Letters to Montana

Check out my latest piece on Mamalode: Letter to the Unborn

We are two pairs of lovers in the late Alaskan winter, setting out for the source of the river, as the sun hints at a pale warmth. We follow a trickle of water through neighborhoods and ponder the wisdom of our choice of footwear, trudging alternately through mounds of snow and washes of mud. Yard dogs assert their boundaries but still ultimately come in for a friendly scratch behind the ears–winter coat clinging to our fingertips as we wave goodbye.

Ahead of us, the river bed is wide, where machinery has moved it this way and that to prepare for spring floods. Each time the sun retreats behind a cloud, the world goes gray–a steel sky, bleeding down cliff and tree into slate stone and sand. The water–a ribbon of tinsel–calls us up the canyon. We laugh and snack; trying to keep our feet dry as long as possible.

Eventually, the river bed narrows between tall canyon walls and we spend time in shadow. Here, the water is more of a force; silty froth spills over boulders.

Gravelly slopes force us higher for a time, where we scramble across loose stone and around exposed root, to gain surer footing. We descend back to the water’s edge, where the canyon takes a sharp curve to the left. We must cross the river to keep going. There will be no dry feet to follow.

The gentlemen in our crew survey the various routes across, as I approach. I know they are talking, but can’t hear them above the rush of the water. Before I arrive, Chad has rolled up his pants and trudged through the current to the other side. He is the tallest, with the sturdiest build, sure of foot and not one to hesitate. Zach, sturdy in his own frame, follows not far behind him, choosing a slightly different route through the pool–the water washing a bit higher above his knee. But, he presses on, a smile lingering with his progress through the current. I look back at Kara and wonder what she sees.

This is no technical crossing, but I am also no stranger to the force of water. A slip under could mean, at the very least, a slightly hypothermic walk home.

I consider my route for a little while, exchange encouraging words with Zach, then go for it. Kara is not far behind, having chosen the route most comfortable for her. We continue up the canyon, until we meet steeper, more formidable walls where the water spills down. There, we are once again in the sun and spring flowers bloom in bowls carved by the journey of the river.

We will eventually turn back for home and cross the water again, without incident.

Honestly, I don’t remember my route across the river and I don’t consider this the greatest challenge I’ve faced, by any means, but in that moment, the water gave me a reply to a question that came much earlier and bubbled up again, much later.

After more than 20 years of hiking, climbing, skiing and riding in the mountains, I know there is no set formula for getting somewhere. I am a different person than I was in my 20s, when thoughts of tomorrow did not determine how hard I grip stone, 200 feet above earth. I am a different woman than I was when I spent time with a man who bullied me into skiing lines that terrified me. My landscape changes as much as the landscapes I spend my time in. I am no different than most.

On this day, each of us chose our own way across the water, in some way asking it which way we should go. While we all encouraged each other and shared thoughts, not one of us told the other what to do. I attribute that in part, to a hard-earned confidence in our own abilities and judgments.

Though we may share journeys in life with each other, even a similar experience will never be exactly the same for any one person. And often, we have no experience to draw from that even remotely parallels someone else’s experience.

That’s easy enough to say, but it’s more important to remember.

Yet, empathy isn’t about knowing exactly what another’s experience is. It’s about just being there, with them, through the journey. Sure, we can share what we’ve learned, but we must understand that what worked for us, may not work for them. If I’d followed Chad’s footsteps across the river that day, I would have surely felt the river snatch my breath from me as I slid below the gray surface.

That piercing shock of a thought is what reminds me to love others in the space they occupy, not from the space I want them to be.

I grew up in a small town and no matter where I went, someone always knew who I was, even if I didn’t know them. I was always spoken to, my parents inquired about, my performance in school a topic of importance.

I went to college in a small town, where the weather of the North Country made quick friends of strangers sipping hot drinks and people did not speak unnecessarily, but were comfortable with a shared, silent acknowledgement.

I moved to a big state that still felt like a small town and therefore, never expected anything different. Montana delivered on that expectation–whether in the Ruby Valley, on my way to Glacier, somewhere near Glendive or in the Clark Fork River basin.

People in passing cars on dirt roads wave to each other–neighbors or strangers, no matter.

People on the street look you in the eye, and at least smile if not add a hearty “Good Morning,” or “Nice day!” or “I like your dog,” while the grocery line usually yields rich and often humorous conversation.

In 2012, I left Montana, after 16 years. As I drove away, I watched one dear friend from my side-view mirror, as she stood in front of our ramshackle fence with a crowd of sunflowers behind her. Their luminous, wide-open faces–hers and the flowers–told me I would always have a home to come back to. And, during the two years I spent in a far northern city, I would often return to the front stoop of that house in my mind. I would watch the sun’s progress through the glowing petals of the flowers. I would see the wind push them around so that they appeared to be jostling with each other for the best view of Mt. Jumbo.

Those flowers weren’t simply there to satisfy my love for them (although that is how it all started). In the time that I lived in that house, they came to absorb the community I loved. People LOVED those flowers. If a fellow Missoulian discovered that I lived in that house, their eyes would light up and they’d ask how I got so many to grow and bloom so early.

Some days, I’d be working in my office and I’d hear voices outside. Peeking out the window, I’d see girls posing for photos under the flowers, while their boyfriends cracked jokes and shook pollen into their hair.

Other days, flocks of small children would parade past my window and I’d hear the classic muffled Charlie Brown teacher voice with the inflection of a question, before a chorus of little voices would shout, “Sunflowers!”

But it wasn’t just the humans of my community. We were inundated with gold finches on a daily basis, and their polished vibrant bodies flitting among the flowers to harvest the seeds were far more enchanting than any holiday light display.

It brought me joy to bring others joy and sustenance with something that already brought me so much joy. That’s a lot of joy. And while I was trepidatious about leaving my Montana home, no doubt, I brought that joy with me to the northern city that shall remain nameless (because the point is not to bash that city that brought me many gifts).

The problem was, in that place, I couldn’t pay people to look me in the eye. As I walked on snowy trails with no other person around but the one I was passing, my smile and greeting would be met with silence and a gaze that fell as far away from me as possible. The yoga studio I came to love was packed with people, mats six inches apart, and trying to catch my neighbor’s eye to say “Hello” or share a smile, proved futile. The instructors actually had to encourage people to greet one another; like we were in kindergarten. I didn’t get it.

Sure, it’s more common in bigger cities for people not to make eye contact. I know that. I also know that one should not take it personally when another ignores them. I can certainly rationalize that some people are just having a bad day, or haven’t learned appropriate social skills, or are fearful (sometimes for very valid reasons) or are painfully shy. And of course, there are places in this world where looking someone in the eye is interpreted as disrespect or a challenge or an invitation to victimize. But, frankly, barring those circumstances, part of me thinks it’s absolute crap that you can be within touching distance of someone and they won’t acknowledge you.

Now that we have returned to Montana, I relish the chipper greetings from strangers. I am freshly surprised by the friendliness of most people here. But, I’ve also noticed more people avoiding the gaze of others. Sometimes they just purposely bow their head or look the other way, or act like they can’t see me through their shades. And of course, there are the phones. Talking, texting, whatever. The people are not where they are. The world is happening right in front of them and they are somewhere else.

Why is this such a big deal to me? Because when you look someone in the eye, you are telling them they matter. When someone doesn’t look you in the eye, you are not there or not worthy or not equal. Eye contact is about our commonality. Eye contact is about community. Eye contact is about support AND accountability.

As a culture, we continuously grapple with polarization. The world watches our children kill each other. We have more than enough to take care of our own, yet greed leaves a trail of destitution and suffering in its wake. Our environment and our wild neighbors fall victim to our short sightedness and more greed.

How can we ever surmount these forces if we can’t even make the effort to see each other?

Why is it so easy to see the beauty of a sunflower’s wide open face, but not the beauty in each human face around us?

For a while, in the north, I let myself be defeated and learned to avert my gaze in public places. But, all I saw was the ice and snow beneath my feet. Evidence of the world, but no interaction that brought it–and me–to life.

For a while, I thought about the sunflowers and how shoving a flower in someone’s face forces them into the present and usually, makes them smile. Yes, I contemplated taking flowers with me on my daily ambles and handing them to any passerby. I know, what a hippie.

But, instead, I’ve decided to always lift my face to the light–the flickers of it that I know live in the eyes of others, the flashes of it that come from a smile, or the color of it that is absorbed in cheeks and hair. It’s there, even if my gaze is not met. It’s there, even if others don’t see it in themselves.

I know that Montana isn’t like other places in the world, but it’s not so different, either. Sure, our little big town is growing, but its charm and community comes from that place where gaze meets gaze. I welcome strangers to my home, but I also believe that those of us who call this home need to show others how we do it here.

So, I ask my worldly neighbors: Even if you are on your phone, look up and smile. Even if your day is dark, look up and find the light. Even if you can’t seem to find beauty, remember the unapologetic vibrancy of sunflowers. In the warmth of that vibrancy, I can see you, and you can see me. In that space, we hold each other in the world; for good or bad. And maybe in this way, we are a little less lost.

They’re 13, 14 and 15!

They’re all gone.

It’s been two months and five days since we said goodbye to Charlie, our youngest of three dogs. Three weeks before, the oldest, Timber, passed, and nearly three months before that, the middle one, Ibn, left our world.

In less than four months, they were all gone.

I’d declared their ripe old ages with pride, almost daily, over the last few years. Now, sometimes I wonder if that was my way of trying to will them to live forever.

In the days that followed the losses,

water slowly evaporated from their water dish that sat in our kitchen.

Spots of blood on our cloth grocery bags darkened and faded; the grim reminder of Charlie’s coughing fits.

Fur balls and squeaky balls alike were permitted to remain under the furniture.

I wondered if paw prints frozen in the mud were some of the last steps taken by our beloved companions.

I did not know my husband without Ibn; he did not know me without Timber and Charlie. We didn’t know life together without our dogs. And our dogs were our nearly constant companions, traveling through early adulthood with us–through forests, relationships, relocations, career changes, other losses, over mountains, across streams, into and out of our arms, our vehicles . . . our good graces. The one place they always were, and will remain, is in our hearts.

I know that for some, a loss like this may not feel all that profound. I also know that there are others who suffer far more profound losses than I have. But I also wonder what the merit is in measuring loss. I don’t believe we need to compare losses as much as I believe that we need to understand the meaning of loss and grief.

Who are we without them?

We listen to music a lot more. We love music, but rarely played it in the last few years because it would inhibit our ability to hear the dogs; the old dogs who could have a seizure at any moment, who might not be able to get up, who could get confused and panic.

We pick up food when we drop it. There are no eager mouths waiting for a “Ground Squirrel!” (our command for cleaning up a ground score). There is no one really interested in the core of the apple or the butt of the carrot–or under foot and getting yelled at during dinner preparations.

I must find new places to bury my fears or anxieties–places that aren’t as impossibly soft as Timber’s ruff, or as ridiculous as Charlie’s ear tassels or as solid as Ibn’s chest. I must find other reasons to rise from bed that don’t include someone needing my help or attention. I must remember the joy in daily walks, even when the absence of dogs makes me feel lost in places we knew well.

I must find the gift in the grief. 

Grief doesn’t ask if it can take from you. It demands from you that which you are not willing or ready to give. That in itself tests us–for we are not usually comfortable with circumstances we cannot control. But, of course, it’s more than that, because grief means we’ve lost someone or something we love–whether a person, an animal, a relationship, a circumstance . . . we are mourning the change, the space that is no longer filled, the person we were when we had that which we’ve lost.

I was stripped down, and felt nothing but raw edges.

For a time, everything stung–the world was louder, the sun too bright, words too harsh. Crystalline winter breath bit at me through layers of wool and armor, filled my lungs with echoes of suffering and sobs. But it also polished me clean, and gave me only three stones to hold; three stones that allowed me to worry only about what really matters.

Loss is no longer my constant companion, it simply sneaks up on me in a photo I forgot about, or a story about dogs and magpies, or when the waxwings trill and shine in the morning light.

I am not done grieving, but I can see the gift in this grief. It is in the new rhythms of each day that feed my creativity, it is in my deeper capacity for empathy, it is in my renewed ability to not squander my time. It is in the memory of three precious dogs who made life richer for a good, long time. It is in the patience they taught me and the wisdom of living our wild nature.

The gift in this grief cannot be measured, nor can the depth or breadth of anyone’s loss. But, in loss, the immeasurable makes room for growing. It allows us to see who we were and decide who we want to be. It reminds us to be extra gentle with those in chrysalis, to laugh as hard as we cry and to count our blessings. One, two, three . . .

We’ve had a remarkably long fall–which I know has a few people feeling uneasy, but I will admit: I’ve relished it. I know that nature doesn’t pay me any heed, but I not-so-secretly believe that this fall is my reward for the two years I gave to Alaska, where summer is all too short and fall is even shorter.

Yet, even with the length of this season, my internal clock has been hounding me to get out and put the garden to bed.

Excavate the dahlia bulbs.

Harvest the tomatoes.

YOU KNOW! Hunker down for winter.

I found it easy to plant bulbs for next spring and cut back the hops, already done for the season. I got excited about mulch this year. Does that mean I am getting dull?

But, every time I went out to do the other thing–the killing thing–I found myself standing in the bath of light that comes with the autumn sun. I felt ablaze like the leaves of our locust tree; illuminated.

This autumn sun is more fitful than brazen, tossing and turning, scattering its treasure this way and that. And the thing is, I don’t want to do anything to squander the light, because all too soon, that sun is going to roll over and steal the covers. Gold blanket gone. Left with nothing but a thin white sheet.

So, that was my first excuse. I couldn’t bring myself to alter anything that swallowed that light. The still ripening sun golds, clustered on their vine, promised me a string of singular moments to carry me into winter, marked by smooth flesh on my tongue and sweet, sweet sugar to follow. The dahlias expanded–more vivid than my sister’s spirograph drawings–color bleeding from yellow to red daily, even as the nights got colder (and maybe because they did).

But the other excuse came from my gut. It kept saying that my internal clock was off, because every time I stood in the garden, poised to tear something out, it told me, “No!”

It’s true, I’ve always had trouble killing stuff, even if it’s for the benefit of other stuff (like the 5 million sunflowers that come up every spring that I have to thin out so the remaining 2,000 can flourish). But this was about more than that and I found myself letting the internal battle between the clock and the gut play out, every day–I found this pressure to sort it out.

And, then I didn’t.

Four days ago, I wandered out there again and I decided that it just wasn’t time, yet. That the season would decide on the time.

Because,

Flowers were still blooming.

Food was still growing–and nourishing us.

Because,

I love beauty and I love bringing it into the world for those around me.

Because,

It goes against my own nature to take beauty away.

Because,

In this world, where Nigerian girls fear a fate worse than death,

where men are murdered while guarding the dead,

where children wield guns because they feel no power

or they’ve come untethered from love

–In this world where we can’t seem to protect that which redeems us,

I wanted one more day of this beauty.

Who am I to take it away?

I can’t change so many things,

but I can try to be part of the balance to dismay. I can seek a path to equilibrium.

The killing frost came two nights later and my dahlia bulbs are drying on my living room shelf.

The calendula and pansies are still blooming–orange and purple splashes still swallowing golden light.

Sometimes my gut knows things before I do.