ushering in change. Sometimes, I believe, our thought processes run astray, we become self-harming narcissists only arguing to our own ends, not the ends of those we are supposedly arguing for. In “My Mother's Lover” by David Dobbs, he realizes after his mother's death that he had ignored the story of her illicit World War II ERS pilot lover because of the cultural taboos imbued in the bones of his mother, her life and, ultimately, his life as well. The story, in and of itself, means nothing outside of being a deeply personal journey for Doobs and his self discovery, awareness, and understanding. Sex and love and private passion are topics that are largely ignored, especially when they also incorporate infidelity and take place during an era when things like “things like this just didn't happen”. Such a story in a primarily right-wing Christian society is viewed with conspicuous side-glances and large doses of suspicion. We question the integrity of the soul that the person carries, as if loving someone other than the one they are married to is an act so heinous it cannot be redeemed, and we close our mouths and swallow our tongues to avoid discussion of it. Whether we speak of sex in terms of infidelity, or we speak of sex in terms of intrusion, violence, and rape, the conversation itself is looked down upon. Our values are skewed – original messages are buried and new meanings are dug up from between the letters. Human beings, but most especially those who are embedded in western culture, have developed an ironically strict ignorance of the world around them, and the processes of the world around them: an ignorance which serves to blind us to the hurtful nature of something which should be fun. “Don't ruin it for me”, is a common enough response to a conversation about rape.

I see the problems of our world in incredibly naïve ways – as if we may all run in and solve those problems if “only we'd work together”. This is a seriously flawed sense of security, which reflects not only my upbringing, but my culture. Inevitably, we come to realize the grave, unbearable weight of reality. Light of inspiration and enlightenment fades. Our previous hopes and dreams whither, as if they are only leaves on a dying tree and not a spark that is kept alive by an instant of inspiration. This is the easy way out – this is the beggar's escape, the romantic's disillusioned ignorance. We live our lives drowning in darkness we could easily pull ourselves out of, because we'd rather keep the blindfold on than tear it off and face the world with our eyes open.

Works Cited

1. Dobbs, David. My Mother's Lover. Vol. 5. Atavist, 2011.
2. Krakauer, Jon. Into the Wild. New York: Anchor, 2007. Print.
3. Shannon, Lisa. A Thousand Sisters: My Journey of Hope into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman. Berkeley, CA: Seal, 2010. Print.

A Study of Biography: Travelers and Their Stories

I go to an alternative higher education school - still federally accredited and academically sound.  I get asked every semester, regardless of how many times I explain my situation, which classes I am taking.  I don't take classes - I develop studies.  The program is much like creating a mini masters' thesis each semester.  This semester I decided to do a study in biography, specifically in travel biography and associated works.

The first book I read was The Lost City of Z: A Tale of Deadly Obsession in the Amazon by David Grann.  This book offers a biographical history of the late Colonel Percy Fawcett's explorations, specifically his last exploration, in which he was searching for the “city of Z”, or El Dorado. The author, David Grann, pulls from a variety of sources, including published letters and accounts from other explorations, private letters from Colonel Fawcett himself, his sons Brian and Jack, and his son Jack's friend Raleigh. Grann makes a point to follow Fawcett's path and concludes the book with an insightful ending into the history of a small tribe that was once much larger - as large as a small city, in fact.  

The second book I read was A Thousand Sisters: My Journey into the Worst Place on Earth to be a Woman by Lisa J. Shannon.  This was a great book, clearly preaching a humanitarian itinerary but for good purpose.  While Shannon documents her travels through the Democratic Republic of the Congo, she also documents numerous stories of various individuals, from women who had been viciously raped, parents who had lost their children, to children who were forced to be soldiers and carry out acts of violence as well as some of the men who daily conceived and carried out these acts.  Shannon also documents her fund raising efforts, in a collaboration she has called "Run for Congo Women", and her subsequent removal from a long-term romantic relationship because of her intimate involvement in her focus to help women of the Congo rise from the ashes of their victimization.  

I have involved myself with reading other books and articles which were incredible in their own way.  One book, written by a notable author from the Middle East, struck me as rushed and halphazard, as if she were writing the book only to satisfy some contract.  The emotional investment was there, but the organization and written skill I've seen in her work before was not.  

I also read a small article titled "My Mother's Lover" by David Dobbs, a writer who lives in Vermont and London.  The article outlined a simple fact of life that was, and still is, frequently ignored or admonished; infidelity.  Dobbs tells the elusive tale of his mother's affair with a World War II ERS pilot, and the consequences of their engagement as well as the insecurity and mystery surrounding the pilot's death.

I try to develop studies that cultivate my interests, to help them grow outside of the feeble flower pots I've always planted them in, to jump outside of my comfort zone and push myself forward.  My primary reason for doing a study in biography was that I have simply never been interested in non-fiction literature.   I read to escape, not to face the troubles of the world.  At the last moment, I decided to specify the study further (knowing that I would need to anyway) to focus on various aspects of travel.  Not necessarily tourism or explorations, but travel of all kinds.  I have my coworker Mark to thank for this, upon his initial recommendation of The Lost City of Z, a book which I was drawn into so quickly I hardly realized it was over.

For those of you who enjoy reading on a Kindle (or other e-readers), I know that the books and articles I've specifically outlined here are all available through Amazon for the Kindle as that is what I use myself.

Happy reading!

Counting Backwards

I held the light of one tiny moon,

between my two fingers, on my left hand

and with my right, I drew in blue crayon

a river on the wall.

We laughed about the intricacies 

of debate, the largest basket

the smallest hands.

And while we arrested ourselves,

locked in rooms lined with cedar

to better preserve us

I thought eventually the moths

would make their way in

and eat us alive. 

Our hopes were small,

only taking up enough space

to exist quietly.  

We whispered of love and fortune,

and redwood trees

while we sipped our coffee

under the falling leaves.

Autumn Arrives

There is nothing like the smell of woodsmoke wafting across the back roads on my ride home, apples ready to be picked before they fall to the side of the road, and an icy frost to bite our noses as autumn makes her way into Vermont.

It seems as if most of us dread fall, and to be fair, it does mean the onset of winter.  And winter gets very tiring around January and February, when the cold is so brutal it cuts through the warmest clothing we own.  But between the foliage, apple picking, Halloween, and the various harvest markets, it's a pretty amazing time to be in Vermont.

My fiance and I just moved to Richmond, out of Montpelier where we lived downtown.  Although we both grew up in secluded, quiet locations, it seems that in only two years we've become used to the endless noises that flooded our tiny apartment.  Here in Richmond, we're just out of the way enough that the loudest things we hear are the cows in the pasture behind our condo mooing, or chewing their cud.  It's beautiful, and there is nothing better than a silence only filled with the constant hum of crickets.

We have a great view in the backyard (where the cows sometimes decide to roam), and a porch to sit on and enjoy it.

We've also gotten all of our "stuff" set up; and there was a lot of stuff! There were a few things that took me two weeks to even get the motivation to put together.  Mostly things that involved family heirlooms and antiques; like my mom's china cabinet (from her great aunt Laudie) and my mom's china (from my dad's great grandmother).  Then there's the room divider.  I had been looking for a big wooden chest and upon finding one this weekend (for twenty dollars, no less) I was finally able to finish unpacking all the "other things" - curtains, chair pads, extra quilts, blankets, sheets - the usual "shove it in the closet" type of things. 

My proudest moment was putting the last teacup in the cabinet - my grandmother's two teacups from China, with the lovebirds to match.  It seemed appropriate, in an overly-sappy sort of way.

But all is not done yet.  The trim still needs to be painted.  I'm sure the washer needs to be fixed, and the dryer vent is in desperate need of cleaning.  The gutters overflow.  The overhead light and fan in the guest bedroom don't work.  A light went out in the hallway.  I could keep complaining, but I'm extremely happy with my new little home - and all my little ridiculous trinkets and hand-me-downs.  I even found this necklace today (an heirloom passed down in my family for generations), which I had forgotten I had.

All in all, autumn always seems to be the best time of year.

The Wrath of Mother Nature

This isn't a childhood memory.  It happened yesterday, but this is one of those things I will in the future tell my children and my grandchildren that I lived through.  This is one of those events I will talk about, even though I wasn't at the heart of the worst of this storm, I was a part of it.  I know people who were robbed by it; I know those who were terrified by it.

Irene made her way into central Vermont in the early hours of Sunday morning, August 28th, 2011.  The rain was fickle and sparse to begin with, but the sky was dark and as the day grew older the sky grew darker, the rain heavier, the wind more fierce.  There was no torrential downpour that came in sheets so thick I couldn't see past my arm's length like there was earlier this year during the spring flood, but the rain came steadily. 

At around two o'clock in the afternoon, I decided to take a quick walk down to the closest bridge.  Granite street bridge is flocked on this side of the river by old granite sheds and industrial buildings, and a tombstone designer.  I shuffled in my knee high boots and rain jacket through the rain that whipped at right angles against me to the edge of the bridge.  Looking over the side, I realized that the water drain emptying into the river was a torrent.  I wondered how long it would be until the drain was covered.  I still continued to tell myself that it wouldn't get covered; the rain simply wasn't heavy enough.

As  I walked back to my apartment, I started to look down into the storm drains, wondering how high they were.  I realized then my street may actually have a chance of flooding, where it didn't in May.  The storm drains all seemed mostly full, coming about a yard from the drain and consequently the street itself.  I kept telling myself it was fine.  Surely, Montpelier wouldn't flood again after the supposed "100-year flood" we had this spring.  After all, we're supposed to have a century between each devastating flood.

I went home and made lunch with Jeff.  Shortly after, the overcast gray skies and consistent pattering of the wind and rain against the windows lulled me into a haze, so I wandered into the bedroom, curled up under the warm green comforter and fell asleep.

I woke up around five-thirty in the evening and in a daze I got up.  The power was still on.  This was a great sign - the wind wasn't taking the toll they were expecting.  Waters must be receding, as I couldn't hear the same level of rain falling on the tin roof over our porch.  Jeff and I made dinner, watched television and enjoyed the rainy day while it lasted.  It smelled like fall, and it was chilly.

During dinner,  I started to hear sirens every five minutes; police sirens, ambulance sirens, fire truck sirens.  I got curious.  So after washing dishes and cleaning up, I told Jeff I was going to go see what all the hubbub was about.  He told me to stay dry and be safe.  I borrowed his camera, in case the water really was high so that I could document it, just in case it had gotten worse.

The first thing I did was walk to the same bridge I had before.  The water had risen at least 6 feet since I had last been there, as the storm drain was no longer visible.  Granite Street bridge is at one of the higher points along the river in Montpelier, so I knew if it was this bad here, it would be worse downtown.  I decided that my jeans were already wet and at least the top half of me was kept dry by my rain jacket, so I started down the bike path towards town.

As I got towards the end of the bike path, behind the restaurant Sarduccis, I happened to look over the side of the fence.  I had taken a few pictures along the way and noted that as the bank got lower, the river was closer to flooding.  As I looked over that fence, I realized that I was looking at water that was nearly to the tops of young trees that stood normally approximately seven to eight feet tall.  I wanted to continue walking - my curiosity was insatiable.

I made my way off the bike path by following the train tracks from Angelino's to the alley between the dry cleaners and the bank.   I turned onto Main Street, stepping into a huge puddle.  This time I decided to wear flip flops.  I thought it a wise choice after stepping in a few deeper puddles.

There were really no visible signs on Main Street of any kind of damage.  I noticed police cars pulling into and out of the alley between the Lost Nation Theatre and Rite Aid.  Fire trucks were parked out in front of the fire station and people in slickers and wellies were wandering around town, some even with their small children.  It couldn't possibly be that bad if people were out walking around with their small children.

I made my way around the corner on to State Street, headed towards the state house.  I crossed the street and peered over the bridge by Capital Grounds at the river.  To my horror, the water had reached a point only approximately twelve to eighteen inches below the bridge.  I decided to go on.   Crossing the street again, I noticed that the Julio's parking lot was blocked off and there were people looking past the saw horses into the back.  I feared the worst, knowing what had happened this spring.  Wandering over to the blockade, I looked and saw the Julios parking lot, now converted into a dangerous swimming hole, probably filled with trash and debris.  Someone's golden retriever was wandering around in the water and there were a couple of people in yellow slickers eying us bystanders warily. 

I figured that if the water here was already this high, then the high school must already be flooded.  I started back down State Street, further into the flood zone.  I decided that getting a little further away from the river would be the safest, so I headed for the bike path.  The water in this area of the river was swollen, pressed against the bottom of the bridge, the footpath, and the train trestle, thirsty for destruction.  I stood on the bike path bridge and took pictures of the train trestle.  I began to notice the sound of something striking metal.  I couldn't place the sound and wasn't sure if it was coming from underneath me or in front of me.  I didn't feel the bridge doing anything so it wasn't the bike path.  I started noticing smaller debris floating out from underneath the bridge I was standing on, and then larger debris.  A huge piece of driftwood, probably once a tree, floated right underneath my feet.  When it came to the trestle, it made a very loud noise against the metal and then a crunching sound as it was sucked underneath the bridge.  It was time to keep going.

I decided I would brave it and try to make it to the high school.  I continued on the bike path almost to the bank across the road from the high school when I looked back over to my right towards the river.  I could see water lining the bike path as though the bike path itself was the river's bank.  I lost my nerve.  I turned around and started to run, my flip-flops slippery and my jeans soaked.  I made it back off the bike path on to State Street and walked from there, but I didn't stop for any more pictures after that.

I made it home safely, and luckily for me and Jeff and our cat, we didn't have to evacuate and we didn't flood at all.  Our condo, which we haven't moved into yet is also safe -although the town of Richmond was inundated.  In fact, towns all over the state, especially in southern Vermont, sustained considerable damage.  I heard from a friend that a man and his son in a small town near Rutland, Vermont were stranded on the roof of a gas station building until this afternoon (Monday August 29, 2011).  A woman was sucked into a raging torrent and is presumed dead.  Families have lost a few things and some have lost everything. 

The last I heard, Obama had pronounced Vermont in a state of emergency.  I've heard people predict this flood will rate worse than the 1927 flood.  The good thing about Vermont though is that we all pick each other up.  We grab a shovel and we help clean up our neighbor's yard.  If we have food and didn't have damage, we feed the people around us who have nothing.  And we always make sure those we know are taken care of.  It has always been this way.  It's like no matter how depleted our Vermont ethics become, we have a natural instinct that grows in disasters and times of need.  We find a way to make it work.

"I lived through the Vermont flood of 2011", I will tell my children and my grandchildren.  "I didn't have to do much, but I saw it happen.  I saw history destroyed - covered bridges washed away, factories and home-grown Vermont businesses flooded.  I was in Montpelier, and I was lucky enough to have been out of the brunt of it, but I remember it.  I remember the pictures and the news articles, the first hand accounts and the offers of help and those who reached out to their neighbors."

I lived through the second 100-year flood in six months.

All That is Great and Beautiful in the World

For all those who love children and summer and everything else that helps keep the world alive.

A Flock of Horses

There was one year, not long after we moved in to the house my mother built when we were young, that a thunder storm loomed over the horizon. We could see the lightning flickering inside of the monstrous black cloud that loomed with its hunched back, and we could hear the cracks of thunder peeling after each flicker. My brother and I were standing in the front yard, watching it make its way towards us. It lumbered over the shadowed hills like the great giant beast it was. Luke and I stood there, waiting for the fat freezing rain drops to fall. We could hear them smacking against the hill in front of us, watched them fall but felt nothing.

Then the rain hit, cold, and freezing and wonderfully refreshing at the end of a hot humid day. We stood there listening to the thunder and watching the lightning when the ground below us began to shake. It felt like the thunder that we had been listening to above us had suddenly and swiftly moved to the ground below us, until it cracked right above our heads again. I began to frantically look around, grabbing my brother by the hand, when suddenly I saw the wild eyes and wind-blown manes of our neighbor's horses as they crested the hill. Somehow having made it over their electric fence (or perhaps the power went out and thus the fence) they had, apparently, felt that heading in the direction of our house was the most logical answer to their panicked dilemma. I grabbed Luke by the hand and pulled him towards the garage, screaming to my mom the entire way.

My mom flung open the front door, looking as if she may have a heart attack; she said later I had been screaming like I was being murdered. Consequently, seeing the horses in our front yard surprised her, but she was still more angry at me for screaming like I was being attacked with a butcher knife.

I'm not really sure what happened after that, only that she called the neighbors to come and get their horses. I'm not even really sure how the neighbors got their horses back down the hill, because there had to have been at least ten of those ragged and frantic beasts in our yard.

Sunday School

I always hated going to church; it was boring, listening to the sermons and the pastor read the cryptic words of the bible to the congregation. But I loved the people I was surrounded by there. The pastor, John Paterson, was a good man, and at least he tried to make the sermons interesting. Halfway through church, he would call all the children of the congregation forward and talk to us, ask us questions, encourage us to answer them how we pleased; and our answers were never wrong. He encouraged us to think on our answers, to reflect on why we answered those questions the way we did.   He encouraged us to think freely.

After he called us forward, his wife Katherine would lead us back down the aisle and downstairs, where we would have Sunday school. We all sat around the table and did arts and crafts, cutting bits of construction paper as we saw fit and pasting them to white paper, drawing outside the lines, chewing on the erases of pencils. Sometimes she would have us do a project around a passage from the Bible, but sometimes she would let our minds roam and find their peace in those simple projects. 

Katherine Paterson, the famous author of children's and young adult's books. She led then and still leads a low-key life, and she was always a reminder of the kindness found in the dusty corners of old churches, a reminder of the kindness we may find in strangers. At the time, I didn't even realize that she was an author; I didn't realize how truly blessed I was to have her to guide me. By the time I realized this, I had stopped going to church; and I didn't appreciate her sedentary teachings until much later in life. 

I stopped going to church because she stopped teaching Sunday school and her husband John retired as the pastor of the church. I stopped going to church because the new Sunday school teacher once told me that my beliefs were wrong, when I asked if it were wrong that I believed in something other than a final death; if it were wrong that I believed in reincarnation. I felt betrayed, but it was not the church or even the people in the church that betrayed me; it was one person alone who betrayed my trust in the church.

My father always said that church didn't have to be only a place for religious people; it could be a place to reflect, or meditate, or simply listen to the stories of an ancient people. It could be a place to learn people, to know your community, to find solace in the kindness of that community. I stopped going to church because of one person, and it has been so long that I do not feel like I can go back. Not only that, but I feel I have found a church within myself, and that it is no longer truly necessary for me to go to a place of worship to reflect on myself, my life, the things I have done or haven't done. I can do that on my own time. I do, however, miss the guidance of my first Sunday school teacher, and the guidance of the other elders in the church. 

I find guidance in myself though, although much of the time I have to dig for it, and I have to dig deep to find it. I find guidance in myself when I begin to fall asleep at night; when I write; when I am with my peers; when I listen to music; when I spend time with my friends and family. Life is not always as simple as finding something where it should be. Sometimes finding those things takes a little work, a little creative thinking. Sometimes life requires a little thinking outside of the box.

The Comforts of Being A Child

I see my dad now with my youngest niece, Ella, who is six years old. He seems so happy and compassionate when he is around her. So often do people say, “your father acts with Ella just like he did with you.” It's not that he's unhappy with me now, or disinterested, but he treats me like an adult. He talks to me like an adult. It's funny to think about when I was a teenager and that was all I strove for. I don't remember exactly which time was the first time he talked to me like an adult, but I do remember feeling proud at some moment when I realized he was treating me like an adult. Now though, I sometimes find myself wishing that he treated me like he does Ella. 

I wouldn't ever say my dad is an uncaring person, but I do see how much different he is with children. I think the majority of true smiles I've seen from my dad are in photographs with me and my younger brother Luke when we were kids, and when he is around children now, especially Ella. He smiles a lot when we have family dinner with him and his wife, even when the jokes are at his expense.

Today at work, my coworker Jessica was talking about how her father will sometimes say to her, “Do you remember when you could still fit on my leg?” She said that she couldn't remember, because he was referring to her when she was an infant. Wouldn't the memories of being an infant, if they stayed with us, be such a reward in times of darkness, especially with loving parents? That was my first thought when she was talking about this. I thought about how much I've been told by others how my parents loved me and took care of me, and I would rather have those memories than the memories of the fights I had with my mother, or the arguments I had with my father; the guilt I felt when I didn't go to college right away or the disappointment I felt when I let my parents down. 

I find myself thinking of childhood as a reminder of what life is. Not the purpose of life; I feel that we all have our own purpose in life, so generalizing that would be to dispose of the genuine wonder that all life brings. I think of my childhood to remember happiness, wonder, awe, and love. I think of my childhood to bring relief and calm, patience and respite when I am immersed in a stressful situation, when I hurt, when I feel as if the world around me is crumbling. 

 

Ignorance is bliss, which is partially why childhood was so comfortable. Ignorance of the unnecessary necessities of adult life; fighting depression, paying the bills, finding and holding a job, being responsible. In some ways I find those who shuck their responsibility admirable; it's a retreat back to childhood. 

 

We all find a road to walk on, and while sometimes that road turns back on itself, and crosses back over itself, it does always move forward. Sometimes there's a wall built across, and we need to take some time to tear it down, but once that's out of the way we keep going. I have to, even though sometimes I'd like to just sit down and wait for something to come along to motivate me. One thing I've found in life is that waiting around for something brings nothing; the only way to make something happen is to trudge on and find it yourself, to initiate it yourself.

An Introduction

To those that read this, or have it read to them; I hope they all remember that in life, I have lived. And while most of my living has taken place in the imagination and wonderment of my childhood, those moments resonate with me in my adult life. I find myself daydreaming about my childhood where some would day dream about their future. I dwell in my past because many of my younger years were some of my happiest. I have my parents to thank for this, and my brothers and sister. All of the children who surround me now, my nieces and nephews, bring me happiness and joy that only children can bring.

I've come to another moment in my life, as all moments come and go. It seems some are bolded in heavy black letters; other moments only slightly italicized. Some moments are partially faded, others barely a whisper on the wind, not even held long enough to be put down in print. There are memories, strong and colorful; others in black and white; some only in pieces, like a film missing bits off its reel. Sometimes my memories come in pieces, or they seem like dreams, and maybe some of them are. 

My memories don't really flow in chronological order. My life is an ever-changing shadow because of this. My earliest memory is of my younger brother choking on a hard candy in the bank. I don't remember how old we were exactly, only that I was younger than five because we still lived in our old house, so he must have been four. I remember him coughing, and my mom hitting his back. In front of her in line was a woman who said “no, don't do that, it will only make it worse”.  There is a point in that memory where I remember her saying she was a doctor, but I don't know where it was placed in regards to the only words I actually remember seeing her speak.  I remember spitting my own candy out across the bank and I remember it distinctly sliding underneath the terminal where members of the bank would fill out their bank slips. I don't remember anything else from that day, but I do remember in the days following that I thought everything I ate I would choke on. I remember specifically thinking I was going to choke while eating cheerios at the dining room table in the old house, with those pink curtains covering the window behind me.