Category: Nature

anything with living things in it

Memory Triggers Inspiration

Sometimes it takes just a little bit of luck and sometimes you just happen on to something that brings with it a whole flood of memories. Thanks to someone I met two years ago at Silver Lake Sandbox when I visited Michigan, I stumbled on her FaceBook post announcing this new book by Ann Chandler. Terri was kind enough not to just get Ann to sign the book for me but also put us in touch with each other. Two days later I held the book in my hands.

Yesterday I dug through a box of old photos from my dad and found a bunch of shots from the early 50s. Then came the memories. Dunes, dune scooters, swimming, sunburns, bonfires, the lost village, rowboats, speedboats and platoons and my little green toy truck lost under all that sand. Strange sometimes what comes to mind.

Meanwhile, there is a short reference to the Silver Lake dunes in my upcoming memoir. It’s a meditation of sorts that gets me through difficult times:

I was six years old when I first climbed the razor back dune behind the cottages where we spent our summer days. I never once gave up in my climb to reach the top of that shifting sand and that struggle later came to represent the struggles in my life, literally two steps forward and one step back, but  it was that stubborn step forward that counted.

I sit on top of the tallest sand dune between Silver Lake and Lake Michigan and feel as though I have reached the top of the world. To my right is Silver Lake, a mirror shining within a frame of small cottages. To my left is Lake Michigan, big as an ocean stretching into infinity.

I feel the warmth of the midday sun, burying my bare feet under the hot layer of sand. I lie back and sink into the fine white sand, cradled in its soft formations, snug and safe. I close my eyes.

I am quiet as my mind clears, letting go of the daily trials, giving them up to a power greater than myself. I listen patiently, waiting for some guidance. Sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn’t. It will happen in God’s time, not mine.

My mind is at peace and my body follows. I am safe, comfortable and everything is good. I know that all will be well.

Gently I return to life, opening my eyes ever so slowly. I roll to my side and push off, tumbling down the dunes, free from my burdens, ready for action.

As I rise to standing, I look up to the top. Then turn and walk away knowing that I can return anytime, anyplace.

20 Minutes and Turkeys

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Returning to California summer after eight days of tropical greenery and wide open beaches of Kauai shocks the body into reality. Temps reached 100 here today. It seems hotter than the humid 85 in Kauai. I long to plunge into the ocean. I’d settle for a pool which gives me second thoughts about the burial of our pool a few years ago.

The sunrise alarm of Kauai’s colorful roosters is replaced with these turkey youngsters outside my bedroom window calling for their mom. They spent the morning with cries of abandonment. Maybe mama turkey couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe she needed a morning off. Late morning we heard her call, far off down the hillside. I watched the young ones mindfully waddle down the driveway.

So why did I include “20 Minutes” in my title? Because the last four weeks I committed to the exercise of writing 20 minutes a day. Everyday but Sunday. I managed to do this in spite of an eight day vacation proving to myself that I can find 20 minutes out of 24 hours. Not always easy, and sometimes writing into the late hours, but the course is complete. I thank my instructor, Len, from Story Circle Network for offering this class. Len offers a binder full of lessons, generous feedback and gentle reminders. If you need inspiration, go there. Check it out. You won’t be disappointed.

I can’t promise 20 Minutes a day posted here. My priority is to finish the first draft of my memoir before Labor Day. But, you can be sure I will be writing 20 minutes a day somewhere.

I think I hear the turkeys calling. Later.

 

Mountains of Memories

 

Shoes to WhitneyThere’s Mt. Whitney dirt buried beneath the layer of dust on these boots. Nearly twenty years after the journey they remain under the nightstand, waiting for the next trek. I had planned to hike the trail again but the reality of that is improbable. Now I see the boots and bandana as trophies of past adventures – checks Mt Whitney ledgeoff the bucket list of goals.

I reflect on that elation I once felt at the top of this world. The photo proof of accomplishment feeds my mind with encouragement, staving off the inner critic as I work on my current goal to finish the memoir, one switchback at a time.

The process of writing the memoir is like climbing that mountain. We begin at the bottom, working on the arc of the story – the path to the top and then down again. I set the milestones.

  • Permits – getting permission
  • Training – learning the best way
  • Advice – finding a coach who has been there
  • Mirror Lake – reflecting on the memories
  • Trailside Meadows – feeling the effects but pushing on
  • Trail Camp – regenerating
  • 97 Switchbacks – penning the points in the arc
  • Trail Crest – seeing the other side
  • Summit – the first draft
  • 97 Switchbacks – editing, cutting back
  • Return to the Portal – exhausted but exhilarated
  • Buying the “I Climbed Mt Whitney T-Shirt” – the reward

I am at Trailside Meadows. Where are you in your journey?