Is This Why Woolly Mammoths are Extinct?

Our life is a line with commas, semi-colons, question marks, asterisks, and many exclamations. I am not ready to place a period on this special line as doing so will seem as if I am giving up on growth and experiences and, of course, making memories. 

This brings me to when I recently said, “yes, sure, why not” when my daughter found us a rustic cabin for a night’s stay in during this particularly difficult, windy, snowy and icy winter. There would be no electricity or running water, she tentatively warned.

The reasoning for this trip was to get closer to where she had to present a program early the next morning – when we knew the weather would change from miserable to almost dangerous. She knew I would not let her travel alone so asked me to go with her.

What do you pack for a night in a state park’s rustic cabin with no electricity, when wind gusts were predicted into the 30-50 mph range? Sleeping bags, blankets, water, lanterns, and games. My husband made me a fresh pot of coffee which he bundled up in a thermos. We were told there would be a vault toilet – excellent! But the night would be free as the camping had closed down for the season.

True to the weather report, we were blowing all over the place on our way to the cabin – entering the state park we still had to travel another almost two miles on icy roads to the farthest reaches. Our cabin, cozy, was situated on a higher spot along trails. We unpacked our supplies, claimed our spots to relax, and then booted up for a walk on the trail. Wind gusts were a good 35 mph at this time and the trails were icy, some impassible. As we stood on the trail we heard crunching noises and saw a golden lab come out of the snowy pathway with a man also exiting the surreal blizzard-like pathway. We chatted momentarily, his dog, Mika, licked at our hands but was eager to continue his hike with the master. That was the last contact with humanity we had! Now, we were on our own – my daughter and I – in the middle of nowhere. 

The evening was interesting as the trips to “the vault” were a production of bundling, grabbing a walking stick as the wind was wickedly trying to trip us up. My daughter read me a chapter in the science fiction book she was reading, and I read her a chapter of my current book. We chattered on as the wind whistled around the cabin, shaking the roof, and making everything white. Finally, bedtime, where we lay listening to the gusts, wondering if the cabin would hold up, knowing we were high so the wind could gain speed. It was almost a relief when my alarm went off and found my gear for a walk to the vault. The gusts had grown and iced the already icy path, the vault’s door had frozen shut so had to resort to viciously pulling, banging and pulling again on the door until finally it was free – just in time.

As we quickly packed up, both thinking of the long icy road we had to traverse to get through the park, we realized that indeed, we did create a memory. A winter night in the woods. We thought of my grandparents, Emil and Edna Olsen, who, with four of their kids, lived in a cabin for a time during the winter of 1938 in Marquette. We envisioned how it was probably the beginning of February where she was losing her mind with the small cabin, concerns, the horrible winter she had to endure while my grandfather worked every day. I think it made us closer to her, but also glad for our current conveniences.

My daughter and I will put this memory on our timeline. We camped out in winter, survived, and, had a good time. 

Think about your time line – what do you want on it this year? Are you eager to explore? 

The Power of the But

“He that is good for making excuses is seldom good for anything else." 

Benjamin Franklin

A woman was interviewed on a radio program – she was very insistent that she could not do anything healthy or positive for herself – interjecting the excuse of the but at every question asked by the host, a psychologist. My first thought - what life experiences were behind her forceful but?

We can and do get away with a good but in plenty of occasions. BUT, did you know that a good resounding but can and will cease growth and movement in our physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual health? What’s going on behind your personal but – making it such a powerful excuse? Was this guest abused, neglected, hated, not supported, dismissed in her timeline, giving her the great excuse of her but, but, but. Using her but made her miss an awful lot of life.

Turning the other cheek - know that there are many socially acceptable uses of your but. I would love to go out with you tonight but my child is in a play and I need to be there. Or, I wish I could join you, but my husband and I are going on a date. 

Yes, we all deserve to use an occasional but – we’re exhausted, over-extended, just want to stay home and read – no explanations needed. But I hope we can be more aware of our but’s history, and also of how our but has hindered us. 

Consider taking more chances. People are onto your but over time – so cut back on excuses, be brave, don’t miss wonderful opportunities. Fear can bring out a but in the best of us. I, for one, want to live free from the confines of my but.

I agree that using a hearty but is powerful – yes, I use it, but something that has helped me was making plans with family and friends so I had to be accountable and trustworthy, and make me aware of my but. In the exercise realm, I found that by doing this I created internal and external motivations to walk or bike – and was counted on. 

As a side note, my but began to recede over time – and am proud of being a fairly reliable person.

Tortoise Envy

Hare's Brain

I’ve lived the life of a hare. In The Tortoise and the Hare, the cocky rabbit bolted from the start line while the tortoise was more introspective and, frankly, slow, likely enjoying the plod. Of course, the tortoise was carrying a heavy shell on his back, but who doesn’t? As the race progressed, the hare decided he was far enough ahead, and would obviously “win”, so stopped for a quick nap. We see the tortoise slowly passing the sleeping hare, thus, winning the race with his own formula of … steady as you go. I think I have tortoise envy. Sigh.

My own hare feet pound with an intensity as I physically and emotionally make almost everything on my list completed in a fairly quick and hopped up pace -- even my resting.  Rather hare-brained way of living!

“You are hurrying to the sweet place,

To the nonsense chasing your spirit

And in the nonsense you look for answers.”

― Dejan Stojanovic, Circling: 1978-1987

Open my eyes that I may see

The genesis of my transition was simple, yet poignant. I drove past a black-eyed buck which I didn't see until he was next to me. In that moment, I realized how often I don’t remember the trip so was incapable of enjoying the moment. My mind was stuck in an alternate, future thinking, list-directed mode. Days melded into each other and surprise – it’s the weekend - where did the week go?

Focus was needed – how to enjoy life’s moments before the weekend magically appears? What has and is working (most of the time) for me is:

·       3x5 cards of my important, urgent and interesting ideas for that day.

·     As I’d like to remember moments better … to look the buck in the eyes and acknowledge its existence ... keeping an online calendar with fun and memorable activities works well.

·       Writing important and necessary details in my journals – which I access more frequently than I’d like to admit. It allows me to focus more on the moment as my past is written down.

·       I complete a yearly “Vision Board” (see Vision Board Workshop). Writing my hopes for the next year, framing some, helps keep me on task. This year’s board will include spaces for action steps as I have specific goals which I want to complete.

·       I’ve intentionally slowed my frenetic pace. Leisurely walks in the woods and through town, coffeehouse visits without a phone, writing, visiting with friends.

·       Acknowledging how extremely difficult it is to change a lifetime of hurry, but realizing it can be done. It helped that I had a great need to stop - smell the roses - enjoy the experience.

·       I spend many tortoise hours of slow-paced walking, picture-taking, meandering, which have nourished a deep connection and balance with Mother Earth and Mother Nature, and myself.

·       I sit and breathe!

I think it cannot be disputed who won the race today.

Hayhoe Rivertrail, Mason

The Dancing Girl

The cold, penetrating freeze of winters' Siberian wind whipped through the open bus door, causing our eyes to tear up and drop ice onto our laps.  We sat inside the mini-bus in Perm, Russia, waiting for our interpreter to return:  my husband, Les, our six-year-old daughter, Addie, and our newly-adopted children, Ksenia, 11, and her brother Evgeni, age 13.  Dima, our driver, tinkered with the bus engine, yet again, with the hope it would carry us to our next destination.  Suddenly, Ksenia sprang out of her seat and jumped off the bus, engaging her entire body in a freedom dance.  I was enchanted with the beautiful smile on her very white face, which was framed by soft blond hair.  An unwelcome chill passed through me.  My new children.  Our new children.  

Evgeni & Ksenia at orphanage
picture by Joe & Diana

Children at the gates of the orphanage

In June of 1996, we had been given a picture of the two children as they stood by the gate at the orphanage, which captured our hearts and led us to seek adoption.  One picture of the boy, Evgeni, standing by the gates with one shoe on top of the other in a pose of sadness burned deeply in our hearts.

Evgeni & Ksenia in courthouse hallways

The memory of meeting our soon to be daughter and son in January 1997 will always be vivid, especially Ksenia's first glimpse of us walking through the heavy doors of the orphanage.  I can still hear her squealing in excited high-pitched Russian as she ran down the hall.  She announced to the staff, to the other orphans, and anyone who would listen, that her new Momma and Poppa had arrived.  

Les, our daughter Addie, and I were led into the children’s home and taken to an office where the gracious director met us.  Our interpreter snapped a picture to capture the moment of the formal meeting of parents and daughter to two new children.  We wrapped our arms around our soon-to-be children in a big hug, breaking the language barrier with smiles and giggles.  They were beautiful and tiny:  One gangly red-headed boy and one very white blond girl, siblings, both standing shyly with their heads down.  We would have to wait for what seemed months for eye contact from our son.

Our future, in my rosy, naïve thoughts, was filled with happiness.  It wouldn’t be long before we could bring our children home to America to live safe in our embrace. 

In America, Les and I felt excited and brave anticipating this pilgrimage; we took Russian language classes and placed notecards with Cyrillic and English words describing items around the house.  But we  did not feel as emotionally strong on this foreign soil in sub-zero weather in frigid January.  The Ural Mountains separated us from Siberia, yet its winds reached deep into our coats. 

We had an unreliable van, traveled roads with pits so deep they could swallow any vehicle, and were surrounded by machine gun-toting soldiers, unfamiliar foods, and were continuously stared at with suspicion.  My concern was not totally unfounded.  A month before, a couple within our agency adopted two children from the same orphanage.  On one of their treks from the children's home, without the kids, a truck careening down the icy road crashed into their van, killing the couple. 

Adding to our insecurity in this foreign land, our translator encouraged, admonished us, to speak quietly in the apartment, explaining that he was frankly unsure what would happen if the neighbors discovered Americans living in the complex.  We were instructed to keep a low profile, not bringing any attention to ourselves.

Evgeni "Zhenya", Addie, Ksenia "Ksusha"

Our experience with those helping with the adoption, however, was refreshing.  These Russians were exceptionally hospitable and caring, both for our welfare and the comfort of our six-year-old.  Older women on the streets would stop, turn around, and lecture us in Russian, saying that our little one was “too cold.”  Sometimes they were even bold enough to kneel and wrap more clothing around our child.  This endearing act was strangely comforting at a time when I felt so vulnerable, especially with our young daughter in tow.

Addie at apartment
heading to the
orphanage

On the van between the orphanage and Perm's court

We traveled daily in the rickety bus to the orphanage in the high mountains.  Then, back to the agencies where passports and visas were processed and to the Embassy to complete reams of paperwork.  The old green bus required constant care and repair by the driver.  The roads were slick with ice, and the deep potholes tossed us back and forth in our seats.  The bus slid this way and that as it climbed the tall hills of the countryside along the Kama River, where the children lived, into the distant forests west of the Ural Mountains.

My daydreaming was broken by Ksenia’s exuberant, free-form, almost defiant, dance outside our bus in a busy section of Perm.  She threw her arms up to the sky, and raised her face to the bright sun with a smile so wide that my breath caught in my throat.  I sat there silently, filled with unpleasant thoughts bordering on regret.  Our new fledging circled the bus, as though oblivious to us, yet appearing to dare anyone to interfere with her dance by her sharp, flowing movements.  She appeared to be on the adventure of her life, and of ours together.  Yet, all I felt was a strange sensation of fear.

What have we done?  This girl child was already testing boundaries, and neither our interpreter nor Evgeni, our shy new teenager, had the ability to tame her and force her to return to the safe confines of the vehicle.  I could almost see her running down the street full of her new-found freedom, away from the orphanage where she had spent her adolescence, away from us.  I was frightened. Les and I cuddled our six-year-old daughter to keep her warm as we watched Ksenia dance and laugh, tempt and pull away, over and over and over again as she continued circling the bus.  Her normally white face was now red with cold.

Our dear Russian
helper with Addie

On the street corner, several Russian soldiers stood by silently, each holding a machine gun.  With what appeared to be steel-cold eyes, they watched our Ksenia in her dance of life.  What would it feel like if one of the soldiers entered our vehicle and shot us just for being there?  Would it hurt worse to die in a country where many of the people seem to despise us for being Americans?  How would our family react when they got the news of our violent deaths?  Our new daughter and new son are Russian, had been raised by Russian parents and Russian orphanage staff.  I prayed, silently, hoping they were not taught to hate us.  

The hospitality of the Russian people was heartwarming

All these thoughts made my heart beat faster while I watched my prancing new daughter’s continued spinning on the cobbled and icy street.  She smiled exuberantly at us, while her brother sat oblivious to her antics, playing with a car we gave him at the orphanage.  Yet, fear had its hold on me.  We even stumble to pronounce her name correctly, I thought.  She giggles when we try, and coyly repeats it for us for us to struggle with again.  Yet, she is now our child.  The brusque but fair female judge granted us the adoption.  Her gavel unhesitatingly trumpeted her decision.  Our children are so unaware of what challenges and homesickness they will face in the land of freedom.  Their grief, real pain, an intense fear of being abandoned, yet again, could be acute.

Our van drivers took
Addie under their wing
and had her help with
the repairs

Suddenly, a positive thought surfaced.  Maybe, just maybe, Ksenia was dancing because she was happy – truly happy. Life had been difficult – at times horrendous – for these two children. At bedtime they would cry and hold their tears up to Heaven with the hope that a family would adopt them someday.  They both seem to recognize the fact that that they were probably too old to be wanted by anyone.  How would it feel to be so totally alone in the world?

Then again, maybe Ksenia was a wild child, a child of the streets with no care for boundaries.  Maybe she was a survivor, abandoned once, and at the ready to discard us starting with the dance of rebellion.  Will she terrorize us in America, I wondered?  What if they try to harm us in retaliation for what they have been through in their short lives?  But we signed the legal papers agreeing to the adoption.  No turning back.  My thoughts were gloomy.  I silently whispered:  What have we done?  This girl-child cannot be controlled, she seems so unmanageable.

My frenzied ruminations were broken as the bus engine angrily sputtered to life in the frigid air.  My apprehension diminished and my fears softened to love as our new and precious daughter returned to the bus.  Her rosy cheeks literally glowed – a contrast to her chalky white skin.  She shared an angelic and happy smile, melting my hesitant heart.

Our dancing child snuggled up against Les, Addie and me, laying her little head on our shoulders.  As she took my hand in her cold and tiny one, my fears dissolved and my own tears fell with a prayer of gratitude.  I kissed the top of her beautiful blond head.  I love you (Я тебя люблю), I said, mispronouncing her sweet name.  And she giggled.

writing in her diary

Capturing the Heart - One Thing at a Time

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do, so throw off the bowlines, sail away from safe harbor, catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore, Dream, Discover. —Mark Twain

I'm sitting in a coffee shop along the Black River and the St. Clair River sipping a dark roast coffee with thoughts about my motivation and focus and the get-up-and-go I’m known for. I am looking out at the water as the weekend continues its gloomy face with low hanging clouds that spit down. Nevertheless, I find this environmental hiccup enticing in that it is forcing me to stay single-minded. Some of my focus is thinking that my get-up-and-go has lately got-up-and-went. My gut says, you are tired.

In exploring this motivational lapse, I’ve concluded that I want to do so much and cannot seem to achieve singular focus - not an endearing attribute. I have lived in the shadow lie that women are great at multitasking, but not true! Our focus on one thing is good but when that attention is split on multiple things at once, all becomes fuddled, tired, and does not give the result we think it does. Our alliances are torn and our brain is constantly switching the track of the train - recipe for mediocre, perhaps disaster.

I acknowledge heartily that when I'm in extreme multitasking mode, the memories of the time (un)focused are blurred. What was the weather? Who did I talk with two minutes ago? Did I just post on Facebook - and what? This is scary to me as, like anyone, I want to capture and cherish my memories - good or bad - and not lose days to the disease of multitasking. 

Certain things catch your eye, but pursue only those that capture the heart.

Ancient Indian Proverb

I find focus and am energized when attending conferences, events, interesting meetings, reading true adventure stories, walking in the woods, and watching documentaries. Strange, but when I engage in these activities I have extreme focus and attention to every phase, word, and thought – I get blessedly lost in what interests me. Hmm … makes me think I solved my own concentration issue. Of course, singular focus is difficult in this society but believe it can be tempered a little with surrounding yourself with activities that delight your sensibilities.

If you hear a voice within you say you cannot paint, then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced. —Vincent Van Gogh 

Focus on the moment when you can and as often as you are able. This is why I love coffee shops!

from Raven Café & Coffeehouse bathroom wall

The Raven Doth Speaks to Me

Have you seen my Mojo?* I feel "she's" lost - or sadly replaced with a dull sense of myself. My Mojo was large, introspective, exhibiting bright thoughts and colors, and typically would have been found in a coffee shop, the woods, along a trail, or even shuffling through the house redecorating for the change of seasons. She was nerdy but indelible .. to me.

I'm worried and have searched in my heart for when and why she left me – there are clear concrete reasons on why and seems that these final ones created a rift between Mojo and myself. But I haven't lost hope of eventually finding and reclaiming her wonderful presence. Oh, my Mojo was tiring at times, always pulling me away from the mundane and relaxing to the realm of excitement and wonder. Frankly, during this loss I've been regaining the energy she demanded, still absolutely miss the spark Mojo was able to create … the gift of optimism she instilled in me.

The rain pours down in Port Huron today where I find myself with hours of me time. Delightful time, but truthfully, it's time to find that Mojo. As she's been noticed around coffee shops I asked around and was told I may find her again at the Raven Café and Coffee House in downtown Port Huron. The search is on … found the Raven and climbed to the second floor balcony to sit, drink in the sounds, atmosphere, and because it was rather funky - the music, perfectly suited for such a place - the Raven. The counter is narrow with a wrought iron "fence" you look through to the first floor. 

the view from my perch

As Halloween is approaching and Poe is well known for his tales of the macabre and mystery, this seemed the perfect viewing stage to spot my Mojo, so, I'm looking...

"When you come to The Raven, you’ll immediately notice something different; a feeling you can’t quite put your finger on. Part Hogwarts and part Cheers, the Raven is a unique place. When you step through the doors, you’ll get the distinct feeling you’re walking into a story. The walls are decorated with beautiful woodwork and packed with books, posters, and artwork of all varieties. Whatever time of day you visit, you’ll find an energetic atmosphere filled with the aroma of just-brewed coffee and, if you’re lucky, the smell of freshly-baked cookies or brownies." (from the Raven website). 

An hour of delicious pumpkin soup passed, ever alert, I continued to absorb the wisp of my Mojo. A sense of my need to continue this exploration was palpable. My Mojo is beckoning me to learn from this experience and will not fully re-engage with me until I follow the leads. My hope and faith get stronger as I swirl and swallow the last of my multiple cups of coffee. A peace settles in as I prepare the next steps. These passages from The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe speak to me - I'm listening. 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

(*Mojo means 'finding the magic in what we do'. To have 'lost your mojo', refers to a loss of inspiration or creative genius; a loss of that special spark. Slang for Mojo from Answers.com)

Anatomy of a Murder

Many years ago I decided to (pedal) bike from Marquette to Big Bay, Michigan (and back again). On the chosen day there was an Upper Peninsula rain - a wet, breezy, chilly, relentless rain. I thought naively that bicycling in blue jeans would keep me warmer. True … but the material stuck to my legs, creating pull on every rotation of the pedal. I was chased by Bigfoot and a wolf causing my adrenalin to push me beyond my capacity - as my vivid imagination soared and scared me on these 27.2 miles of wilderness roads.

But, I digress. The purpose of this venture was to visit the Lumberjack Tavern where bar owner Mike Chenoweth was murdered in 1952. Big deal? The murder and court case were the basis for the 1959 film, Anatomy of a Murder, based on the book of the same name written by John Voelker (pen name Robert Traver), a native Yooper and former prosecutor for Marquette County who also loved to fish and write.

But, I digress. Our family elders shared our history over coffee, old camp tables, in warm living rooms, wherever there was an interested audience. The story goes that my grandmother loved BINGO and was quite the winner. On one occasion, in Big Bay where the family lived at the time, she had a particularly lucrative evening. Her winnings probably included dollar bills, soda pop, and donated items from local businesses, as was the custom in the 40s and 50s. She was so loaded down with her loot that she had to seek help - so went into the Lumberjack Tavern and asked Mike Chenoweth for a ride home. Family rumor claims he was afraid of my grandmother so acquiesced and gave her a lift. Nothing special in this story, except for the link with the main character in the book.  

Anatomy of a Murder was filmed in Marquette and Big Bay featuring Lee Remick, Ben Gazzara, Duke Ellington, George C. Scott, and Jimmy Stewart. Emil and Edna Olsen, my paternal grandparents, were extras in this film, as were others in the region. A huge honor and so very exciting.

Jimmy Stewart stayed near the old courthouse on Baraga Avenue during the filming - down the street from my grandparents. Jimmy had his own way of walking and was easily recognized, was friendly in his greeting to people and always spoke in his slow signature manner. Through our grandparents we heard he was a very nice and polite man. My grandfather was a stand-in for Stewart as they matched in height and he had some of Stewart's features.

Edna Olsen wore a black netting hat during the courtroom scene and can be quickly viewed – very quickly - as she traveled past Stewart and Remick. Emil Olsen can be seen standing next to these two celebrities during a break in the courtroom action.

One final digression. My love of family history began as a young person when we would stay at my uncle's camp along Lake Superior, where outhouses were common and skunks owned the woods. As we clustered around the table waiting for the coffee grounds to boil, stories were told. As children, we kept our mouths closed, drinking in these funny tales of sailors, relatives, and each other. My life regret would be that I did not journal all these delicious pieces of history - but have been able to write these down in my favorite hard-backed journals after "interviewing" the older family members.