Do You Know This Girl?

August 4, 2015 / Lisa / 4 Comments

When I was young Gloria Steinem took up the banner of feminism. My older sisters, especially my hippy-chick sister, led the way and I stumbled behind.

The older sisters.

And now I know a girl. And she epitomizes for me how the times have changed since I was her age, shy, hiding in a corner, most often found buried in a book, or in daydreams.

When she was little she was our local wild child. Bare-butt naked, free soul, half fish in the river, half elf in the woods, bare feet in the mud, in the snow, in the grass.

She eventually had to put clothes on and go to school. I worried her spirit would be quenched by the bullies. And girls are so cruel when they bully. Grade school was hard for her. She grew taller than all the other girls. I saw her sitting alone, face buried in a book and was afraid.

Don’t turn into me. Stay free, stay wild.

Her mother made sure that happened.

One winter when the river edges froze and snow fell, she walked past my window dressed in black tights and tee shirt, her bare feet crimson red with cold, her long hair drenched. Coming back from her daily dip in the river.

Snow-melt water.

Still free, still wild. Child on the threshold of girl.

Now, in high school, she’s taller than most students. She wild-forages for licorice root. She hikes. She defines gender by what it means to her, not by what society labels her. She stands firm against social media trolls, those who would tell her to change. She writes poetry that opens your eyes, that makes you pause as you glimpse her soul. This past weekend she walked, barefoot, through a festival, with her poetry.

Still free, still wild. Girl on the threshold of woman.

But one who is not bound by labels.

I can’t wait to see the next blooming of this flower. I worry that sometimes she is too hard on herself (like we all can be). So I want her to read this, to recognize herself, to see that being…just being, without labels of girl, feminist, lesbian, trans, woman, is beautiful. Just as beautiful as taking all those labels, fixing them to your chest, standing proud and saying, ‘this is who I am’.

Our little wild forest child.

She’s not in this photo, but she was there when it was taken.

Those of you reading this, who recognize her, please do not name her in comments. It should be her choice to be named in such a public way.

Birds and Other Apocalypse Tales

July 17, 2015 / Lisa / 3 Comments

Remember Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds? I believe I was about nine when I saw it. Afterwards I decided I could keep my siblings alive in our half-bathroom. There were no windows, I could stuff towels under the door, we’d have water to drink, and most important of all, a toilet. Of course the five of us would have had to stand in the cramped space the whole time. I believe I pictured myself, as the one who saved their lives, getting to sit on the throne.

Birds from Wikicommons

Then there was the nuclear bomb. Or the atomic bomb. I don’t remember which. Either way, I was going to make the siblings crawl under the house because for some reason I thought we’d be safe there. An alternate plan was to get to my friend’s house. They had a real bomb shelter, stocked with canned goods. No can opener though, as they discovered years later when dismantling the shelter.

Next came volcanoes. Anyone remember being shown, in school, a film about a Mexican farmer who had a volcano appear in his back yard? I believe I was around twelve for that one. I don’t remember my plan to save the siblings from volcanoes other than an attempt to get my dad to teach me to drive.

From Wikicommons images

Then came the Chernobyl disaster and I was right back to planning for radiation. But by then I was living off grid with my parents – generating our own power, in the woods (hunting possibilities), near a river (water supply) and with an outhouse (remember the importance of the toilet and the birds?). We were set.

wikicommons images

Each generation has an apocalypse fear. I read a study that said the shape an apocalypse takes for each age is a reflection on the stresses and fears for that generation. Zombies? That we were becoming drones.

So what is it these days that I’m preparing for? Natural disasters. I just read a very sobering article on the upcoming big earthquake for the Pacific Northwest.

But hey, I have a plan. Bug-out bags, stocked pantry, kerosene lanterns and candles, water filters, hunting rifle, and lots of vodka.

I’m still slightly worried about that volcano though. And the giant mutant spider from a Midnight Theater episode. And tornadoes. Man, don’t get me started on tornadoes.

Are you prepared? There’s a fine line between paranoia and preparedness, between nightmares and reality. It never hurts to at least have a blanket, candles, and some water in your car though.

Oops. I took the candles out. They melted.

(Ha, looking at the tags for this post you’d think I was a bit paranoid…)

Illusions of Safety

June 9, 2015June 9, 2015 / Lisa / 7 Comments

I remember a windstorm a few years ago. In the mountains you can hear the wind coming from far away, roaring up the canyons. You feel the tension, the stillness of waiting, knowing you can’t stop it. You watch the huge evergreens around you and how the tops start to sway. The wind is up high still, but that roar. It’s coming. The trees start to bend and then to whip.

I remember sending thoughts out to fir and cedar and hemlock. Hang on. Dig your roots in and hang on. Most did.

Have you ever taken a stick and bent it over your knee, snapping it in two? Remember that sound, that dry crack? Now imagine that sound magnified, deepened into something you feel through your feet touching the earth. Give that sound the background of the wind screaming past you. Follow that bone-deep snap with something like thunder right over your head.

That was a cedar tree coming down, unable to hang on. Taking its sister tree with it. Pulling a couple younger hemlock trees down, too.

No matter what nature sends us, our homes give us the illusion of safety. If you live where we do, you can close your door, maybe lock it, and all that could be dangerous is out in the wild. Bears. Cougars. Snow. Wind. Even the deep dark of a forest night. We feel secure hearing the rain pound down on the roof, as we sit next to the wood stove and hot fire. Maybe the tea kettle simmering gently over the flames. We tuck down under the thick pile of blankets, as ice forms on the river and water thickens until it no longer moves. We feel safe.

But really, in the mountains, there is always the chance of earthquakes. Whitewater rivers that sweep homes away. Landslides. Boulders bigger than your house catapulting down. Trees that can’t hang on.

Morning Star climbing route

In northeastern Montana, the illusion of safety comes from the high mesas. The openness. No trees to hit the house. No mountains to crumble down on top of you. But there, winters can hit minus sixty. Cold so deep you can’t breathe or even open your eyes. There, on those broad fields of wheat, tornadoes touch down and lift away all they touch. And yet we climb down into the cellars, close the door, and feel safe.

Montana storm

No matter where you live there is the illusion of safety. Either in your home, or in your car, or in your cardboard box under the highway overpass. We pull our jacket collars up, we tuck our hands under armpits, and we lock those doors against burglars. We roll up car windows. We clutch cell phones with a finger on speed dial.

But all those things that make us feel safe and in control are transitory. We go through our lives busy with daily routines, never paying attention to just how not safe we are until the news tells us to board up windows or move to high ground. And even then most people think, ‘I can drive that road without four wheel drive’ or ‘I can pass that idiot driver before that car gets too close’. It boils down to the ego of ‘it won’t happen to me’.

Driving home

We never live our lives as if we’re not safe. As if, in a moment, we could be gone. We take things for granted. We tell ourselves to remember to call that friend. Say, ‘we really need to get together one of these days’. Hang up the phone before we remember to tell our son we love him, or to tell someone far away they are missed.

In our safety we are full of good intentions. Until it’s too late and then we are full of regret.

It’s in our nature to feel safe. To procrastinate doing those things or simply forget in the daily bustle. Don’t prepare or stock up because the store will be open tomorrow. Don’t learn how to grow or can or hunt or fish because the freezer will always run. Just huddle close to the fire that keeps shadows behind us.

Those good intentions are so strong.

Tomorrow.

I’ll do it tomorrow.

What makes you feel safe? And, are you, really?

What things are you putting off? Why? And which is more important – what you put off, or the reason why?

Get out there and live with no regrets.