Events | Sandra Hisakuni on Sandra Hisakuni — Writer | Poet | Teacher

Beauty will save the world

Mon, 07 Apr 2025 00:00:00 +0000

“Beauty will save the world”

— Fyodor Dostoevsky

Generally speaking, I tend to contemplate on beauty from the natural world by stumbling in the woods, or paddling a canoe until my mind is in a clearer and better space. But recent events have gotten me to think of beauty in different terms. I had the opportunity to attend an art and spirituality conversation at the Grand Marais First Congregational United Church of Christ. Because it is now April, which means poetry month, all of the panelists were poets and writers. They shared some of their work and we had the most wonderful conversation about when we speak of spiritual things, often language is not sufficient to express our experiences or feelings. Poetry can help in expression because there are so many different ways to create poetry, but still, our human language sometimes just falls short of actually defining or describing spirituality. And yet, we try.

Someone in the group brought up the Fyodor Dostoevsky quote, “Beauty will save the world.” When this sentence was uttered, there was a collective sigh and recognition of the truth of this statement. Beauty is of course in our natural world, along with great works of art, music, and literature, but also in our connectedness as human beings. It was evident in our desire to honor the spiritual, but to know that none of us has the adequate language to define it. Instead, we gather to celebrate it and to be with each other.

My elderly parents are now struggling with their own end of life struggles, and try as I might to make life better, I can only walk on the journey with them. As I look around the facility, I see the beauty of those who help to care for my parents. The tender touches, the slathering of lotion to very dry skin, the gentle reminders of when meal time will be or what is happening that day. The connections to their shared humanity and treating them with dignity, is beautiful.

There is beauty in dignity. Recently, the dignity in our culture seems to have eroded, which makes life ugly. I was heartened by what I saw at the state capitol on Saturday. Mark and I rode our bikes on a sunny, but chilly day and joined the thousands of people young and old for the ache of human connection. We’re all in this together. Smiles, chatting with friends that we had just met. Knowing that we all came together on this beautiful day for the connection that we needed. Again, no one seemed to be able to describe the event with any other words than, “This is amazing!” Language was insufficient.

We carefully walked out of the massive crowd to a more open spot where we could better see the striking white capitol against the spring blue sky surrounded by a huge group of people. My heart was gladdened and I agree with Dostoevsky, “beauty will save the world.”

One Year!

Wed, 12 Mar 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I’m sure you’ve often heard people comparing publishing a book much like giving birth to a child. That metaphor hasn’t always set well with me, and yet I see the comparison. Because writing is usually a long and very personal process, it can feel like this art form you have created in all of the nooks and crannies of your quiet life is suddenly torn asunder from your possession and thrust out into the world to complete strangers. Well, The Northland Beckons is now one year old! (Feel free to hoot and holler here, I sure did!)

It’s been such an interesting journey and an opportunity to meet so many new people and learn new things. This year has been attending book fairs, entering book awards and getting one, the Moonbeam Children’s book award, waiting to hear back on a couple more, meeting bookstore owners and having haiku workshops in libraries, schools, bookstores, and even churches!

For an aspiring writer, the number one quest is, ‘how do I get my work published?’ Anne Lamott has this to say about that: “I still encourage anyone who feels at all compelled to write to do so. I just try to warn people who hope to get published that publication is not all it is cracked up to be. But writing is. Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises.”

She is absolutely correct. My dream of becoming a published author has been a very long held dream. But even though that initial goal has been met, life goes on, and the problems that were in my life prior to being published, did not just suddenly go away, they are still here. This past year has been one of the most difficult in my life with the changes that had to take place with my elderly parents. Publication didn’t make that painful, heart-wrenching problem any better, but writing did.

The most humbling aspect of doing the haiku workshops is the incredible honor of people sharing their own very personal stories through haiku and hearing their journeys of writing. Sometimes their stories are so poignant and bittersweet that I’m flabbergasted that I get to be the one to tenderly listen and hold space for those stories. It reminds me of those very special moments when teaching a child, so tender, vulnerable, and precious. Then I know that I’m on the right track.

Another great privilege of this special birthday is that I get to do this artistic endeavor with my all grown-up children. Sofia is busy illustrating the next book, and Kohei is my master technical adviser and assistant. This process wouldn’t happen without them! I love that we can still work on a creative endeavor as a family.

Thank you to all who have been on this happy haiku journey with us! For all who love writing, I’ll end this with one more Anne Lamott quote, “You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build sand castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander.”

Happy Wandering!

Nature is the Pathway to the Sacred

Fri, 28 Feb 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Kohei and Carina in the garden

I recently had the opportunity to be in Portland, OR, moving my son and daughter-in-law to their new home. My son and I drove the rental moving truck from the fire zones of Los Angeles, up to the Pacific Northwest. The drive through the Mount Shasta area was stunningly beautiful as towering conifers were flocked with snow, such a stark contrast from the arid areas of Southern California. Way back in the day, I had lived and worked in Klamath Falls and had made that drive through northern California several times. It was a gift to be on that drive again, now, with my son.

Once arriving in Portland, the vast majority of our time was spent unpacking, moving items here and there, and getting them settled in their first home. My days were spent removing old wallpaper and painting. I settled in by putting in my earbuds and listening to good books while attacking the wallpaper with Zen-like concentration. Which leads me to our fun day outing. Carina had arranged for us to visit the Portland Japanese Garden complete with a guided tour and then time for tea at the tea house. It was lovely. If you haven’t been, I highly recommend that you go.

I must admit, I got a little choked up at times. I have not yet been back to Japan since we moved to the U.S. and there was probably nothing I loved more in Japan than wandering through a garden. The unique feature about the Portland Japanese Garden is that there are five gardens which span a thousand years of Japanese garden design. The goal of each garden is to be a place of natural beauty and contemplation, (and of course for rich people to show off their wealth, but for these purposes I’m focusing on the need for contemplation in nature.)

Which got me thinking, a thousand years ago people were stressed out and needed places of natural beauty to rest their minds and spirits. This level of anxiety in humans is not new, nor is the need to connect to the natural world new. As a species, we are natural creatures who crave the serenity of our planet for healing. We love spaces that are thoughtfully designed which connect us to our natural world.

Another great example of thoughtful design that gives homage to the natural environment to aid the human experience is the Portland airport. There are trees growing in the terminal next to the TSA! The ceiling is constructed from timber locally sourced and magnificently crafted into a lattice which allows light to stream in. Air travel these days is less than calming, but it felt pretty wonderful walking through the Portland airport.

In these very, very troubling times, it helps me to remember that, as St. Francis tells us, nature is the pathway to the sacred. I’m so grateful for spaces and places, like the Portland Japanese Garden and the Portland Airport that allow us to travel along that path.

Trees in the garden

Art and Reciprocity

Fri, 31 Jan 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Miss Lady at the Santa Monica beach and a gorgeous Bird of Paradise.

I recently finished reading another Robin Wall Kimmerer book: The Serviceberry, in which she speaks of the natural world’s order of reciprocity. The Serviceberry, also known as Saskatoon and a myriad of other names, provides us food, which in turn continues to give back to the community for the gifts it receives as well. That is how the natural world operates.

Given our current very dangerous climate situation, living a life of reciprocity is an answer to mitigating some of the effects of climate change. No species can out ‘own’ the other without eventually destroying oneself. Isn’t that evident now?

I’m currently in California to visit with my daughter and her soon to be husband, as well as to help my son and his wife move to Oregon. There’s just a lot going on here. I’ve been reflecting upon Kimmerer’s work and there was one statement that really resonated with me when I think of my current journey. There are many ways to enter a life of reciprocity, but one thing that stood out to me was this suggestion: “making art that invites others into the web of reciprocity.” Lightbulb moment, that is what we’re attempting to do here, Sofia and I, through our artwork, we’d like to make the gesture of inviting others into our natural world to love it enough to take good care of it.

As I was walking with Lady through the streets of Santa Monica, the smoke and haze from the fires still hung in the air. But the flowers, the beautiful flowers, I could not stop taking photos of them. To me, coming from the cold north, the flowers appear to be so exotic. But to them, they are just living their best lives and blooming where they’ve been planted. Birds of Paradise, Calla Lilies, Camelia, and a host of other succulents and flowers that I do not know their names. Despite all of the unsettledness in our lives right now, they are there. They make no sound, but beckon us to slow down, look at them, appreciate them, then go about your day and be a little bit kinder to those around you.

Lady and I made our way to the beach. She gets very excited on the sand, so hanging on to her leash was a bit of a challenge. Sitting on the beach the sound of the waves was healing and mesmerizing. Slowing my breath so that it corresponded with the lapping of the waves, I saw something moving in the water. Thinking it was an early surfer, I settled in to watch only to be astonished to realize that it was not a surfer, but a dolphin. Then not just one dolphin, but up to a dozen of them. Up and down, around and about, sometimes big splashes and loud chuffs as what appeared to me were joyfully making their way north up the coast.

Stunned, and Lady now resigned to lying in the sand next to me, I took in the sight, the incredible wonder of watching such wild and free animals travel, unbothered, untethered by the dense human urban setting on the land that rises next to them. They could care less about our politics or our divisions, our concerns were not theirs. Oh the freedom in that sight.

A gorgeous Bird of Paradise.

Green and White

Thu, 16 Jan 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Green and White

Furled green lichen

Clinging to gnarled birch twig

Now pressed in fresh snow

In Robin Wall Kimmerer’s book, Braiding Sweetgrass, she poses a color question to her professor in her botany studies. Why is it that you see yellow and purple flowers blooming together? What is the biological need for that other than they just look beautiful together. I highly recommend that you read it to learn what she discovers, but the question remains, why do certain colors in nature appear together?

My favorite color combination has to be the various greens when covered with snow. I could just be terribly biased because I love snow, but I do think there’s something healing with that soothing combination of white and green. The conifers all have differing shades of green and then there is my absolute favorite, the lichen greens and snow.

In the summer, the puffy mosses and tree and rock clinging lichen always lift my spirits. When I see them poking out of the snow here and there, they are little reminders that what seems to have disappeared, actually hasn’t, they’re still hiding under that snow, just you wait and see!

I was so fortunate to be able to spend a few days in northern Minnesota just when the snow hit. Last year’s dismal no-snow winter was looking as if it might repeat itself, so to be able to sit up here while the snow fell, then blew all around was truly magical. As I listened to the wind howl I scrolled constantly through my phone looking for updates on the fires in California. I could only desperately pray their burning winds would ease up and provide some respite.

The climate news is dire indeed. I mourn the constant inaction and inattention to the natural world that sustains us. What steps can I take to protect this one precious planet we call home?

My daughter Sofia and I decided that our contribution to this project is one of sharing our love of these wild spaces with others in hopes that they too will love and protect them. We’re working on our next children’s book about winter. What kind of world will we have if our children cannot feel the cold on their cheeks and snowflakes melting on their tongues?

With deep gratitude for the winter we have and the natural world that begs us to pay attention, I commit to sharing my love for these green and white moments and hope others will join us.

Autumnal Affirmations

Sat, 05 Oct 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Beaver dam on the Gunflint Trail

It’s spectacular autumn weather up here on the Gunflint Trail! This 5 month stretch on the trail has been one of moving and learning, thinking and reflecting. The museum’s last day is October 20th, and I’m sure by that time the leaves will be on the ground and the dark will be settling in when I get everything closed up for the evening.

I’ve had some time to weigh my thoughts on leaving the teaching profession and embarking upon this new career of writing children’s books and wandering the woods of northeastern Minnesota. I am still of the very firm belief that educating our young people is the greatest profession we have. So it’s with a heavy heart that I left my teaching job 2 years ago and I’ve been struggling to get some sort of settledness in my heart surrounding that decision.

I love the book that Sofia and I created, and I’m excited about the next books we’re working on, but there was still a little pulling in my heart as to if I made the right decision. I struggle to sit down and write because it feels like it’s not “real work.” I struggle with imposter syndrome and my own feelings of inadequacy and the whole, ‘who do you think you are?’ sort of thinking. Not to mention the very lack of income this creative work generates. Then the universe offered up a few wonderful things that I really needed to hear.

First, Kohei called and told me that he was visiting some friends of his who have young children and they’d gotten a copy of The Northland Beckons for their 4 year old son. Kohei’s friends told him that their little boy gets to pick out his bedtime book at night and frequently it ends up being The Northland Beckons. The little boy then piped up and started reciting some of the haiku from the book. Kohei said, “Mom, he’s growing up with your book!” That melted my heart. How lovely to know that the book that Sofia and I made is helping a little one to love and celebrate this beautiful planet we inhabit while drifting off to sleep. Wow, how humbling is that? Not teaching, but still impactful.

Second, I watched this video of A Brief But Spectacular take on living your best life while aging . Instead of bemoaning the loss of my youth, I suddenly got a jolt of hey, the best is yet to come. My let’s get started mojo came back!

Thirdly, like extra hot fudge on my ice cream sundae, just yesterday, I received the email stating that The Northland Beckons won the silver award for children’s poetry in the Moonbeam Children’s Book Awards ! Wowza!! I entered our book because I’ve been a fan of other Moonbeam award books for my students, so to receive this honor is truly a huge affirmation of being on the right path.

So, to all of you creatives out there, keep on creating, the world needs you!! We need your beauty, your intellect, your caring and compassion. We need to see the fragile beauty of our humanity and all that binds us together.

And just for fun, here’s a picture of Chacha in her usual spot on the couch next to me while I work, if that helps to inspire you as well!

Chacha the muse

Can you spy Chacha?

Growing Pains

Fri, 06 Sep 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Loons

On a very still and sticky mid-August evening, we had the most fortunate evening paddle. Caroline had just purchased herself a used Kevlar canoe from a local outfitter, so of course we had to take it out for a test voyage. Chacha and I had the privilege of being the duffers, the non-paddling members in the canoe.

We left from Chik-Wauk and paddled up the channel to the larger portion of Lake Saganaga. It was one of those incredibly calm days where the optical illusion of the reflections in the waning light of day and the water come together to a point in which what is up and what is down can easily be misconstrued.

We paddled some, then drifted and watched as a couple of beavers were intent upon setting up their new home. Their previous home appeared to have been broken apart by the cabin owners who may have decided they’d like to use their dock and not hand it over to the beavers just yet. Most likely bothered, but definitely not deterred, the beavers were skillfully setting up their new home just yards from the cabin’s shoreline, yet far enough away to give each their own space.

And then we saw our very own loons.

In late spring, Chik-Wauk had a covered loon’s nest where a pair of loons successfully hatched two loon chicks. Initially, they stayed in the very protected little bay by Chik-Wauk, but soon, they had moved out to larger water close to the channel. Whoever would paddle out a bit would report back that the family was still intact and, knock on wood, both hatchlings were still with their parents.

The last time I’d seen the young loons, they still had their fuzzy charcoal gray plumage that completely defies logic. It is so fluffy and yet never gets wet or matted. Now, the young loon and its parent were swimming side by side, oblivious and unbothered by us sitting in the canoe, open-mouthed gaping at how close we were to them. The parent was brilliantly black and white speckled with the sleek black head and crimson eyes. The young loon’s plumage was similar to the adult’s, but a soft slivery heather gray with white speckles and no white band around its neck, yet. The two swam side by side, and in typical adolescent fashion, the young loon seemed to be pestering its parent and wanting more and more tasty treats to eat. The adult dove under, while the young loon, seemingly unable to completely submerge its body, stuck its head under the water while smacking its wings forcefully on the surface in what appeared to be an attempt at diving? We all laughed at the comical nature of so much splashing, so little fish for the youngster. The parent came back up with a tasty morsel, while the young loon coolly shook out each foot before scurrying, over cuddling up for another snack.

The parent started to vocalize little hoots, and in time, the other parent appeared, but never came very close to the pair we’d been watching. We wondered where the other young loon was and decided we were hungry enough to paddle on back. Much further down the lake and closer to Chik-Wauk, we came across the other young loon, completely alone. Usually, adults dive under when a canoe comes this close, but it seems this youngster wasn’t super adept at diving yet as it stuck its head into the water while the rest of its body was definitely still on the surface. Caroline remarked, “Dude, you know we can still see you!” The young loon only shook it’s head.

Maybe it’s ridiculous on my part, but when I watch animals and their young I cannot help but resort to a bit of personification. I was taken back in time to my birthday several years ago. My children were 13 and 15, I think, and for fun, I wanted to go to Minnehaha Falls Park and rent bikes to ride around the park. Sofia and I were in the carriage type bicycle so that we could sit side by side while Kohei chose a single recumbent style bicycle, that actually looks more like a little race car than a bicycle. We were told the route to go and I clearly asked Kohei to not go too far ahead of us as he could peddle much faster in his bike.

As luck would have it, Sofia, being younger, soon tired of peddling our bicycle for two, leaving me to do the bulk of the peddling while she rested her head on my shoulder and pathetically prompted me, “Go faster mom, Kohei’s way up there!”

I encouraged Sofia to help me a little bit while watching Kohei and his jaunty spiked up hair do become smaller and smaller as more distance was between us. I eventually lost sight of him altogether as I needed to rest from peddling this monstrosity myself. I soon realized that Kohei had not turned back into the park but had headed down the West River Road to God only knows where.

I asked a few people if they’d seen a spiky haired boy in a recumbent bike at all, maybe? Finally, a young couple laughed and said, “Yeah, we saw him, but he’s way down by Lake Street!”

Hmmm, nothing to do but wait for him to come back. When Kohei did come back, he was breathless and invigorated. He had no idea of how far he’d ridden, but when he finally turned around and realized that we weren’t there he headed on back to greet us jubilantly.

Smiling at the memory and coming back to the present moment, I wished I could communicate with that loon parent. I wanted to shout down that lake and say, he’s here! I found him, no worries! That being impossible, I can only marvel at the passage of time and the mystery of watching young ones, be they loons, beavers, or humans, grow up and launch their own lives.

Traveling together

Fisherman’s Picnic

Mon, 12 Aug 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Sofia at our table at Fisherman's Picnic.

The crickets have begun chirping in earnest on this cool summer evening. Their unmistakable song; an ever present reminder that we’re entering the later days of summer which lean into autumn. I love the sound of them, but the cool breeze makes me shudder a bit in anticipation of even cooler breezes to come. Which reminds me that overall, one of the greatest lessons of life is to treasure the present moment and to let go of the past. So much easier said than done.

Perhaps I’m especially sentimental as I write this as both of my adult children have returned to their homes in California. Our time together always feels so fleetingly swift and so precious.

The past three weeks have been a bit of a blur with birthday celebrations, a book launch party and then a few events in Grand Marais for the annual Fisherman’s Picnic. Because this is a new way of life for me, all of it is an incredible learning curve. However, all of the lovely people that I have had the opportunity to meet have been a priceless gift.

I “retired” from teaching in June of 2022. As anyone in the public school system knows, it’s been a bit of a rough road to be in the classroom these past ten years. I don’t feel as if I’ve actually retired, rather, I stopped working in a system that was not sustainable for me any longer. Leaving that atmosphere of learning together with students has been a huge loss. I miss those connections with students and sharing in the work that they produce.

However, doing haiku workshops and working with folks young and old on writing a haiku that is meaningful to them has reignited the connection that I’ve been missing. I’m so humbled by the open vulnerability that others have shared with me as they gingerly put their written work in my hands. I know sharing what is so precious and personal to oneself is terrifying.

Our haiku writing table next to the Drury Lane Bookstore in Grand Marais.

Sarah Weaver, one of the participants of our haiku workshop, wrote a haiku that she said that I could share. She wrote both the haiku and the haibun. Warning, grab your tissues.

Dust on my trinkets;

When did I last clean the shelves?

They’re pieces of you.

Items had a place in the home, specific places before you were gone. I haven’t moved them since. If I move them or touch them, it’s like disturbing the points in time I remember so vividly. Maybe I can preserve those memories, blanketed under the dust.

Ah, thank you Sarah. It’s just so beautiful. And many thanks to all of the folks we met, young and old. Keep writing, keep sharing.

Our haiku writing table next to the Drury Lane Bookstore in Grand Marais.

Tadpoles and Hope

Fri, 26 Jul 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Lake Saganaga at Chik-Wauk Museum

“Hope is an act of defiance against a politics of pessimism and a culture of despair that depends on us not being able to imagine something better than where we are now.”

— Rabbi Sharon Brous

Caroline Urban, the official naturalist for Chik-Wauk

There is a spot across from the nature center where the lake gently laps up to the shore where there is a sandy base with water plants growing along the shallow edges. Caroline had been catching tadpoles days earlier, so I got the pond activity gear out. As I was scoping out the edges of the water and locating where the multitudes of tadpoles were hiding, I saw a couple of young boys walking towards me carrying a small cardboard box. I soon learned they were very familiar with the museum campus as they have been here many times before. They were elated to see the nets and told me loudly that they were going to catch tadpoles to take them home to feed to the “baby snake” they had found in our woods the night before.

Huh? was all I could think. I noticed that they were opening their box to put in tadpoles when I saw the contents of the now very soggy cardboard box. There must have been a dozen leopard frogs in that box, all stepping on each other trying to figure a way out.

“Oh dear, we need to let these go,” I told them.

“But why?” they protested. By this time the older boy had wandered into the water and was up to his neck in the pond like water cooling off from his adventure of collecting all of these frogs.

“Because this is their home! I don’t think you’d like it much if I told you that you could never go home, that this was now your home, would you?” My feeble attempt at reasoning with them. The boy on the shore spilled the box over while all of the frogs eagerly jumped off to the safety of the shore.

The boy in the water looked around and said, “I think I’d like to stay here.” Fair enough I thought, but reasserted my initial statement that these animals need to remain here.

The younger one looked up at me, squinting, “Can we at least take some tadpoles home to feed our snake?”

“No,” I said firmly, “the tadpoles stay in their home too.”

Dejected by this prospect, he asked his older brother to get out of the water and I left them in the hands of their mother.

Dear gawd, is this what the naturalist does all day long, tell kids to not collect living animals to take home? This is going to be a long two days if that’s the case.

Later, other families came and we did some of the activities and we even collected some tadpoles to observe. We’d put them in a shallow dishpan with some lake water in it and observe the different stages that the tadpoles were in. Some had no legs yet, others had just back legs, and some were almost in the frog stage. The squeals of delight as we spill the pan over and say goodbye to the tadpoles was a highlight of the activity.

Then there was a lovely family from China who now reside in Minnesota that came to the museum. Mom, dad, and three lovely daughters. The youngest one was 4 and for whatever reason, needed to communicate with me two inches from my face. As we were doing the butterfly life cycle activity, she seemed to be more mesmerized by my earrings than the butterflies.

Finally, I asked them if they’d like to go outside to see if we could find some tadpoles. All three were thrilled with this idea. I got the dishpan, the nets and put some water in the pan. In no time, they’d scooped up several tadpoles. The little 4 year old squatted in front of the pan with her diminutive hands in the water, shrieking with unabashed joy as the tadpoles swam in between and around her fingers. Most children enjoy looking at the tadpoles, and may poke a finger in to get a tiny feel of them, but this child needed her hands to be completely immersed and one with them.

I was brought back in time to when Sofie was 3 years old and we were living in Japan. I had just taken Kohei to his kindergarten and Sofie and I had come back home. It was one of those moments where I was busy doing the morning chores when I suddenly realized that it was far too quiet and I didn’t know where Sofie was. When I came upon her, she was sitting on the step in the entryway, quietly spinning her hand through the water of the bucket of tadpoles that we had collected from the rice fields. These were much smaller tadpoles that turned into the tiny green frogs that clung to our windows in the rain. Sofie was not just swishing her fingers through the water to touch the tadpoles, she was methodically catching them and then squeezing them until their insides popped out, leaving the shell of the tadpole floating on the top, and the twisted up insides sinking to the bottom of the bucket. She was deep in concentration and hadn’t heard me walk up on her when I gently called her name.

Slightly startled, she looked up at me and said that she was playing with the tadpoles. I told her that I understood that, but she shouldn’t actually touch or squeeze them. Her dark little eyes took on a very concerned look as she said that she thought they liked it. When I pointed out that she was squeezing the insides of them outside, the realization that she was inflicting harm registered and she frantically asked me how we could put the insides back in. I explained to her that we can’t do that, once the insides are on the outside, that’s game over for the tadpole. The wail of grief and sorrow that emerged from her was most pitiful. I held her close until her sobs settled into sniffles and then we took the little bucket and poured the whole thing back into the rice field.

My attention snapped back to the little girl squatting in front of the tadpoles that were as long as her hand, noticing that her grip was becoming tighter and tighter on the little creatures. “Ah,” I told her, “they feel really slippery, don’t they?”

She looked at me and let out one more high pitched screech, her entire body tense with excitement. Her mom and I exchanged knowing looks and she was told in both English and Mandarin that it was time to let these little creatures go back to their homes. We helped her spill the dishpan over and heard one more ear piercing squeal of delight while she jumped up and down releasing the pent up energy in her little body.

Shortly before closing, an East Indian family who came all the way from Georgia stopped in, Mom, dad and 12 year old son. He was almost as tall as me, and probably a third of my weight with funky braces on his teeth. I told him about the challenge to earn a badge and he set off to do those activities. He completed them and I asked if he’d ever caught tadpoles before. He looked at me as if I had three heads, as is the habit of most middle school aged boys when confronted with the opportunity that may make them appear less than cool to their peers. I told him there was another badge in it for him if he’d just scoop up some tadpoles with me. His dad, speaking softly in their native language, encouraged him to go with me while shooing him to the doorway where I waited, net in hand. The lad grunted in agreement and sheepishly followed me out to the lake. We scooped up the tadpoles and marveled at their different states of maturity. He managed to catch a frog and then was able to make the connection from what a tadpole looks like to what a frog actually looks like. To you and me who are familiar with the natural world, this is common knowledge, but to kids who spend the vast majority of their time on a screen, this is an entirely new way of understanding the world. As promised, I gave him two badges for his efforts and he left the nature center in normal adolescent male coolness, but I overheard him say to his dad after exiting the screen door, “That was so cool!” Mission accomplished!

I wring my proverbial hands over and over about our planet and how it is changing and how it seems that we cannot come to some common understanding of how to proceed. What is one to do, what is one to do? And then I am ever so grateful for places like Chik-Wauk that give children and adults the opportunity to get to know their wildlife friends and how we need to be mindful of how our actions affect their well-being. It is a good refresher to be in wildlife’s home, to be reminded that we are the visitors here, not the residents. These young, and old, ones who delight in the surroundings they find themselves in here gives me hope that we will find our way.

Tale of a Tail on the Gunflint Trail

Thu, 04 Jul 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Chacha

For anyone who knows me, my closest friend these days is a retired Alaskan husky dog named Chacha. We adopted her when she was 8 years old in the middle of the pandemic, and she has been quite the little therapy dog. In breaks between the multitude of zoom calls during the pandemic, a stroke of those luscious ears and a snuggle brought my blood pressure and anxiety levels down. In exchange, I spoil her as much as I possibly can with walks, special treats, and her favorite activity of running off leash in the woods.

This transition to working at the end of the Gunflint Trail has not been a super easy one, there’s just constant moving. That constant changing of locale has been really stressful for Miss Chacha. First, there’s the museum. It has a beautiful campus in the woods with lots of trails. On our trail cameras we’ve seen, bear, wolf, fox, moose, deer, lynx, pine marten, fisher, snowshoe hare, and most recently, a mother coyote and her adorable little pup. Of course Chacha has shown up on that trail camera as well, posted on the Blueberry Hill trail which takes one up to a beautiful overlook of Lake Saganaga.

While we’re at the museum, Chacha, who is innately shy and steers clear of humans, prefers to wander in the woods. All of us on staff are frequently told by museum visitors that there’s a wolf or coyote wandering in the woods. We reassure them that this is Chacha, not an apex predator, rather a spoiled canine who enjoys the act of seeing cheese grated onto her food prior to eating it. Much like you enjoy your ground pepper added to your bowl of pasta in a fine Italian restaurant. She is a refined canine.

When the day wears down and the cars have left the parking lot, Chacha usually emerges from one of her few hiding spots that she enjoys. Usually, she trots on out, does her perfectly articulated downward dog into upward dog, then tail wagging, wanders up to us for a pet, ready to hop in the car and go home.

But home is a shifting place these days. When we work at the museum, there is staff housing, 7 miles down the road from the museum. It’s a lovely house with a creek running behind it, surrounded by woods. When we first came up here, she would wander around and come immediately when I called her. Then the furnace installation guys came for two days making lots of noise and causing Chacha to think the sky was falling. Instead of coming right when we called her, Mark and I had to pretend we were going out for a walk to trick her into coming out from her hiding spot.

The closest town for groceries and gas is Grand Marais, an hour’s drive from us. When we go there, we spend the night at our tiny house just north of town. Again, this place is in the woods, extremely rustic, and Chacha loves exploring and usually comes back to us when we call. But she’s begun changing this behavior, she’s started going deeper and deeper into the woods and again, we both have to pretend like we’re going on a walk before she comes out of her hiding place.

Now, just to add another element of fun, we have to drive back to Minneapolis for family matters from time to time. Another change in locale for Miss Chacha. I know, it’s a lot of changing of locales, and to be honest, I’m struggling with it too. When we were home this last time, the roofers came to put on a new roof of the house. Oh my goodness, more strange people and all of the noise that comes with a new roof. She wanted none of it. She found the overly grown thick bramble of raspberry bushes to be her perfect haven, only emerging when she was 100% convinced that we were going to take her on a walk or give her food that she was actually in the mood to eat.

I knew she was struggling, I knew she was confused, and I knew all of the changes were hard on her, and yet, we were both busy too and didn’t heed the signs that she needed a little more tender loving care through this process.

Then came July 2nd. It was a rainy super buggy morning. Mark was set to take a group out on a guided tour into the Boundary Waters, and I was to work at the museum that day. Chacha was in the car with me as she watched Mark packing up his car with strange people she didn’t know and leaving. Because it was so buggy, I brought Chacha into the museum for a few minutes. This is a definite no-no as we have signs clearly stating, “No dogs allowed in museum” posted on the door. Then I took her to our administration building for a while, but she seemed quite anxious there, pacing back and forth, so I let her out, thinking I’d have time to check on her throughout the day. I was very wrong. That was one of our all time high attendance days. With all of the rain we’ve had, and still raining, people poured into the museum. What is one supposed to do in this wet wilderness when outdoor activities are curtailed by mosquitoes, mud, and inclement weather? Go to the museum of course! And we love that! We love that so many people come to learn about this beautiful wilderness, that’s our mission up here.

But Chacha wasn’t having it. When all of the cars had left, I called and called and called. I looked into all of her favorite hiding places and could not find her. One of her favorite spots is directly behind the museum where she can be seen from the window at times. But I couldn’t see her this day. Normally, I hear her collar jiggling and know that she’s wandering around in there somewhere, but I heard nothing, in any of her spots.

My co-worker, Caroline, and I had driven to work together and were planning on attending a knitting night at a local resort together. In an effort to help me, Caroline sat in the car so as not to scare Miss Chacha. I called, I walked, I searched, and was only met with the sounds of other animals in the woods, but not Chacha. We decided that I would drop Caroline off at the staff house and I’d come back and continue to search, maybe she’d emerge?

I came back to the museum alone with her food dish and food, and Marks’ pillow, blanket, and pants, next to it. Maybe she missed him too and couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t in the picture as well? I called Anna and Emily, Mark’s daughter and her partner who are both dog mushers. They suggested that I open the car door and maybe she’d jump in somewhere through the night while I sleep in the museum. Only problem, my sleeping gear is down in Grand Marais. Knowing what I’d seen on the trail cams, I wasn’t sure what other creatures might enjoy crawling into my car in the middle of the night, not to mention the horde of mosquitoes and other insects that would be in there. Tired, hungry, and heartsick, I decided to come back to the house and pray that she’d be there in the morning. I emptied the food dish not wanting to attract bears, and reluctantly got into the car.

On the drive home, a fox darted across the road in front of me disappearing into the woods. She’s a sled dog I kept telling myself. Anna and Emily had reminded me that sled dogs have excellent senses of direction and the biggest danger is cars on the road, like me. The woods, no problem. I tried to calm myself with that thought as I drove through the inky darkness, slowing my roll so that I could stop quickly if some other creature was hanging out on the road at night.

The weather forecast had suggested a clear night, but as the thunder began to rumble close to midnight, clearly, things had changed. Then, the all out downpour of a typical thunderstorm in the north woods. This dog pants and paces when she hears thunder in a safe and dry house, what is she doing in the woods right now?

I slept fitfully, dreaming of her emerging from the woods, tail wagging, smiling, and ready to go on a walk. It was a nice dream.

Finally at 6:00 am I got up and made my way to the museum. I wore lots of thick layers to protect from mosquitoes and donned my bug shirt before I even left the house. With all of the rain we’ve had, the mosquitoes are so thick it’s hard to describe. Without a covering on your face, you breathe them in. They’re in your eyes, nose, ears, sucked into your mouth, it’s disgusting.

The pants, blanket, and pillow were a sopping mass on the sidewalk. The food dish just had more water in it than the night before. I walked all around looking in her normal hiding places at the museum, but heard and saw nothing. After more conversations with others, they had suggested that I climb the Blueberry Hill trail since she’s been seen on that trail camera so many times.

I headed up the trail, already hot with all of the bug protective gear, but slowly made my way up the very muddy and wet trail calling her name every few paces. Chacha and I have done this trail several times and I recalled her joy at jumping off the trail, into the woods, only to leap out in front of me as if to remind me of how much more agile she is than I am. My feet sunk into the mud and the small rivulets of water that had been on the trail days earlier, were now free flowing streams and small ponds. I made a mental note to let the others know the conditions of the trail are not conducive for hiking.

When I reached the top of the trail I was welcomed by the bench and the spectacular view from that spot. From the top of this trail, there is a 360 degree view of the landscape around you. To the south is the woods, but to the other direction is Lake Saganaga in all of its glory, channels, islands, deep clear water. Way north, on this clear day is Canada’s shore. The cool strong breeze blew the bugs away and dried the sweat.

I sat on that bench and then the sobs came. This day, July 3rd, is also my son’s 32nd birthday.

Honest to God, where did the time go? How do I have two children who are in their 30s? How did that happen? They were just little and we were doing fun little people things together and now they’re all grown up and married, and getting married, and living so far away, while I’m sitting on the top of this really big rock looking for a dog. I dug a tissue out of my pocket, this was not going to be enough for all of the tears that were coming hot and fast. And Chacha, I should have paid attention to the signs, I should have slowed down for her, I should have kept her in the house, I knew she was confused and I should have just spent more time bonding with her. I should have been a better mother, dog owner, and person in general.

Then I looked out over the horizon, this beautiful, gorgeous, raw stunning wilderness and wondered how many people have sat on top of this rock and cried as I have over the centuries. I thought about our current politics and shuddered as the breeze had cooled off the sweat and now I was cold. This precious domain we claim and yet we cannot seem to get along and continue to undermine the land. Why, I cried out to God, just why? Sometimes laments are just laments and we can leave them to be laments in the capable hands of God.

I continued back down the path calling Chacha, knowing full well she was not on this path. When I got back to the museum, Bonnie, our main campus director, led me into the museum and showed me from the window where she could see Chacha’s tail. Curled up into a tight ball, barely visible, except for the white tip of her tail.

So there she’d stayed, hunkered down, all day and all night long. We walked outside and I called her name. I could see her head pop up, then she eyed me warily and tucked it back down into her tail, almost becoming invisible. She was not coming out on her own. Eventually, it took three of us to corner her and me crawling and scooting on my butt through the thick undergrowth to get close enough to her to grab her collar and attach the leash.

She came out shaking and scared, prancing about on her leash looking for a way she could dart back into the safety of the woods again. She jumped into the car and we headed back “home” again but I did not let her off that leash. I brushed her off, spoke soothingly to her and fed her, complete with grating the cheese on top of her dish just the way she likes it.

We’re going to need to do some mending of trust. For whatever reason, she doesn’t trust me as much as she once had. Did I take our relationship for granted and not pay attention to the concerns that she was having? Did I make too many changes that she just wasn’t equipped to handle all too suddenly? Did I ignore warning signs along the way that she needed more time and love from us being together?

Now today is July 4th and I’m wondering about the same questions for our nation. Do we all need to take a step back and remind one another of just how much we need each other? Is it possible that we could emerge from our hunkered down spaces enough to see the light and that we need not be quite so fearful of the ‘other.’ Is there any way that we can mend some of these broken relationships to move forward together, as one United States of America.

Gunflint Trail

Fri, 21 Jun 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Moose friend

Hello from the end of the Gunflint Trail! I’ve taken a wee bit of a hiatus in writing blog posts as I’ve been in the process of packing and moving to a very remote area of the state. My partner in life, Mark, took the job as the executive director of the Chik-Wauk Museum and Nature Center 3 summers ago. After 2 summers of living separately, I have joined him and now work here as well for his third summer up here.

This is still a remote and wild place. It’s a 54 mile trip from Grand Marais, MN, which is not exactly a huge metropolis, but it is the last place where you can buy food and gas to get you up the trail. The trail ends a mile after the museum at the aptly named, “End of the Trail Campground.” From there, you enter the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness and on the other side of the lake, it’s our northern neighbors, Canada.

Isn’t it fascinating how life is like a river that is constantly moving with unexpected twists and turns along the way? As a child, my biggest delight was any opportunity to travel “up north.” I attended college at Bemidji State University, another northern destination, but never thought I’d be living this far north again in my lifetime. I love taking canoe trips, or spending a week up here in the winter for cross country skiing, but the opportunity to actually live and work up here has been such a unique opportunity and gift.

It has become clearer to me here that I am the intruder into the wild ones’ homes. There are the grouse, who I rarely see, but frequently hear making noise to send me away. The squirrels who holler at me from the tree branches. The backwards glance of this young moose we came across as she looked back at us as if to say, “Why, just why are you bothering me?” There are some beavers who are working on some new water development program who smack their tails to let me know that they are in charge. I do not disagree. The bird feeders must be taken in at night so that we don’t inadvertently lure bears. The black flies and the mosquitoes are experts at chasing humans anywhere but in their presence. Tiny in size, powerful in scope. The loons, whose haunting calls stop us all as we gaze at the babies riding on their mom and dad’s backs, tenderly caring for their young together.

All of this beauty that I am fortunate enough to witness. The same time I was entering their world, my world reported on what we humans have wrought, to not only our world, but their world. The Secretary-General for the U.N. warned of dire consequences if we do not take drastic actions, now, to protect our world. And what is one person to do? How does one make sense of the constant dire warnings of the future, the very near future? And who explains to the creatures of the forest that their way of life is under imminent threat?

It is hard to reconcile this negative information and still hold hope in the awe-inspiring beauty which surrounds me. Chacha and I took a walk down a gravel road next to a swollen, rushing creek. Chacha turned, wagged her tail, and I kid you not, smiled at me. She is in her element here. So much to fret about, and yet so much to glory in at the present moment. The Loggins and Messina song, “Watching the River Run,” popped into my head. I sang it with gusto to the creek, sky, beaver, birds, trees, and whatever wild creature cared to listen.

Maybe my job is just this, “listening and learning and yearning to run, river, run.” I, we, are not alone in this climate crisis. We do have each other, and that’s a lot.

If you’re not familiar with this tune, here’s a link to the song . And here are the lyrics, just for fun!

Watching the River Run

If you’ve been thinkin’ you were all that you’ve got Then don’t feel alone anymore

‘Cause when we’re together then you’ve got a lot ‘Cause I am the river and you are the shore

And it goes on and on, watching the river run Further and further from things that we’ve done Leaving them one by one

And we have just begun, watching the river run Listening and learning and yearning to run, river, run

Winding and swirling and dancing along We passed by the old willow tree

Where lovers caress as we sing them our song, Rejoicing together when we greet the sea

And it goes on and on, watching the river run Further and further from things that we’ve done Leaving them one by one

And we have just begun, watching the river run Listening and learning and yearning to run, river, run

Songwriters: Jim Messina and Kenny Loggins

Mother’s Day

Tue, 07 May 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Happy belated Mother’s Day!

I really struggled to write this blog post. I was going to write on Mother’s Day, and then became bogged down in just one too many thoughts that have not been completely percolated, then drug my feet, then just didn’t write, and that’s the worst feeling ever for a person who is working on writing. So, I’ll make a pivot and just quote my friend Sheryl, “Mother’s Day, the day of unmet expectations.” I’ll also take my friend Lisa’s advice and let this topic wait for another time.

The pivot, the beauty of May. We’ve had an unusually mild winter and a blessedly wet spring with enough rain, so this May has been bursting with life. I know a lot of people complain about Minnesota and the cold, but the thing about the cold is that one appreciates the warmth even more when the seasons do allow for the baring of flesh that has not known heat from an outdoor source in six months.

On 32nd Street, for approximately six blocks, the city of Minneapolis planted flowering apple trees on both sides of the street. They burst into bloom for about 2 glorious weeks in May and then they’re done. Much like the cherry blossoms in Japan, they are a short-lived celebration for the senses. Unlike the cherry blossoms in Japan, Americans do not sit under them while unpacking picnic lunches to enjoy snacks and gaze up at the blossoms that are framed by a vernal blue sky. That is actually really sad, it would do us all good to slow down and meditate upon the fleeting beauty that these fragile petals reveal.

My own mother is struggling. I don’t know how much time I have with her, so the beauty of these blooming trees has an even more profound meaning and perhaps why I was struggling so much to write about Mother’s Day. After one of Mom’s appointments, we drove around her town in search of blooming apple trees. We oohed and ahhed over each one we saw. I pulled the car over to let other cars pass so that we could drive very slowly down the quiet streets with manicured lawns, calmly admiring the announcement of spring.

It’s hard to keep the grief in check as I see her crumpled little body and her shiny white hair turning to take in the beauty around her. It’s just hard to be a caregiver and a daughter. Sometimes, I selfishly just want to be the daughter. But just as the petals are here one day in all of their glory, they are gone too quickly. All I can do is take it in and enjoy it all for what it is.

As we were slowly making our way through town, I was reminded of Uejima Onitsura’s saying on cherry blossoms.

And so the spring buds burst, and so I gaze,

And so the blossoms fall, and so my days…

May you be blessed to be a witness to all that is blooming this spring and hold it close to your heart.

The Sacred Among Us

Mon, 22 Apr 2024 00:00:00 +0000

To contemplate again on national poetry month, I turn to the words of Father Richard Rohr. “We first need to experience ‘a lump in the throat’ to have encountered the sacred. The sacred is something that inspires awe and wonder, something that makes us cry, something that gives us the lump in the throat. We must first encounter the sacred in the concrete and kneel before it there, because we can’t start with the universal.” He writes this in response to his reflections on art and contemplation. This particular writing was on the connection between poetry and spiritual contemplation.

I think about our religious traditions and all of the beautiful poetry they have given us. Rumi’s poems, the Psalms, the many many haiku that I’ve read by the Buddhist masters and struggling students, then there are so many many prayers. Questions, laments, comfort, awe and wonder all expressed in poetry offered up for us to ponder. It gives us the opportunity to consider the sacred that is around us at all times.

It seems to me that especially those times when the encounter is so fleeting, we cannot truly understand it until some time has passed. It is for these times a poem gives us the opportunity to return to the encounter in order to better see the sacred in our midst. Again I lean on the wisdom of Father Richard Rohr, “My final theological conclusion is that there’s only one world and that it’s all sacred.”

Your Choice

This day - this day at the end of March
Warm and sunny
Days growing longer
So many possibilities for choices on a day such as this
“Ma’am,” he says softly,
“Yes,” I say
Gravity pulls
And yet, the buoyant light shines through his hair
Amber flecks in espresso eyes
Splash of tangerine freckles betray his youth
“We’re hungry.”
Scuffing feet, nod to younger brother
Head bowed low, eyes cast up hopeful

“You can buy us food or give us money,
anything, Your choice”

My choice, my choice, my choice
My son, I see my son
Amber flecks in espresso eyes
Splash of freckles

My choice is to take you home,
Send you to school
Listen to you trash talk your teammates

Sickened by my own weakness
I pull out the 26 dollars that I have
The sun begins to sink in the western sky

Poetry Month

Mon, 08 Apr 2024 00:00:00 +0000

In addition to the April showers that bring May flowers, it’s also National Poetry Month! If you go to the Academy of American Poets website, you can sign up to get a poem a day delivered to your inbox. How cool is that? This honoring of the month of April for poems is an opportunity for anyone who is at all impacted by the written word to celebrate the value of poetry in our lives. In my humble opinion, that includes all of us.

When teaching poetry, I frequently asked my students to bring in the lyrics of their favorite songs, and then we could identify the poetic elements in those songs. Kaboom, mind-blowing, we all love poetry after all!

According to Britannica , poetry is “literature that evokes a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience or a specific emotional response through language chosen and arranged for its meaning, sound, and rhythm.”

As a young mother, I felt in awe of the responsibility I had to raise the two children I was blessed with. The following are three poems I wrote when my children were very young. Poetry just seemed the only way I could hope to capture my “concentrated imaginative awareness of experience.” I hope you enjoy them.

The Conqueror

O Master of the Universe
Look upon your humble servant with mercy
I know a kind face resides behind
A ferocious (homemade) paper mask
The visible parts of your face
Made ever more terrifying by the
Chocolate ice cream streaks of war paint
Your trustworthy razor sharp (puffy plastic) sword
Ever ready to invoke justice
Armor of tiny jeans and fuzzy flannel shirt and
Mickey Mouse slippers
I beg of you,
Protect and defend me
From the terrors and monsters visible
Only to your vigilant eyes
Fearless warrior
Invincible prince
Conqueror of my heart

Hands

My grandmother’s hands were undecorated, sturdy hands.
Simple wedding band, short nails, lots of veins that stuck out,
And they always smelled of soap.

My mother’s hands too are undecorated, sturdy hands.
Simple wedding band, short nails, lots of veins that stick out,
And they always feel a bit scratchy.

While helping my daughter get her tights on the other day she said, “I know what your hands feel like!”
“Oh?” I replied, “And what’s that?”
“They feel like Amma’s hands!”

I looked down at my hands.
Sure enough, sturdy, undecorated hands.
Simple wedding band, short nails, lots of veins sticking out.

The small hands that reached up and wiped the tears
From my cheeks, smelled of soap,
But were not the slightest bit scratchy, yet.

Motherhood

When one more disappointment hits me
that I think I can no longer bear,
I look into your eyes.
Yet another unkind word, look, or apathetic dismissal, I look into your eyes.
When this life seems filled with monumental tasks, of which, I, a mere mortal, will never be able to accomplish, I look into your eyes.
And I am
set free!
Reminded
that of all the people in this world,
I was chosen to be your guide through life.
Me, imagine that.
The one who is never quite sure of herself,
never quite ready,
never feels completely put together.
Well, here we are and you are the one
to remind me to set my priorities straight.
Take my hand and let us embark upon
this journey called life.
But every once in awhile,
let’s stop,
and rest,
and let me look into your eyes.

Beauty

Mon, 25 Mar 2024 00:00:00 +0000

I’ve been thinking about beauty a lot these days and the need for it in our lives. As I write this, I’m watching the flames in a wood burning stove as they dance and flicker, putting me into an almost catatonic state. Chacha, our retired sled dog sighs and adjusts herself into an ever increasingly comfortable position on the sofa next to me. I’m struck by the beauty of her, this gorgeous retired athlete who still sports the body of a much younger canine.

We just returned from a short hike that would not make it in the top 10 most beautiful hikes. Today is cold, gray, blustery and the trail was covered with ice that had to be gingerly navigated around. Chacha doesn’t have the fear and trepidation I have surrounding ice, so her herding instincts of constantly running back to check on her two legged friends was most likely quite irritating for her. I was, however, struck by the allure of her as she stood many yards ahead of me, looking back to make sure that I was still following her.

I suppose I should clarify that I’m not speaking of the cosmetic industry or the beauty make up tutorials, although that is a sort of beauty all of its own. I’m thinking more about the beauty that we see in our lives everyday and the need to acknowledge and appreciate it.

I’m reminded of when I first moved to rural Japan in the late 1980’s. Japanese restrooms in this area were not exactly the place where one would go to find something of beauty. This was pre-fancy bidet toilet Japan. At this time, they were frequently pit toilets with maybe a sink and cold water, and maybe not. Strictly functional and not a place for lingering.

I had been traveling and dreading the need to find a restroom. When I did find one, it was being cleaned which meant I’d have to either wait, or wander somewhere else. I found it interesting that the person cleaning the restroom was a very large male. Usually, these cleaning jobs were done by very small older women who were like their patrons, in and out in a hurry. But in this circumstance, the rather large and not old man cleaning the bathrooms was first surprised that he was exiting the restroom to not only see someone waiting, but a tall foreign woman at that. He smiled, bowed, told me that the bathroom was in pristine shape but that I needed to wait just one more moment. He then turned to his cleaning cart, gently removed a single carnation from a small bucket of water and went back into the restroom. When he came back out, he again bowed, smiled, and told me it was all ready for me, giving me very clear gestures that I could now enter the restroom. I was so flabbergasted all I could do was awkwardly say thank you, and step inside. The limited lighting cast an eerie glow, but it had a sink with a cold water tap, no sign of soap or towels. I entered the stall, and to my surprise, on the back wall of the stall was a test tube that was attached to the wall by a twisted wire, which contained one beautiful red carnation. The normal stench of the restroom had been quelled a bit by cleaning, so I stood and admired that flower; so humbled by the man who went about his day cleaning bathrooms and adding something of beauty to each and every one of them.

In these days of increasing stress and anxiety regarding too many problems that are too big for me to understand or solve, I reflect on two quotes by two very wise women. Toni Morrison stated, “At some point in life the world’s beauty becomes enough.” and Clara Schumann said, “Why hurry over beautiful things? Why not linger and enjoy them?”

Perhaps beauty gives us hope through the stark contrast between the otherwise ugly and mundane, here is something that shows itself and jolts us enough to acknowledge and admire its very presence. While walking the other day, I had to stop and swivel to locate the source of the most glorious sound. Above my head, in the late winter bare brown branches, a vibrant red cardinal was singing his heart out, the traffic noise diminished in his captivating song. I wished that I spoke cardinal so that I could understand the tender feelings he was conveying. That gorgeous singing scarlet bird gave me hope that winter is on its way out and spring is coming. Perhaps I just need to pay more attention to those signs of beauty that give me hope to keep going and loving in a world that often isn’t particularly kind.

So, I try to take the advice of Toni and Clara, to linger over the beautiful things in life because they are, enough.

Publishing Stats and Banning Books

Mon, 11 Mar 2024 00:00:00 +0000

As Sofie and I have just published our first book, I thought it would be interesting to think about this generally accepted statistic from www.wordsrated.com and other writing websites. They state: Within the book publishing industry, it is agreed that the odds of an author getting their work published stands between 1% and 2%.

Ponder upon that for a moment. There’s another statistic out there gained from a number of surveys that state that 81% of the American population wants to publish a book. However, if the above is true, that leaves 79 to 80% of Americans with ideas floating around in their heads, manuscripts that have been lovingly written, only to be rejected, or to have never really taken flight.

Writing is hard work, as is engaging in any art form. It’s exposing, leaving one raw and vulnerable, yet writers feel compelled to share what’s on their minds. Sharing that work is akin to standing naked in a crowded theater in which everyone is equipped with high powered binoculars to inspect every flaw in your less than perfectly fit and toned body under extremely bright lights. When a writer’s work is submitted to publishers and the response is that they’re not interested, it’s soul crushing. Which makes me wonder why and how any books get published at all.

There’s probably nothing I love better than to walk into a library or bookstore and imagine all of those writers sitting next to their works, beckoning me to read each and every one of them. However, I do what everyone else does. I pick up books that look interesting, turn them over, find out what it’s about, then flip through the book to see if I really want to read it. All the other little writers sitting next to their books breathe a collective sigh, light their little cigarettes, and hope for another patron to come in and pick their work up.

I’ve been following Marty Dodson on Instagram and he’s been highlighting some of the books that have been put on the banned list. (You can see what books have been challenged by going to the American Library Association website and looking under the banned and challenged books.) Several of the books that Marty Dodson has reviewed are beautiful picture books for children. In my opinion, these are good stories and nothing that I would be concerned about if one of my children had brought them home or my students read those books. I would rejoice to the heavens if my students brought books to class.

Here’s the really confusing part to me. Children have way more terrifying and legitimate fears in their lives than a few books that seem to upset a small, but incredibly vocal minority of people. I was teaching in a school when a student brought a loaded gun into school and terrorized the entire school for two hours. Every person who lived through that day will never forget it, nor will they enter a school without identifying the exits first. Guns are a real fear and an ever present threat to our children and every employee in a school. Books are not the threat here.

Another mystifying concept is that these books will somehow indoctrinate children into a lifestyle or way of thinking that is unacceptable to some people. The content that is on their cell phones is far more dangerous and explicit, but no one’s taking away kids’ phones. I know this because I am a teacher and the fight over cell phones is real, every day, every class period, multiple times during each and every class period. I can count on one hand the times when I had to ask a child to stop reading a book and pay attention.

Then I think about the 1% ratio of books actually getting published. That 1% of books has been through editing, design, reviews, gone over with a fine tooth comb multiple times by multiple people prior to being put out in the world. That’s why it’s so hard to publish a book. It’s a very long process that is not embarked upon lightly. So I find it really disturbing that these works of art are tossed aside so easily as being unfit for children. The author who wrote that book most likely has the heart of a child and remembers that if someone had written a book like this, it would have been helpful to themselves, or at the very least, they would have enjoyed it and that’s why they want to share it!

As I’ve begun this writing journey in my later years I am reminded of a conversation at a writer’s workshop that I attended. The class was geared towards teaching us writers how to promote our work to get it published and sold. There was a lot of talk about promoting yourself on social media, starting with at least 100 query letters for each manuscript, designing the perfect pitch, creating a website, and then selling yourself on your website in order to become an extrovert in one easy lesson.

One gentleman in the audience at the workshop asked the question that every other writer in that room was thinking, but what no one actually voiced, until he bravely did it for all of us.

He stood up, cleared his throat and said, “I hear a lot of talk about promoting ourselves and putting ourselves out there, but look at us, look at this group of people. We’re writers, I think I can safely say that the vast majority of us are introverts and that’s why we write. How do you propose that we change our very nature to suddenly become extroverted people to sell our work?” The entire room burst into applause. As one more introverted writer, I very much appreciated his candor. I honestly do not remember what the presenter’s response was. That wasn’t the point, really.

So, I guess my thought of the day regarding this ridiculous notion of banning books is that these are works of art. And like any other work of art, you can choose to enjoy it, or not. Just because you don’t want to see a teeny weeny on a replica of a David statue doesn’t mean you get to take your baseball bat and destroy it. You just move on, teeny weeny, noted. That’s it.

If, by the extremely off chance that your child comes home with a book that you disapprove of, just return it. No harm, no foul. Better yet, read the book with your child and talk about your values with your child. As a teacher, my biggest struggle is actually getting students off their phones and into the books. Rest assured, teachers don’t have the time to push a certain book onto a child. All they want is for that child to at least pick out a book and walk out of the library with it before lunch, recess, the next class period, or the end of the school day.

Teachers just want kids to read books, because reading books is good for their brains, and it’s a primary method of learning new information. Literacy matters. Writers want kids to read their books because they want to share their art form with them. Given the 1% publishing ratio that’s out there, imagine all of the stories that we have not heard! It’s OK, they’re books, and books are good to read and discuss.

Creative Collaboration with My Child

Mon, 26 Feb 2024 00:00:00 +0000

When I tell people that my daughter and I created a book together, I’m usually met with lots of “Awwwwws,” and then, from other mothers of adult daughters, that look and question, “So, how did that go?” Meaning, whew, that must have been some baggage to work through!

The absurd thing about being a mother is that we know that giving birth will be painful, but we don’t realize just how painful until that baby decides that it’s time for the two of you to meet. I view adolescence the same way. I heard the stories and knew that this gorgeous little one who never wanted to leave my side now, will at some point in time prefer to be with just about anyone on the planet, but me. But when that day came, I was as shocked as I was when I went into labor. How can this be so gut-wrenching? Like any other parent of adult children, my daughter and I have our harrowing stories of how we didn’t always get along. The good news is that she grew up, despite my best efforts to prevent her from doing so, and she turned into an amazingly beautiful adult. Wow, wow, wow.

I’ll be the first to admit that being a mom has always been my greatest joy and the hardest work I’ve ever done. For each little life that you raise, there are no manuals, there are no certainties, there are no guarantees that life will turn out the way you want it to, even if you follow all the rules and do all of the right living, stuff happens.

Sofia has always been a creative person who can make the ordinary look extraordinary. She’s able to take something and make it look better, more inviting, and more functional. That is not my strong suit and she knows that, so she graciously helps me out. Sofia is not a native English speaker, so when she was learning to write in English, that was a challenging time and I tried to gently guide her. I think at times we both envied the other a little bit for what we lacked.

Along with everyone else, our lives are separated by before and after Covid. We began working on The Northland Beckons pre-Covid, but didn’t have a super sense of urgency surrounding it and months would go by before we had something pulled together or a clear idea of what we wanted to do with what we were creating. Then Covid hit and the isolation and sense of despair and purposelessness was overwhelming. Sofia was living in Los Angeles and I in Minneapolis, and again, that universal experience of the distance and sadness felt insurmountable at times.

Over many Zoom and FaceTime calls, we talked about our hopes and dreams for this book. I gave her feedback on her illustrations, she gave me feedback on the writing and organization of the text. The thought of creating a book that shares the love we have for being outdoors and the wildlife that inhabits those places is what kept us going. We reminded each other that it’s the process of working together on a thing of beauty that we both love is what is important. One aspect of our relationship that helped us the most is that we each were able to stay in our lane. Sofia is an artist and I am a writer. We can give each other suggestions, but in the end, we know who does which better.

There was a time when she had to rattle my cage. As a first time author, trying to get your work published is incredibly overwhelming. The publishing world is a Byzantine maze and Covid has only made it more complex. I was doing the research and the “right ’’ next steps, but constantly running into roadblocks. Sofia would call and ask what our status was and I would hedge and say that I was working on it without sharing any evidence that I really was making any headway on publication.

Finally, she’d had enough and called my bluff. “Mom, I have a full-time job here and I’m spending a lot of time on this, but if you’re not going to take this seriously, I feel like I’m wasting my time with you.” Ouch, that truth hurt. The last thing in the world that I wanted for our relationship was for her to feel that she was wasting her time with me. That comment spurred me on to get us where we needed to be.

When we start feeling stressed and unsure of ourselves, we remind each other, “Hey, this is our fun project that we do together, remember?” And it has been fun! As any parent of a newborn knows, all you can do is wonder who this tiny person you are holding will turn out to be. Now I know! She’s an intelligent, beautiful, competent, talented illustrator who has agreed to work with me. Lucky, lucky me!

If you have a story of collaborating with your child, I would love to hear it!

Why Haiku

Mon, 12 Feb 2024 00:00:00 +0000

The question has come up a number of times, so I thought a good first blog post for this website would be to talk about haiku. As the book explains, haiku is a literary poetic art form that originated in Japan and Matsuo Basho is considered one of the most creative and founding thinkers on haiku. I did spend many years in Japan, 18 to be exact, but I am by no means a haiku expert.

The thing I like about haiku is that it is a form of poetry, it can be very creative by using many different forms of figurative language, and it’s very structured given the syllabic constraints. Poetry can often feel so cerebral and overwhelming; only for very widely read literature enthusiasts. That can be quite intimidating to the rest of us mere mortals who just like reading, on occasion, or maybe not at all. I’m thinking of several former students with the latter.

Haiku also forces one to use language to hone in on something very specific so that there’s not the option of being too wordy. Being able to consolidate your thoughts on any given topic down to a total of 17 syllables is a bit tricky. While it is true that haiku is typically written about something connected with nature, it doesn’t necessarily have to be so. I know there are a lot of opinions about haiku and they can become quite esoteric. For my purposes, however, I’ve used haiku to write something specific, in the moment, staying present to what is, now. In doing that, I have created a memory that I can go back to and it still feels like right now. Like smelling rose scented lotion brings me back to my grandmother’s embrace.

I taught English in Japan for 18 years and English language learners in the US public education system for an additional 16 years, and one super fun summer in China! Whenever we broached the subject of poetry, there was immediate panic on the part of my students, none of whom were native English speakers. Groans and ‘why do we have to do this?’ laments rose to the heavens.

In Japan, I told them we’re going to use your own poetic format to start; the haiku. They didn’t like that idea. Haiku are designed to be written in Japanese, not English, everyone knows that, don’t be stupid. Yes of course, they were right, but what a great way to teach syllables in English for Japanese speakers. For all of the other language learners, I was met with a great deal of skepticism. However, in time, every student was able to write a haiku. I cannot begin to tell you the joy on their faces when they realized that they had indeed written their very first poem in English! If they could conquer poetry in English, nothing could stop them now! When I first began writing haiku on our canoe trips, it really was to stop worrying about how to take a photograph of something, or some other anxiety ridden thought loop I could not seem to cut, and instead, stay present and in the moment of the beauty I was witnessing. I would count out syllables on my paddle, trying to get just the right words to capture the moment in time I was experiencing. Something in me changed in that process. The paddles were long, the repetition helpful, so by the time I was snuggled up in our tent, the haiku flowed onto the paper and I was out forthe night.

Even though time has passed, I sense everything just as it was the moment that haiku came to me. That’s the most interesting thing about the power of haiku and the value of staying connected to the present moment. Our words matter, our stopping, breathing, and taking in the present moments, matter.

I still get carried away with fear and anxiety surrounding a host of things which are far beyond my control. I am not a Zen master, not by a long shot. However, I did learn a little about haiku and the gift of using language in a way that helps me to remember in a poignant way and yet, stay present.