letters – Lofty Minded in Alaska

An October letter

Hello dear friends,

It’s been a while since I’ve sent a letter out into the world. Not that I haven’t tried. Over the past month or so, I’ve started writing a letter on three different occasions, but in the end they didn’t feel right. There wasn’t anything wrong with what I’d written, per se, but they didn’t really do what I wanted them to do.

I don’t think this is just me being a perfectionist. Writing those unsent letters was time well spent as they got me closer to being able to write this one. We’ll see if this one will make the cut. I feel good about it so far, like maybe I’m finally getting back to center after a summer that knocked me out of balance.

In the letters I didn’t send I wrote about all the summer things. Most everything about my summer was good – camping trips, family visits, farmer’s markets, music festivals, late night dinners with friends, gardening, making fireweed tea – but there were some tough moments, too. Times when I didn’t feel quite as happy as I was pretending to be, and those times are harder to write about. Leaving them out didn’t quite feel honest, though. So I had to rethink my approach to this kind of open letter.

The site of this summer’s family camping trip. Kenai Lake, AK

What I’m realizing now is that these letters aren’t meant to be me telling you about how I’ve filled my days. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) They’re not meant to be newsletters. Rather, I’d like to think of them as connecting points. A moment for me to sit down and say, hey, I’m still out here. My life is busy and full the way yours probably is too, but there’s a whole side of life that isn’t about how busy we are. There’s a side that feels things and tries to make sense of all the nonsensical things we’re witnessing. There’s a side that tries to cope with difficult situations and hard realities.

Of course there are authentically beautiful moments, like this morning: It’s not yet noon as I’m sitting down to this letter and I’ve already spent a few hours reading and writing. Before that, just after rolling out of bed, I took our pup out for a walk in the dark. I forgot to charge the headlamp before we headed out, so I switched it off for several minutes during our walk in order to conserve the battery.

It was quiet out except for a couple of owls hooting back and forth to each other and our feet stepping on the wet gravel and dirt road. The air was cool and damp, no wind. Close to home I could see a few lights from neighboring houses, further away I could see boats on the harbor and the Homer Spit. And stars. In the dark I trusted my pup’s nose to warn me if he noticed anything that I couldn’t see or hear. It was a hit to my senses, considering I’d been snug in my bed just ten minutes earlier.

When I got back home there was a hot drink waiting for me, and Dean had lit a fire in the wood stove. After filling his belly and a walk, our energetic pup was ready to curl up and sleep for a couple of hours, which allowed for the uninterrupted reading and writing time. A rare gift, these days.

Now the sun’s out after two days of intense winds and rain and I’m sitting at my kitchen table looking out the back window at blue sky and the fall landscape, which is beautiful right now in mid-October.

This blissful morning feeling is heightened, no doubt, by the fact that I have nowhere I have to go for the next three days.

You see I feel my best when I have plenty of time at home to read and write, when I have time to get outside and get my blood pumping. I’m happiest when I have time to cook good food and make things from the wild things that grow around here, when I have time to play and listen to music, when I get to choose what I want to do by my mood, the weather, by what sounds most interesting. There’s always plenty to do here, but I when I get to go at my own pace on projects of my own choosing, it doesn’t always feel like work.

I can rise to the occasion when life pulls me in directions that take me away from my center – the way it does here in the summer – but I deeply appreciate when I can center more of my energy toward home. I guess I appreciate a simple life.

I’m not sure that adding a puppy to our lives at the height of summer was the best idea as far as simplicity goes, but that’s what we did. His name is Zuki and we adopted him on July 4^th. Our routines have been adjusted to fit his every need and in return he makes us laugh on days that might otherwise remain very serious. He’s easier going than our previous two dogs and as much as we loved them we’re thankful Zuki likes everyone he meets and wants very much to be a Very Good Boy. He gets us out walking multiple times a day, too, which has its benefits. Watching Dean interact with him has confirmed to me that I am married to a man who should probably always have a dog.

Last month marked 21 years of me working at the Homer Public Library, and lately I’ve been thinking about how the one job has taken me through so many different versions of myself. When I first started my job I was the mom of two adolescents trying to juggle work and parenting and finishing up my bachelor’s degree. My passion at the time was learning to play fiddle. Over time, my kids grew up and went to college and Hawaii and Canada and have had various other adventures. I earned a Master’s degree in Creative Writing. Dean earned a couple of black belts and changed jobs a few times. Now we’ve got a small garden business.

All of this happened while my day job has pretty much stayed the same. It’s funny how life can look the same from year to year on the surface, but really there’s a lot going on underneath. I guess that’s true of the library, too. Most of the books that were on the shelves when I started there all those years ago have been replaced with new ones. The staff has changed. The things we offer and the way we go about doing things is different than it used to be.

There have been times when I’ve wanted to mix it up, when I’ve kept an eye out for a different gig, but this morning when I was reading I remembered the one unchanging thing I’ve loved about my job from the very beginning, which is the constant exposure I have to so many incredible books; books that I might never have seen if I hadn’t spent so much of my life at the library, books that people have dedicated years of their lives to researching and writing, books that have changed my perception and deepened my empathy, books that have taken me to places that my physical body will never visit, books that have put words to truths that I myself couldn’t quite articulate.

There is no end, really, when you start down the book path: it’s endless, expansive, multi-layered, always unfolding. And that’s just the books. Add things like the ocean, and mountains, and human innovation… Add something as big as the idea of God.

You can see why I need some quiet time at home and out in nature just to let all of it settle into my being, to help me discover who it is I’m supposed to be in the enormity of it all. You can also see why I’ve stayed at the library for twenty-one years.

A view from our daily walk. Kachemak Bay, AK

Since books are on my mind, I might as well mention a few standouts that I’ve read since the last time I wrote.

*My favorite book of the year so far is Thirty-Two Words for Field: Lost Words of the Irish Landscape by Manchan Magan. There is so much I could say about this book, but ‘expansive’ is the one word that comes to mind that best encapsulates it. It’s a series of short essays about the Irish language—its history, its origins, its depth, its magic. I borrowed the library copy for my first reading, then I ordered a copy for myself and for a friend so that we can discuss it. If any of you have read it I’d love to hear your thoughts because I’m wondering if this book was uniquely impactful to me, or if it has hit others with a similar strength.

*A Horse at Night: On Writing by Amina Cain. This book, as the subtitle suggests, is for writers, and I’m not sure why it’s not more well-known. Cain is excellent at naming the things that writers do that often go unnamed, and she gives examples—one after another—of novels, plays, films, paintings, etc., that illustrate what she’s naming. If I were teaching a creative writing class, I’d use this as one of the required texts. (Note: This is one of the ones I read from this morning. I found it a couple of weeks ago when I was looking for books to weed from the library collection. It was purchased in 2023 and had never been checked out! How many other gems are out there, hidden in the library stacks?)

*Glimmerings: Letters on Faith between a Poet and a Theologian by Miroslav Volf & Christian Wiman – True confession: Sometimes I read theology books for fun. That’s because I am consumed with big questions about God, the Universe, Divinity, etc., and in fact I find it soothing and hopeful and challenging to contemplate such things. Reading the letters back and forth between the two authors was akin to listening in on a private, honest, and heartfelt conversation between two friends that are seeking deeper truths. There is so much good material in this book for the right person.

*And the last book I’ll mention is Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan. As you can probably see from my book list, I tend to read more nonfiction than fiction, but when I do read a work of fiction as lovely as Small Things Like These, it grabs hold of my heart in a way that nonfiction rarely does. This book is short and I read it in a couple of afternoons when we were camping this summer. It’s beautifully written and it made me want to try my hand at writing fiction again, but more importantly, it’s about a man whose moral compass gave him no choice but to do the right thing. It seems like the kind of story the world needs right now. Some of you have probably already read this book, or seen the movie by the same title? I’m curious about the movie, but I don’t want to watch it if it’s not excellent.

Alright, this letter is already longer than I meant for it to be. (See what happens when I don’t write for a long time?) I’ll wrap it up now with a sincere hope that you are well. Thanks for being out there and for clicking on the link that brought you this letter. I’d love to know what’s been on your hearts and minds lately, what you’ve been reading, or anything else you might like to share. (my email address is tsundmark@protonmail.com)

And now after full day of writing, I’ve finally got a letter that feels like maybe it’s the right one to send.

I’ll post it now, before I change my mind.

With love,

Teresa

Here’s a song I heard randomly on Radio Paradise a few weeks ago. The lyrics are what got my attention. – Two Twins by Switchfoot

A June Letter

Hello everyone,

It’s Thursday morning as I’m sitting down to write this, and as usual I’m not sure where this letter is going to lead. I just know that my days got very full in the last month and sitting down to write a leisurely letter feels a little contrary to the demands of our business, which requires quite a lot from us this time of year. Still though, I see this letter writing as a practice and so I’m taking a deep breath, putting the business and garden chores aside for a couple of hours, and coming back to one of my favorite places, which is in front of a blank page.

How are you? Has anything interesting transpired in your life since I last wrote you in May? I hope that anything that may have come about is interesting in a good way. I know it can go either way.

Here, we’ve literally gone from winter to summer with the summer part really only starting just a couple of weeks ago. Winter was especially cold this year, and it dragged on for an awfully long time and while I aspire to be one of those people who takes whatever Alaska throws at us in stride, I was beginning to despair a bit. Now things are greening up and even though our garden looks a little stunted, it’s at least in the ground and no longer in danger of freezing. I’ve mostly stopped fantasizing about moving to New Mexico, too, now that we’ve had a handful of days in which we haven’t had to light a fire in our wood stove.

I don’t mean to complain. It’s just that sometimes I struggle with the coastal Alaskan climate. I don’t want that to be the case, but it’s reality. There’s a certain fortitude that living here brings out, and in that sense it pushes me to be strong, to dig deep, to put on the right gear and get myself outside in spite of the weather, but sometimes I just want the sun.

A peek inside our sweet little greenhouse.

I’m sure the climate here has shaped me, that the inconvenience of living a rural life of burning wood for heat and hauling drinking water has effected the way I view the world. I know the distance from extended family has granted me the opportunity to know myself in ways I couldn’t have had I not moved up here as a young adult. I wonder how the vastness of it all has influenced my perspective. Who was that 24-year old person that came up here all those years ago? While I’m sure there are personality traits that haven’t changed since then, there are parts of the younger me that I hardly recognize anymore. And that’s one of the reasons I’ve chosen to stay, even when it gets hard. The challenges of this place are worth something. They’ve helped me come to know myself.

It would have happened no matter where I landed, and that’s what makes the idea of up and moving seem appealing at times. What aspects of myself might I come to know in a different environment?

I’m curious to know what places, what people, what experiences have shaped you? What has changed you the most? What fundamental parts of yourself carry through, no matter who you’re with or where you’re at?

Several years ago I was semi-obsessed with learning to play old-time fiddle and it was my first real deep dive. Do you know the kind of deep dive I’m talking about? The kind that keeps you awake at night thinking about it? The kind that makes you lose track of time? The kind you organize your days around? Until then, I’d never experienced anything close to what the psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi termed flow. If I picked up my fiddle, I’d have to set the timer so I wouldn’t be late to pick my kids up from school. I had to be strict with my boundaries about when and how long I’d play so that other parts of my life wouldn’t fall apart. I went to fiddle camp every summer for a few years, and I took every opportunity I could to play tunes with other people. Love for the music and the opportunities to play with other people kept me going, but the deep dive itself filled a need I had at that time in my life.

When I was deep in it I couldn’t imagine that my obsession would fade, but gradually it did. I bring this up now because last week I picked my fiddle up again for the first time in several months. Every time I return to it after a long hiatus I expect to be discouraged, but memory is a remarkable thing and usually I end up feeling pleasantly surprised that whatever gains I made back in the day are still there. The difference is that fiddle playing used to be a social thing for me and now it’s more of an isolated endeavor, and that social piece of it used to be a driving force. I’d practice like mad because I wanted to play well with other people. Now I have to figure out where it fits into my life. I’m still sorting that out, but in the meantime I’ve decided to choose a handful of new tunes to learn. My brain craves the deep focus that learning fiddle tunes offers, so I’ll start there.

And why is it always in the summertime, when there are a million other things going on, that I feel most inspired to play music again? Maybe it’s the manic energy that comes from so much daylight. Maybe it’s because I have so many great memories of playing outdoors with friends in the summer months. Maybe it’s when my brain most needs those moments of deep focus to bring me back into myself. Whatever it is, I’m happy to be playing again.

And speaking of flow and deep focus, writing is the other thing that pulls me in and makes me lose track of time. So I remind myself that this is a letter and not a book.

One of our many Rhodiola plants that is not bothered in the least by our long and cold winters.

What else? I’m currently reading the novel Buckeye, by Patrick Ryan. This particular story takes place during WWII and the years after it ends, and one of the characters in it helps facilitate communication with the dead, which is a topic that fascinates me. There was a scene I just read last night in which this character was visited by a recently-passed friend in a dream. It stuck out to me because I experienced a similar dream last week.

When I was in Colorado for my sister’s memorial service, I learned that a dear friend here in Homer had died and the news hit me hard. We weren’t best friends and we would go long periods of time without seeing each other, but she was a dear friend nonetheless. Our kids grew up together and attended each other’s birthday parties. Our daughters danced together in the Nutcracker. Many years ago we hired a water taxi to take us across the bay for an afternoon of blueberry picking. We each came home with a five gallon bucket full of berries to freeze for the winter. When I heard that she was gone I wished so much that I’d had an opportunity to say goodbye.

But then I had this dream in which she came to talk with me. It felt as real as all the times I ran into her around town. In this dream visit we chatted, we went for a drive together, we acknowledged our friendship, and it made me feel better for not having seen her again before she passed. My friend Ben has popped into my dreams a couple of times, too, to catch up and to remind me that even though he’s dead he’s not fully gone. It’s a mystery that could just be my subconscious mind trying to bring order to things I’ve had a hard time accepting or it could be something more. Either way, these dreams have offered me something valuable and it doesn’t really matter that I can’t explain them with any amount of certainty.

Have any of you had similar dreams or experiences?

Anyhow, that’s a bit of what’s been up with me these last few weeks and I really do need to wrap this up now as the timer I set for myself has just gone off. I hope all is well with you and that your summer is off to a good start. I also hope that you’re making the time to do something that enriches your life and enlivens your soul. And I’d love to know what that is, if you’re willing to share.

Thank you for being out there and for reading another one of my letters. It’s a connection I value very much.

Before signing off completely, I’ll leave you with just a couple more things. First here is a video of three of my fiddle camp teachers playing one of my favorite tunes. Sadly, Trevor, the fiddle player, is no longer with us, but his music lives on and still inspires.

And here’s a poem by Matt Moberg that I came across on Facebook last week that has stuck with me. I found a version of it on another website so those of you who aren’t on Facebook can enjoy it as well. It really is worth the time it takes to read it.

https://pattidigh.substack.com/p/poetry-wednesday-every-human-being

Wishing for you a lovely stretch of time between now and my next letter.

With love,

Teresa

A May Letter

Hello Everyone,

It’s Thursday, May 7^th as I’m finally sitting down to write to you again, and while I’ve been looking forward to writing this particular letter, I’ve also been slow to get it started. That’s because there’s a lot to tell you and as much as I’ve thought about how to string the words together to tell you the story of this past month, I know it’s not going to come out anything like what I imagined.

There is a saying about a finger pointing at the moon. Have you heard this one? The idea is that religion, spiritual teachings, sacred texts, etc. are all just fingers pointing at the moon. The moon is a metaphor for what really matters. I feel the same way about words sometimes. They’re just an approximation, a human interpretation, an attempt at making meaning out of something that’s really too big to make sense of. What am I pointing toward with all of these words?

I’ll start by telling you that my oldest sibling, my sweet, beautiful, intelligent sister Diana died in early April just a couple weeks before her 66^th birthday. Without explaining the details of her medical situation it’s important for the sake of the story to tell you that she was facing a decision about how to proceed with treatment, but her prognosis was positive. In other words, we all expected that we’d have lots more time with her.

But then the night after Easter Sunday she had a cardiac episode that changed everything. CPR was performed on her for about 45 minutes and she was transported to the hospital. She had not gained consciousness by Monday morning and was being kept alive with technology, which is something she did not want. By early afternoon several family members had gathered around to be with her as the life support measures were removed.

I was at work that day and expecting a call around noon to let me know that she had passed.

But things did not go as we thought they would. After my sister was freed from the devices that were keeping her alive and while everyone was waiting for her to take her last breath, she woke up. From Monday afternoon until Wednesday evening, she was back.

A miracle, according to Oxford Languages, is defined as “an extraordinary and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore attributed to a divine agency.” I believe what happened that Monday afternoon fits within the parameters of that definition, and to be sure, the doctors and nurses who were overseeing my sister’s death had to quickly change their plan when Diana’s feet started to warm up and turn pink again, when her vital signs returned to almost normal and when she started answering questions coherently and asking plenty of her own. One doctor told her that he’d never forget her as in all of his years of practice he’d never seen anyone return from what he called “cardiac death.”

We don’t know why she returned the way she did and we don’t really know how, either. But the fact is that her family had more time with her than they thought they would. She got to see her mama, her husband, a couple of her sisters, and her children gathered around her. They got to express their love to her in person. For whatever reason, she was granted that gift, and they were granted that gift, and those of us who weren’t there but were keeping up with her situation were granted that gift. Her reprieve didn’t last as long as we would have liked, but it made her eventual passing just a little bit softer.

A few days ago I came across this line from Richard Rudd: “It is impossible to be indifferent to a miracle.” And it’s quite likely that had I read that line a month ago I would have blown right past it without giving it a second thought. But nowadays I’m paying attention to that word, miracle, when it comes my way.

Taken from Colorado National Monument, just outside of Grand Junction

So a lot has gone on since my last letter. I went back to Grand Junction, Colorado, the town where I was born, to gather with family and attend my sister’s memorial service. The flood of memories, the reconnecting with so many cousins and second cousins and old friends and old familiar places has me feeling pensive. Of course I’m sad, but I’m also grateful to be here, you know? Grateful for small things, like trekking up the road with the wind in my face to check the mail, and for those first green chives that are popping up in our garden after a long winter, and for homemade strawberry jam to sweeten my morning yogurt.

Sometimes, especially when my heart is feeling tender, every little thing feels like a miracle. I mean, isn’t it a miracle that any of us are here at all? That we’re walking around in these bodies that are performing a trillion different tasks all at once without us even having to think about it?

And then one day it all ends. The biological parts of our body cease to function. But that energy that fueled all of those trillions of tasks, where does it go? Science tells us that energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred. So the energy that fueled my sister’s body, the stuff that made her alive, still exists, and I choose to take comfort in that.

On our way back to Denver from Grand Junction, Dean and I stopped at Glenwood Hot Springs and soaked in the mineral-rich waters there for a couple of hours. The first hour was perfect and the second hour was almost perfect until I started thinking about how long it might be before I get to soak in a hot springs again. You see, I love a good hot springs soak. They even occupy my dreams with some regularity. And sadly, while the Kenai Peninsula of Alaska has tremendous offerings in the way of natural beauty and outdoor experiences, there are no hot springs here. The good news is that we’ve started planning a hot springs tour/road trip around the western United States for our next getaway. Please let me know if you have any favorites we should add to our itinerary.

One thing that my sister had that my niece so graciously passed on to me is a five-year diary that belonged to my paternal grandmother. Grandma Ross wasn’t one for writing down her deepest thoughts or concerns, but she kept a record of her days; mostly of who she visited with, a few things she accomplished, and the weather.

Here are a couple of entries:

* March 4, 1966 Been pretty nice a little chilly. I baked bread got ironing done. Clarence took a walk. We got a letter from Melvin and Veda. They sent a picture of baby he sure is cute. It’s 25 after 9.

* November 23, 1963 Been nice a little chilly, about all the news on Radio today has been about President Kennedy. Sure feel sorry about it. Don, Mary and LaDawn came by ate supper with us.

I suspect that Grandma Ross wasn’t writing in her diary for anyone but herself, and she wasn’t trying to tell a story of any kind, but there’s a lot to be learned from the simplest of entries. My biggest takeaway is just how connected she was on a daily basis to her adult children and her grandchildren. They visited, shared meals, looked in on one another, and helped each other out nearly every day of the year.

Remembering my Grandma Ross and seeing her diary entries and her notations about every visit and correspondence brings me to something fun that I’ve been wanting to do for a while.

I’d like to encourage you to write a letter, a card, or a postcard to someone you care about, and send it to them in the mail. If writing isn’t your thing, an in-person visit or a meaningful phone or Zoom call will work. In certain situations, email might be the most practical. The point isn’t the tool you use to connect with another person, but the connecting itself. I haven’t always been the best at keeping in touch, but I have sent a few letters out in recent months, one of which was to my sister Diana. Now I’m so glad I did.

If you do send out a letter, place a long overdue phone call or visit someone you’ve been meaning to catch up with between now and June 4^th, send me a quick note via email to let me know and I’ll enter you into a drawing for a giveaway. On June 5^thI’ll randomly choose a name from all the entries and I’ll send (or deliver) the winner some of our Twin Fish Gardens tea. You don’t need to provide any proof because I trust you. I also promise not to fill your email with anything unrelated to this little giveaway.

Here’s my email: tsundmark@protonmail.com

Okay, I’ve gone on for quite a long time here, and I need to get on to other things now. (Rest assured, it’s not ironing.) As always, I love hearing from you, so please reach out if you’d like to. If you hit “comment” on the WordPress page, your post will be public. If you’d rather reach out privately, you can use the email above.

Thank you for being on the receiving end of my letters. Until next time, keep your eyes open for miracles.

With love,

Teresa

*On my flight down to Colorado, I read The Correspondent by Virginia Evans. It’s a novel that’s composed entirely of letters and as such has been recommended to me by several people. I didn’t know much about it when I chose that book to read on the airplane, but the main character’s life is largely shaped by grief. Don’t let that heavy subject matter scare you though, because really it’s about healing. The author unpacks the story beautifully and if you’re one of the few people who hasn’t already read this book, I highly recommend it.

*Speaking of miracles: Here is something lovely that was made from something ordinary. My friend Mary left a voicemail for her son, Clinton, and he put it to music. It’s called “Miracles.” Thank you Clinton Edminster for giving me permission to share it. (You’ll probably need Facebook in order to see this one.)

*And one last thing. When I was back in Colorado, my sister Karen shared an album of photos that she took when she was ten years old. It’s a throwback to the days before you could take a hundred pictures and delete all but the best ones, which to me makes this one perfect. It’s me with my sister Diana, my dad, and my Grandma Ross posing with our Christmas presents.

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.