Are You Wasting Enough Time?

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Royal.ArchThis morning I ran across an interesting article in the Harvard Business Review by game designer and MacArthur winner, Jane McGonigal. I feel I should be “doing something” productive all the time. But I look out my office windows into Boulder Canyon. Sometimes snow is falling, or the squirrel is jumping branch to branch from the nest, or a raven calls from the lodge pole pines. My mind drifts. I’m not wasting anything.

Here’s the link: https://hbr.org/2012/10/building-resilience-by-wasting-time

 

Connect. You don’t have to go alone.

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HikingWhen you face another challenge, reach out to others. Connect with someone.

Let someone care. Hold each other when the going gets steep. Take one step at a time. Look ahead.

Share your trail mix. Just ask. Others have been here before, and they can and will help you find the way.

Andromeda, Parasitic Pinedrops, Family Systems and Multigenerational Transmission

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AndromedaHow are Pinedrops, parasitic plants, pine trees, Andromeda, and multigenerational transmission of abuse, trauma, and family dysfunction related? This question began to form as I hiked with a Native Plant Society group.

Andromeda, according to Greek myth, was the daughter of Cassiopeia who boasted that Andromeda was more beautiful than the Nereids. Hades was enraged. As punishment (for her mother’s boasting), Andromeda was stripped and chained naked to a rock, destined to be a sacrifice.  Hades ordered Poseidon to send a sea monster to destroy her. However, Andromeda was saved by the hero, Perseus.

A parasite is an organism that depends on a different organism for basically everything, while contributing nothing to the survival of its host. Pinedrops are parasitic, but not directly parasitic on pine trees. Pinedrops are directly parasitic on mycorrhizal fungi which, in turn, are directly parasitic on conifer roots. Without this indirect association with the roots, Pinedrops wouldn’t grow, access nourishment, and have shelter. However, Pinedrops have very little chlorophyll, are therefore not green, and do not photosynthesize.

Pterospora Andromedea

According to Family Systems counseling theory, unresolved family problems are passed down through the generations. There are emotional forces that operate over the years in interconnected patterns. The energies in the system work to preserve the status quo. Anyone who questions what’s going on, anyone who names the elephant in the room, anyone who tries to/does disengage, anyone who becomes aware and conscious and differentiated, anyone who heals, threatens the system and becomes the family target. Consciousness, truth, and strong healthy choices are enemies of projection, generations of abuse, shame, secrets, emotional triangles, and lies .

So, Pinedrops are directly parasitic to fungi and indirectly parasitic to conifers. Was Andromeda like the conifers, caught in the destructive forces of the Greek pantheon family system? Was innocent Andromeda in a parasitic family system, forced to almost pay with her life for her mother’s hubris, the Nereids’ jealousy, and her father’s rage, indirectly exercised through another family member, Poseidon? Who was and is “Perseus”?

 

Mutualism: Ants and Plants

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AntsThe Denver Botanic Gardens has a tropical rainforest pavilion. I, on a mission, went to see Dale Chihuly’s installations, but found the “Ants and Plants” wonderful. You probably know that “symbiosis” means “together + life”. A common example is of orchids clinging to trees for dear life. But there are types of “mutualism” that benefit both, like ants and plants. Ants burrow into plant stems for shelter, and the plants benefit from nourishment (droppings), cleaning, disbursement, and defense. Wow, like healthy families, parents and children, partners, spouses. We need each other.

Thamnophis gigas, thamnophis gigas

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sunning her five-foot stripes,

coiling the low juniper bed,

head erect and alert for toads

and hawkmoths back

from southern hatch.

 

Alarmed in damp surprise,

Primeval fear, then sinking,

Why hadn’t I seen her?

I dropped the sharp pruner.

Instantly, her name like a medieval chant

Had I cut her, clamping down sharp blades

so surely on dusty under branches?

 

We had waited to find each other

this long winter,

now, here, we

in suburban-country interface,

mama cows and their little ones

freed into the steamy pasture,

wandering the fenceline,

peaceful witnesses of wonder.

 

 

Raspberry Corner

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RaspberryOn the way to bring my grandchildren home, I always pass the corner lot where an old man lives and tends his raspberry canes. “They’re looking good,” I say to the kids. “Yeah, they TASTE good,” my grandson says. “I don’t usually like raspberries, but he always lets us have some when I walk the dogs (Gussie, Shaggy, and Merlin (Labradors)), and they’re really sweet.”

“Why do you think he’s out there every afternoon?” I ask. I wonder if he’s a widower, as I never see anyone else around. He is so gentle with the canes. I almost hear him whispering to them.

“Because he likes raspberries,” the other young one in the back seat says. Why do I feel the sting of tears? Life can be so simple.

Last weekend, I was out cycling with women friends. The sky was blue, clouds piling up over the near mountain range. In the paceline, I turned my head. A midnight raven drafted the echelon. “Oh, Trickster,” I thought. “I’ve seen you before. You and your sister guarded the sacred cove on the remote northern British Columbia island when I surfed the waves up onto the midden beach in my kayak. I was wet, tired, and hungry. You didn’t fly away. I called the wolves from where I drank at the mossy stream in the shadow of the shaggy cedar totem poles. Suddenly, I was afraid as the pack streaked from the point towards me. I remember crashing through the brush, running wildly to the beach, jumping in my kayak, paddling offshore, my heart pounding. The wolves never came.

You tricksters laughed. I couldn’t paddle any further that day. I was cold, shakey-hungry, miles to go next day with the tides. I wondered, were you there, later, when the pack circled my tent in the moonlight, panting and sniffing. Did you shape-shift like coyote, watching?”

I watch an old man tend raspberries, a boy walk his dog, and the wheel of the rider in front of me.
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Balancing in Tight Curves

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BikingAlison, our pro cycling coach, had set up 20 cones in the deserted parking lot. Twenty-two women showed up for the bicycle handling skills clinic. Zooming around cones? No problem. That’s what I thought.

Not so easy. Alison sent us off at 5-second intervals, way too short as some of us wobbled going uphill, missing cones left and right. Denise ran into the curb. Sara ended up on her gluteus maximus. Everyone was laughing. Patiently, Alison demonstrated light grip at the tops of the handlebars, leaning into the curves, opposite leg down, then switching. Just don’t think about it, I told myself. Right. Leg up? Leg down?

When it was my turn to try again, it really did help to look ahead. Still, I was intimidated by Alison’s watching my moves, speeding up beside me to remind me to move my head in the direction I wanted to go. “YES!! That’s it!” she exclaimed. Wow, did that sound good. But was I supposed to be down in the drops now, or where were my hands this time?

After I mastered all that, she upped the ante and had us stand and do it all again. Never am I going to be able to do that, I thought. Wrong. It was a lot easier. The bike was like a gyroscope under me, just a matter of getting the right speed. Confidence helped, too. With the sun coming out, we peeled off color-coordinated (some of us) layers, ready for the Figure 8 drill.

The what? Oh, like ice skating on the Mill Pond way back then. There were some near-misses, but many times around one way, then the other, resulted in smooth, swooping maneuvers. Didn’t put my foot down once…well, maybe twice.

So much fun, to be out together on a beautiful sunny Sunday afternoon, leaning into the curves.

  • Anticipate the turns
  • Uphill isn’t always harder than downhill
  • Look ahead
  • Where do you want to go?
  • Small tweaks can make a big difference
  • Practice
  • Lighten up
  • Look over your shoulder; everything follows
  • Don’t be afraid to crush cones
  • Breathe through it
  • Listen to old messages and whoop out a new song

Owls, Cycling, and the Feminine

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OwlComing back from a long ride, I shouldered into the wind, crouched down in the handlebar drops, eyes and nose streaming, zipped up, head turned. That’s when I glimpsed a pile of feathers over in the ditch. I had to stop, turn around to see what it was.

A beautiful Great Horned Owl was wrapped in her own wings, intact, still, big yellow eyes closed forever. I guessed it had been swept up in the powerful draft of a fast truck not long before. All around, very quiet now. Wind tossing the trees but I didn’t feel it. I told her I was sorry. She must have been out hunting, flying low on silent feathers. What should I do, I wondered. I couldn’t just leave her there. I closed my eyes. What would I want? What a gift to share with kids.

So I unzipped my jacket, lifted her carefully, leaned over, laid her on my back, and zipped the jacket back up. I thought she’d be light, but she was really big, maybe five pounds. Slowly I rode down the shoulder toward home, crying for all of us. But I was warm, her feathers a thick downy layer. I felt like I was flying, like she was carrying me.

I laid her on a blanket on the cool garage floor. Her wingspan was at least four and a half feet. My grandchildren came over but wouldn’t go close, instinctively sensing the powerful difference that death is from life, standing so close together.

      I told them that I was going to take the owl out in the foothills to a cottonwood I knew, one by a creek on a curve I often passed. Did they want to come, too? No. That was a definite no. But they helped carry her out to the car in the blanket. I would find a cavity in the old tree, just her size, and lay her to rest.

 Great Horned Owl Duet

    

 

 

Anxiety compressed: Skiing into the unknown

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Backcountry.SkiingGot the skins ready to go on the skis. Boots, poles, extra clothes, food, the 10 essentials, ibuprofen, food, headlamp, snacks, back issues of The New Yorker, backpack, and my old sleeping bag. That’s the problem. It’s warm but bulky. How will I ever get it and everything else I absolutely need into the pack? I feel my heart racing. I’m going out to spend three winter nights in a 10th Mt. Division hut at 10,360’ with seven people I don’t know. How will I carry everything I need.

Another trip to REI. Dave, there, knows me by now. There is the perfect sleeping bag, light as its feathers, good to 35°. I’ve heard that the woodstove keeps the hut warm all night. But any sleeping bag takes up space. I explain the conundrum, and Dave does not roll his eyes. He leads me over to the compression sacks. There’s even a waterproof one so I can strap the bag outside on top. Perfect. Does it come in red? Dave rolls his eyes.

 I go home and practice. With the help of a 5-year-old can-do-all-lego-kits consultant who untangles the straps and  hooks it up right, wow, it sure works.

Under the wondrous Colorado blue sky, skinning up and down with a group of experienced (more than me) mountain hut-trippers, 16” of new snow on a deep base, slip-sliding along in the high altitude, I wonder. What was the big deal about “compression”? Why was I worried anyway? Everything’s in. Compressing my new sleeping bag so it didn’t take up too much space? Not exactly a piece of cake, but close. I think about how good it’ll feel to climb in later when we’re all there, the woodstove’s cranking, and the loft is warm.

I notice clouds roaring in over the Continental Divide. I’m chilly. Feel anxiety grinding in my guts. Where’s the hut? It’s taking us a long time to get to there. Carol pulls out her topo’ map. Greg huddles with her. OK, we stay left, close to the trees. Two miles to go. I can do that. Gorp, water, a little piece of chocolate, tighten my boots. But what if the wood’s wet when we get there? What if we don’t know the combination lock code to get in? I don’t.              

Now the group is anxious and everyone moves faster. It’s snowing for real. I’m in the back, behind. Narrow kicker skins don’t traction as well on uneven terrain. My heart rate is doing zone 4 intervals. Mountain lion tracks. Increasing snow and gusts, must be 50 mph. No fooling around. This is more like Philip Glass music, not John Williams.

We huddle. “Have you seen a blaze?” “Do you see one? I don’t.” “Should we head down to the creek? We could follow it up the draw. The hut’s at the top.” “Have to take care we don’t ‘cliff out’.” “Check the map.”

Wind-layer pants aren’t extra now. I dig out my hat with the earflaps. I do a mental check: bivvy bag, fire starter, down layer, shovel, bars and gorp, compass. Remind myself: I have family. I have friends at home. We head north-westerly. We must be close. Oh, please! A snowshoe hare darts into a tree well. Getting dark. My car’s back at the trailhead. Full tank of gas. OK. Snow tires. OK. Keys in left, zippered hipbelt pocket. Full thermos of tea. Check my cellphone. No bars. OK. OK. ok…ok.

I remember my ski coach, Siga: “You’ve got the spring! Long moments of good weight shift. Getting this down is a journey of finesse, and it can take you a lifetime. Put THAT down your shirt.” I’m trying.  We take turns breaking trail in the heavy snow. We see the hut. I’m drenched in sweat. We’ve all got jobs. Besides shoveling off the porch and carrying 24 buckets of snow in to melt, I’m going to shake out that sleeping bag. All this compressed into five hours.

Encountering the Shadow at 12,000′: 10th Mountain Division Ski Hut Trip

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IMG_0650For someone who lives in Boulder, CO at 5430’, skiing into the 12,000’ mountains with a small group of unfamiliar people was a challenge. My equipment wasn’t as hardcore as theirs; they live at 7907’ where we started; they know these mountains like the backs of their hands; and they share stories of adventures and heroes and heroines I’ve never heard of. Almost right away I was wet and exhausted from herring-boning when they were walking up hills on full-on ski skins compared to my shorter, narrower ones.

What’s wrong with me?  I’m usually a leader. I’m usually strong and confident. Instead, I’m holding back, totally disabled on the icy dipsy-doodles in the dark woods and the terrain plunging out of sight. Mountains over 14,000’ rise on both sides of the ridge. Snowfields hang at angles I cannot fathom. But the sky is blue. What is wrong with me? I am tight, anxious, scared, and alone.  They’re sorry I came. They don’t want to be around me. They think I shouldn’t be on this trip. I don’t belong. They don’t like me.

Oh my gosh! Hello, Shadow!

Carl Jung wrote:

By shadow I mean the ‘negative’ side of the personality, the sum of all those unpleasant qualities we like to hide…The shadow is one example of an ‘unconscious personality’ which possesses a certain measure of autonomy. The shadow is often projected on to others (Collected Works 7, par. 103n).

I don’t want to know or acknowledge that I can be weak, that I’m aging, not-as-well-equipped, not as strong and confident as the other skiers. What I’m feeling is not about “them”. This is about me.

So I re-group. Eat some gorp I mixed back at home, drink the electrolyte mix I made, the one that has sustained me on many really long bike rides. I think. I see what’s going on with my Self. “They” are great companions and teach me how to really use my ski skins. Marianne shows me how to dig in with each uphill step. Greg offers me his skin wax and shows me how to apply it. I’d never heard of that before. That and their interest and encouragement and fun and the indescribable beauty completely change my darkness.

This is not about “them” and “me”. This is “us”. They care. So do I. I see Carol behind me, gritting it out as her heavy pack grinds into her sore shoulder. What can each of us carry? I see how heavy each step with the AT gear has become, as Susan slows down and strips off a layer. Barb takes her skis off and walks down a steep, icy hill. I join her on that one. They are experienced, as am I. I’m OK. We are OK.

I love this air. I love this planet. We are only blue dots. I breathe. I keep up now when I walk and keep up when I ski. We get to the hut. I have carried dinner and homemade raspberry oatbars to share. I share my stories.

Federico Garcia Lorca knew, too:

“Every step he climbs in the tower of his perfection is at the expense of the struggle that he undergoes with his duende…The arrival of the duende brings totally unknown and fresh sensations…loves the edge, the wound…Through the   empty archway of a wind the spirit enters.” And another quote: “These dark sounds are the mystery, the roots thrusting into the fertile loam known to all of us, ignored by all of us, but from which we get what is real in art.”

Isn’t this wondrous?

Flamenco and Guitars

Patrick McDonald via Compfight