letters – Lofty Minded in Alaska

An April Letter

Hello Dear Friends,

I’ve started three letters since the last one I sent out, but none of them seemed quite right for sending. But something about today feels different, so I’ll attempt this again. I’m writing this one on a Friday morning. I’ve got a whole day ahead of me and the sky is clear and just before sitting down in front of my computer I saw a photo of this amazing planet that we live on, taken by the Artemis II crew from the spacecraft Orion. Despite all that’s wrong with us here on Earth, the image sparked something in me and I’m still trying to identify exactly what it was. Maybe writing this letter will help.

Photo courtesy of NASA (If you look real close, you can even see the northern lights!)

On Wednesday evening, I attended a PechaKucha event sponsored by the Bunnell Street Arts Center at Homer’s locally owned Porcupine Theater. I learned that pecha kucha means something akin to chit chat in Japanese and that the PechaKucha formula for presenting allows each presenter twenty images and twenty seconds per image to tell a story of their choosing. Of the ten presenters that evening, I either know or have met nine of them, so for me it was an opportunity to get to know them better. But even if I hadn’t known any of them, it would have been an enlightening evening. I came away feeling inspired and reminded of the power of stories. A bonus to the evening was that I got to see the full moon rise over the mountains on my way home. I stopped to snap some photos from my phone to add to my collection of attempts at capturing the awe that the moon inspires in me and you’d think I’d have learned by now that there is no way a photo can replicate what a moonrise can offer in real life, but for some reason I always feel compelled to try.

Taken on my drive home, just before 10:00pm

Knowing what I know about how photos of the moon never do the moon justice, I can’t help but wonder what it was like for the astronauts to see Earth from space. I’m glad they have photos to share, but can you imagine what it must feel like to see our planet as an actual planet with your own eyes? I’m reminded of the story of five blind people with their hands on different parts of an elephant, each unable to grasp the entirety of the complete animal. The astronauts, with their distance, get to see the whole elephant. I hope the rest of us can glean something from their experience.

This morning I was reading about inertia from a book called Gene Keys, by Richard Rudd. According to Rudd, when we are caught in patterns of inertia we become addicted to trivia, which he defines as “details and trappings extraneous and unnecessary to our lives.” He states that “unless it is either beautiful or practical, it can safely be classified as trivia.” His point was that if we expend too much of our precious energy on things that don’t matter, on trivial things, we end up spinning our wheels or going in circles, never actually moving forward on our path. It all seemed relevant a few minutes later when I got online and saw the NASA photo. From a cosmic perspective, our squabbles and aspirations to acquire power and resources down here on Earth seem pretty darn trivial.

My own inertia is something I can work on, but global inertia? Where do we even start? I don’t have any answers, but since starting with myself is the only option I have I’ve been thinking about how best to spend my energy. What matters and will propel me forward? What doesn’t matter and will keep me in a pattern of spinning my wheels? It’s not like I know what’s ahead for me, I just know that I’ll never find out if I’m stuck on a loop.

I mentioned to a friend the other night that I feel like I’m in the process of emerging from a shell. After a lot of years of being extroverted, whether by choice or by default, I was tired, and in 2020, when I was given permission to hole up for a while, I felt a sense of relief that I hadn’t seen coming. I got really comfortable with staying home over the next few years, which isn’t at all a bad thing, but as I was opting out of attending or participating in most things, I was inadvertently disconnecting from a community that I actually care a great deal about. So now I’m also inching out into the world again, expending some of that extroverted energy again, but more deliberately than before. It feels good to be finding my way back.

How about you? How have you been spending your energy? Are you good with what you’re doing? I don’t mean this in terms of accomplishing things. I’m just thinking about expending life energy. And since energy is always flowing, I know that it changes over the course of our lives. This makes me think about my sister, Marla, who just finished rowing the Grand Canyon for her sixth time. And my friend Matt, who in addition to working full time, taking classes, and tending to his family, makes a point of hosting a neighborhood breakfast every Sunday morning before going to church. And my own husband, Dean, who starts most of the days of his life with a qi gong practice. These are just a few examples of people who’ve prioritized putting their energy toward what matters to them. What matters to you?

Anyhow, there’s a lot more to be said about energy and how we expend it, but I’ll move on.

A few beautiful things worth mentioning:

*I went to two live music performances at the Mariner Theater, one was by a trio from Quebec called Bon Débarras. They play traditional Quebecois folk music with a few modern twists thrown in. Their show got my feet moving and inspired me to pull my own fiddle off the wall and play a bit, which reminded me that to be a decent fiddle player one has to actually spend some time (and energy) on playing.

I’d like to spend more time and energy on music.

The next performance was the Homer High School Concert Choir’s production of the musical Footloose. I imagine that every high school musical is wonderful in its own way, but in Homer they border on being magical. The young people on stage sang and danced and acted their hearts out, and those of us in the audience beamed as much love and support and pride their way as we possibly could. My advice is that if you are ever feeling disheartened about the state of humanity, go see a small town high school musical.

*It may seem small and ordinary, but Spring Equinox has come and gone, and the deep freeze that had a tight grip on much of Alaska for much of the winter has finally broken. It’s nice to be able to go outside without the air hurting my face. The ground is still solidly frozen, but that’s starting to change which is good because in front of our windows we’ve got a summer’s worth of plants started and at some point we’ll need to put them in the soil.

On a less than beautiful note, the deeply frozen ground has been shifting and as a result our house cracked. I think the problem is more cosmetic than it is structural, but still it says something about how unusual this winter has been with its lack of snow and its long stretches of cold.

*When I wrote my first letter to you all back in January, I didn’t fully anticipate how it would change the shape of my year, but it has. I’ve received so many personal notes, so many replies, so many in-person hugs, and so much encouragement. One friend even sent me a gift. (Thank you, Joe.) In the past this would have seemed overwhelming to me, but I’m learning something important from this and it’s that my heart has a greater capacity for giving and receiving love than my mind thinks it does. With love there is always more room, there is always more energy, and this letter writing journey feels expansive.

We’re only into April, but already this year seems to be teaching me about what it means to be tender in this world. A few people that I love are going through some of life’s hardest things: illness, the loss of a beloved son, sitting with a life partner who is dying, saying goodbye to family pets. And I’m having to surrender to the fact that no matter how profound my empathetic impulses are, certain things that are beyond my ability to fix. Intellectually I’ve known this to be true, but my mind has taken a while to figure out that its job is secondary in these situations. My heart knows its vocation though, and it’s been reminding me that when I’m at a loss as to how to be there for people, it will do the heavy lifting, as long as I let it.

So I’ve been trying to open my heart in ways that are new to me. That means opening it to the pain of others. It means opening it to great sadness. It also means opening it up to all the beauty that’s positioned alongside some of life’s hardest things.

I don’t think we’re here to understand why life is the way that it is, but rather to let the experience of living it teach us how to love. And there’s always so much more to learn.

Now I should wrap this letter up. I’ve got to go experience cleaning up my kitchen. I’ve got to get outside and feel the sun on my skin. I’ve got to get started on my taxes and get cracking on blending and packaging some tea.

Thank you for reading this letter and for going down this road with me. I’m more grateful for you than you can possibly know. If you feel inclined to share, I’d love to know what’s been on your mind, or even better, what’s been poking at your heart.

Sending love until next time,

Teresa

And because you know I can never just say goodbye the first time, here are three more things:

First, Dean and I have been dipping our toes into the Gene Keys lately. It’s a system for self-knowing (think the Enneagram system, but also totally different.) It’s far too much for me to explain here, but if you’re interested, here’s a link that describes what it’s all about. It’s not a religion or a cult or anything scary like that, but it is a little esoteric, or woo woo, if you’re open to such things. 🙂 https://www.rewildbydesign.com/blog/gene-keys-explained

Next, one of my friends, Mercedes Harness, who presented at the PechaKucha event the other night, has a Substack that I hope you’ll check out. Here’s a link to an essay in which she describes her project. Those of you who have a history or ties to Homer, AK will really enjoy her writing. https://mercedesoleary.substack.com/p/project-update-backstory-readers

And lastly, here’s a song for the ages. Crank it up loud. Play it on repeat.

An Early March Letter

A nearly full moon over the Kenai Mountains

Dear Friends – friends in real life, family members, acquaintances, neighbors, old friends, friends I’ve yet to meet, and friends that I’ll likely never cross physical paths with,

I hope this letter finds you. Usually that sentence would end with another word, and of course I hope you are well when this letter finds you, but what I really hope is that this letter finds you and contributes in some way to your wellness. Can a letter do such a thing? I’d like to think so.

At first with this new letter writing endeavor I’ve embarked upon, I thought I’d write once a month, maybe on each full moon. But I got impatient and wanted to write more often than that, so I thought I’d try both when the moon as at its brightest and again when it’s at its darkest. This week as the full moon approached I realized that sadly, my work schedule doesn’t coincide with the cycles of the moon. So here I am a few days past the full moon, with my full moon intentions still in place but with the realities of my work life taken into consideration so that I don’t stress myself out. I’m not sure what compels me to set arbitrary schedules for myself. I know that real life doesn’t work like that, that things come up, that sometimes there’s just not enough time in the work week to do the things I want to do, that time is just a human construct and nothing actually hinges on when I send my letters out into the world.

That’s a lot of words to tell you that I’ve been looking forward to doing this. I’ve been waiting for this moment, when I’m home and have a quiet afternoon with no chores or obligations so pressing that I can’t sit down and write for a while. These letters give me an excuse to do that, so thank you.

As many of you know, I’m big on journal writing. I don’t do it every day, but I when I do take the time to fill a page or two, my days are noticeably better. It’s a way for me to be intentional about where to direct my thoughts, and that feels good when my thoughts are so easily pulled to places I don’t want them to go. When I’m writing, I’m listening to myself, and if I don’t like what I’m hearing it’s up to me to change the script. In that way it’s been a source of self-therapy and I’ve learned to speak kindly to those blank pages, even about difficult subjects.

Journal writing is writing I don’t plan on sharing. It’s where I’m at my most honest and vulnerable and ridiculous. It’s where I make wild declarations and then set about trying to defend my position. It’s where I try out ideas to see if they feel true. Most importantly, I think, it keeps me in touch with myself, which is presumably not something that everyone needs, but I do. I have a tendency to dissolve into my surroundings and the people around me, but journal writing keeps me right here, with myself.

This letter writing is about sharing some of myself with you, with the hope that it’s not a one-sided affair. I crave conversation about things that are real, and the conversations I have with myself in my journal can only go so far. There are things I need from other people, and you, dear readers, are some of those other people.

Since my last letter I’ve been to Georgia and Florida and back, again. Being the homebody that I am, two trips Outside (Alaska terminology for the lower 48 states) in just two months felt like a lot and it messed with my sense of time, as if time only passes when I’m fully enmeshed in my day-to-day life and familiar routines.

On this trip I sat beside the Atlantic Ocean on a warm day and I saw a tortoise eating carrots in the sand dunes. I walked on a sandy trail with my youngest sister, the one of my six siblings that I’ve spent the least amount of time with, and we reminisced about our grandmother and other people from our common history. I randomly met a man at the condominium where we stayed who knew my nephew. He and his wife frequented The Salty Pelican, the restaurant where Ellijah waited tables until his untimely death. They were especially attuned to his passing because they’d lost an adult daughter just a couple of years earlier. They understood the way a family’s world can be shattered but that time keeps on moving forward. They were moving forward, he said, but with tender hearts and frequent tears.

On this trip I ate more Southern food than a person ought to eat in a week and a half and I minimally helped Dean build a compost bin in our daughter’s garden. He did the bulk of the work while I recorded birds from my Merlin Bird ID app and moved the lawn chair around the yard to follow the sun. I strolled through the Atlanta Botanical Gardens and marveled at the orchids and the climate controlled rooms full of tropical plants. Before heading home we shopped at the Dekalb Farmer’s Market and loaded up on spices and various other goodies that will tide us over until our next trip to Atlanta.

I thought it would be hard to come home to the cold, but it hasn’t been bad. And there’s something that comes over me when I’m on the road headed back to Homer. If you live here, you likely know what I’m talking about. You leave Anchorage on the Seward Highway and somewhere along the Turnagain Arm you start to feel giddy, especially when it’s almost March and the mountains are white and the sky is blue. You feel yourself breathing deeply again. You remember why you live in this place where winter lasts for so many months. You even feel a little special for calling this place home.

Now we’re here again, and the spring equinox energy is building. We’re thinking ahead to summer markets. We’ve got celery and onion seedlings in our windows. Even though it’s cold and our immediate world is frozen solid, we’re gaining daylight. Not so much that we can’t see the stars in their full glory on clear nights, but enough to no longer need headlights on the commutes to and from work each day.

And what about you? What’s transpired in your life over the past couple of weeks? Has anything given you a glimpse of something bigger than all the petty nonsense that we humans seem to inflict upon one another? Have you seen or experienced anything that’s revealed a deeper sense of truth or beauty? I hope so.

Here are a few noteworthy things from me:

*Something re-piqued my interest in biodynamic farming recently and I wanted to learn more about it. That evening when Dean and I sat down and looked for something to watch, we did an internet search that led us to this video. Biodynamic Farming – Strange Ritual or Regenerative Future? It’s in Swedish with English subtitles, and the song at the end is what really hooked us. This film led us to binge watch more of the Campfire Stories films created by the Swedish filmmaker, Mattias Olsson. We’ve felt a little sensitive lately in terms of the media we consume, and these films feel just right. I learned that the filmmaker was greatly influenced by Charles Eisenstein, whose writing and philosophy has had a big impact on me over the past decade. So it makes sense that these films would resonate.

*The day after I learned that my nephew died, I walked Bishop’s Beach in search of a rock that I could take with me to Florida to his memorial. I stuffed it in my bag and promptly forgot about it. But lucky for me I got to go back again for a second trip. I thought that if the right moment came along I’d deposit the rock onto the beach of the Atlantic Ocean, or pass it along to just the right person.

We were at Boneyard Beach one evening with family when I noticed my three-year-old great-nephew Ezra picking up rocks to inspect them. Clearly it was the right moment and I’d found the right person for the rock. I figured that as a little guy he’d carry it for a few minutes and then drop it or throw it into the ocean or something along those lines, which would have been just fine. But Ezra, in fact, loved that rock. He showed it to everyone and he carried it around for the entire evening and even had it in his pocket the following day. He gave me this rock as a gift in return and though it may look like an average stone to you, it’s far from that to me.

*Since I’ve been home I’ve had trouble sleeping, and when I do sleep I keep having vivid, memorable dreams, which is unusual for me. They’ve included dramatic rock slides, giant waves battering the shore, earthquakes that shake things apart, and colorful, celebratory parades, to name a few. Interestingly, the dreams with the natural disasters haven’t been fearful. I don’t know if these dreams mean anything, but they’ve felt personally significant and have given me lots to consider, which helps make up for the fact that I’m tired most of the time. 🙂

Have any of you experienced periods of heightened dream activity? If so, I’m curious to know what that was like for you and what you made of it, if anything.

So far in this letter I’ve avoided writing about war, which I know is a huge weight on the collective psyche. My opinions on the matter don’t change anything. No amount of personal sorrow, frustration, anger, or dismay will bring an end to the conflicts that are raging around the world. That’s not how any of this works. But a certain phrase has entered my mind and I keep mulling it over. I am not at war.

I’m holding it as an ideal and as a challenge. I’m repeating it as a mantra, as it brings me back to a space of love. I’m using it to claim my emotional independence from powers that don’t represent me or my values. In that way it’s not so different than a prayer. It’s a small thing, and it’s unlikely to change anything for the people whose lives are truly at stake, but it’s a way for me to assert some control over my own heart and mind. I am not at war.

Thank you for being out there and thank you for reading my long letter. I hope you’ll stay in touch. Please take good care of yourselves and listen to what your heart is telling you.

With love,

Teresa

A February New Moon Letter

Hello Dear Friends,

How could I not write a letter on this day that is so many different days wrapped into one, all having to do with the new moon. It’s Chinese New Year. (Welcome to the Year of the Fire Horse!) It’s Fat Tuesday. There’s even an annular solar eclipse which is not something most of us will be able to see from where we’re at but is still pretty cool.

Living next to the ocean in a place where the tidal fluctuations are extreme has helped me tune in to the moon’s cycles. Now the full and new moons mean the highest and lowest tides. They signal when it’s most beneficial to plant our garden. And of course there’s the direct tie to the cycles of women’s bodies. Did any of you ever read the historical novel, The Red Tent, by Anita Diament? It’s the fictional characterization of Dinah, the daughter of Jacob and Leah of the Old Testament. It came out in 1997 and it also influenced the way I think about the moon. It might be time to revisit that one.

That’s the trouble with books. There are many I’d like to read and there are many I’d like to re-read, but time is limited. Sigh…

In library lingo, there is something we call reader’s advisory. When a person walks in the door and wants help choosing a book, our job is to advise them. It’s one of the best parts about working in the library and it’s also one of the hardest, for a lot of different reasons. Sometimes a person doesn’t really know what they want and we have to ask the right questions in order help them figure out what they’re after. Sometimes they don’t offer a lot of information to work with, which is what happened to a coworker of mine this week.

This week a young person, probably around age 20, wanted my coworker to help them choose a book. But in this case, the person stated that they’d never read a book.

I don’t think it’s unusual for a twenty year old to have never read a book. Most everyone is a reader in one way or another, but not everyone is a book reader. And just because a person hasn’t read a book doesn’t mean that they can’t. In the case of this person, the time had come for them, and for whatever reason, they were ready.

Just the idea of helping a young adult choose their first book fills me with anxiety because I wouldn’t want to get it wrong. What if I suggested a book that was so off-putting to them that they never wanted to read another one? What if it was too long or uninteresting to them and they never finished it? What if it offended them in some way or reading it felt like a waste of their time?

Enjoying and finishing that first book seems important because if you’re a book reader you know the potential the book world holds. The hope is that this first time book reader would want to come back for more. But what’s compelling to one person might not be compelling to another, which is where making a recommendation can be tricky.

Which has had me thinking about what book I might have recommended had the patron asked me for help.

It would be helpful to know their interests, what kind of movies they enjoy, what kind of story they’re hoping for, but in this case the patron didn’t offer much. This is the sort of dilemma that keeps librarians awake at night.

I was later to the reading game, too. My brain popped around a lot and sitting still for long enough to read a book wasn’t in my nature as a young person. The kinds of books that first hooked me on reading aren’t necessarily the ones I’d gravitate toward now, but they served their purpose. They got me to settle in for a while and get lost in a story that wasn’t my own, and that getting lost and learning about the experiences of others, whether it was couched in fiction or nonfiction, was the part that kept me coming back to books.

I honestly don’t know what book I would have suggested. You almost can’t go wrong with true stories told well, so I might have steered them toward Shadows on the Koyukuk, a memoir of Sidney Huntington (co-authored by Jim Rearden) growing up along Alaska’s Koyukuk River. I don’t even remember the details of the book, but I remember the impact it had on me when I read it all those years ago.

If this first time book reader had preferred fiction I might have suggested A Psalm for the Wild Built, a novella by Becky Chambers. It’s short and sweet, hopeful and heartfelt, and it’s the only book that two different people have placed in my hand and said, “you should read this.” Their reasons for giving the book to me probably had to do with the fact that the main protagonist is a tea maker, but I think the story holds up even for those who aren’t.

Of course there is much to consider when making book suggestions, and sometimes all you can go on is vibes. I’m willing to bet that my coworker offered excellent suggestions.

Do any specific titles come to your mind for an adult first time book reader?

I don’t have a whole lot of personal news since my last letter, which is not a bad thing after January. The world news is a lot to process and I’m trying to read and stay informed without letting the enormity of it all absorb into my being. Some days I’m more successful with that than others.

It’s hard when horrible truths are exposed, whether that thing we wish weren’t true is in our personal lives or global. But I’m of the belief that knowing is better than not knowing, and that when our systems -whether they be family, health care, food, financial, religious, or governmental, etc.,- are tainted with abuse and corruption, that rot trickles down. We might not be able to name it, but I believe the sensitive among us can feel it. The atmosphere feels heavy with it right now.

I like to imagine what it would feel like to not feel like so many of our systems are tainted. I think that’s why I like to grow a garden, and write letters, and make tea from the wild plants I can forage. It’s why I like to play music with friends and go to potlucks. It’s why I feel comfortable at Quaker meetings and farmer’s markets and around the kitchen tables of close friends.

What do you do to keep yourself feeling connected to what’s good in this world?

Here are a couple of things I’ve enjoyed recently that I’d like to share with you:

*Our friend Robert Walsh hosts two radio shows a week on our local public radio station, KBBI, and has done so for the past several years. His love for music and his dedication to these shows is truly inspiring, and whenever we tune in we’re glad we did. Producing the shows is a volunteer effort on Robert’s part, and a big one at that. The shows are Set Net, which airs at 7:00pm every Saturday night and Drifter’s Escape which airs every Wednesday at 9:00pm. Both can be streamed from anywhere at KBBI.org.

It’s a rare thing to hear a friend’s voice on the radio and know that he’s put his heart and soul into creating a curated listening experience for anyone who happens to tune in. What a gift.

*I recently discovered a podcast called The Sacred Slope. It’s described as being “for the spiritually tender – those searching for healthier expressions of our global Christian faith and deconstructing harmful theology.” The few episodes I’ve listened to have been thought-provoking and entertaining. I would recommend the episode with April Ajoy (season 2, episode 6) for anyone who wants to hear a good conversation between two Christians who are concerned about Christian nationalism.

Thank you for reading my letters. Writing them feels good, and hearing back from you feels even better. Please feel free to share them with anyone you’d like, and if reading them inspires you to write or call or text someone you’ve been meaning to connect with, please take this as your cue to do it. If you’re like me, reaching out to people can sometimes feel overwhelming, maybe because a lot of time has passed or maybe because there are so many people to choose from, but you can start small. Just think of one person you’d like to say hello to, and let them know you’re thinking about them. I’ve discovered that time spent connecting with friends or family is time well spent, and it’s way better for my spirit than doom scrolling.

Anyhow, I’ll see you again when the moon is full. Until then I wish for you to have plenty of good food, good sleep, a few good belly laughs, and time to do something that brings you joy.

With love,

Teresa

Here’s the song “Stuff that Works” by Guy Clark to leave you with. Somehow it feels just right, right now.

If you’d ever like to reach me personally, you can email me at tsundmark@protonmail.com.