Tag: time

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.

A gift from Ezra

*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

Five-Acre Almanac: Good Time

Week 12

I’ve been thinking about time this week. This started because Monday was Alaska Day, which meant that I got an extra day added onto my weekend. I spent most of the day alone at home. I wrote in my journal. I spent some time in the garden mulching and picking carrots. I even made a batch of cottonwood salve. Because the house was already clean and I’d already written my blog post for the week and I didn’t have to go to work, the day had enough space in it for me to follow my whims and do whatever I felt like doing. I even let myself imagine what my life would be like if I had more days like that. Would I squander my time if I were suddenly given more of it or would I make good use of it? And what does it mean to make good use of time?

When I was a kid it was pointed out to me more times than I care to remember that I was slow. I didn’t know how to use time wisely. I was the slowest to get the chores done, the slowest to get ready for church on Sunday mornings, the slowest to get my thoughts sorted out before speaking, the slowest one in the bathroom I shared with my older sisters. In general I was the slowest at everything and was reminded of it often. I dawdled. I lollygagged. I putzed around. It hurt to be labeled that way, especially in the context in which it was usually delivered, but it was true.

The truth is that slowness suits me and it’s unfortunate that as a child I was given the message that moving through life in a lower gear was somehow bad. It means that I’ve had to learn how to make peace with this fundamental trait of mine and I’ve had to forgive myself for not being able to fit as many things into a day as some of the people around me. I’ve also had to quiet that inner voice that is always criticizing, always hurrying, always comparing. In a society that measures success in terms of productivity, I’ve had to remember that there’s value in just being.

As part of my practice of spending at least twenty minutes outside each day I’ve been taking the opportunity to sit beside the old birch tree in our yard when I have time in the mornings, or go to the beach on my lunch break, or stand out in the dark for a while and gaze at the stars. Originally my goal was to be outdoors in order to get some fresh air and to add some variety to my days during this time of year when it’s easy to spend so much time inside, but as valuable as the fresh air and change of scenery are, I’m learning that they are greatly enhanced when I place the emphasis of the experience on the being itself. The temptation is to multitask—make phone calls, exercise, write in my journal—anything to make me feel like I’m making good use of my time outside. But multitasking would only diminish the moment. What I need is to be. Where I need to be is outside. At least for a while every day.

I’ve only been deliberate about being outside for a while each day for a couple of weeks, but it’s something I’d be wise to continue. When I’m feeling hurried or overwhelmed I have a still point to reference and that still point comes to me even when I’m not intentionally trying to summon it. There’s also an unexpected sense of intimacy that comes with surrendering my thoughts and ambitions for a few moments to nature. Even when I’m alone I don’t feel alone.

Then there are the gifts that are not necessarily given as much as they are received simply because I’ve put myself in a state to receive them. Like the silence of morning before the neighborhood gets busy. Like the cool and damp air settling on my face at dawn. Like the seal that popped up to say hello a few feet away from me at Bishop’s Beach on my lunch break. Like the three shooting stars I saw the other morning because I happened to be out and looking up at the right time.

The automatic response to these kinds of gifts is gratitude, and the beauty of gratitude is that it has the ability to push aside desire. For a while I’m not thinking about the things I want to get done or the ways I wish society would change or the time I wish I had. I can’t help but think that this is how time is meant to be spent. Free of wanting, deep in gratitude.