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.
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.
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.
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.
Lofty Minded in Alaska 