On Meeting Pam Houston

When I read the first line of Pam Houston’s debut book of short stories many years ago, she had me with “When he says ‘Skins or blankets?’ it will take you a moment to realize that he’s asking which you want to sleep under.” The next line is equally intoxicating, and that was it—literary lust at first sight. I already lived in a world of snow and rustic cabins and whitewater weekends and crusty rural characters. I wanted to know more about this world of Pam Houston’s—this western, rugged world—that wasn’t just like my state-of-Maine world—but felt like it might be a close cousin. So I read Houston’s book, Cowboys are my Weakness, again and again. I bought additional copies and gave them to gal friends. And though my life and Houston’s had little but a love of wild outdoor spaces in common, she seemed like the female friend I wished I had on days when it felt like I worked only with men.

When Houston’s other books (Sighthound and Waltzing the Cat) came out, I eagerly bought and read them. Again I gave copies to gal friends as gifts. And eventually I urged my boyfriend to read some of her essays in A Little More About Me. For years, I almost always had one of her books close at hand. But I started reading Pam Houston’s books back before I even owned a computer and long before facebook and twitter would enable me to keep me up with favorite author readings and classes. So despite being a huge fan of her work, I never imagined I’d get to take an actual, in-person writing class with Pam Houston. That is until recently when I learned—via electronic media—that Pam would be teaching a class in Port Townsend, WA. I signed up almost immediately and then eagerly anticipated the one-day class that would take place in one of my very favorite towns.

The day before the class, Brian and I sat on the deck at Sirens. The weather was magnificent. The Pacific Northwest has seen August days that couldn’t rival this balmy and brilliant one in late March, so as we drank Bloody Marys and beers and ate nachos and watched seagulls cavort and copulate and monitored the fog receding and advancing and the ferry coming and going and argued over whether or not the island we could see was or was not Marrowstone, I scanned the crowd, knowing that in a fanfare-free town like Port Townsend, your favorite writer could be sitting right behind you.

The next morning, our class assembled in an upstairs room in one of the old buildings just a few blocks from the hotel where Brian and I had just stayed. I selected a seat right up front by the open windows, deciding I might as well sit where I’d be able to see and hear everything. And despite the slightly nervous anticipatory energy that goes along with seeing a literary hero in an up-close and personal way, Pam’s arrival was almost shockingly casual. I think she actually wandered in before the event coordinator had a chance to introduce her, and in the first few moments, Pam Houston put to rest any notions that this would be a class constrained by formality.

Pam comes off as a truly down-to-earth human: so literally down to earth that she told us early in the day that sitting in her chicken house on Christmas Eve with the temp at 30 below—amid the chickens and the shit—was really all about being 50. In everything she says, she is refreshingly direct. She has a clear voice—the kind that carries, the kind you expect in a theater actor. And she has a quick and attentive mind. During class, she would sometimes appear so calm, almost meditative. One might have incorrectly assumed she was drifting off and thinking about other things, but then, she’d say something that made it clear she hadn’t missed a syllable. We might have, but she hadn’t. She heard it all, and occasionally, she’d make a little joke or humorous quip that revealed her excellent wit. She is no nonsense, so in minutes, we got to work, and she was talking to us about how hard it can be to write—how the fear of boring the reader can be paralyzing. And she talked to us about her strategies for getting past feeling that abandoning the blank page altogether—in favor of a hike—might be preferable to writing utter crap.

She talked to us about what she calls glimmers—those little bits of observation that take hold of our attention, the things that shimmer and shine at us and stand out above the monotony that can paint our days with haze. She explained that this is where she always starts. She begins with the concrete details that niggle her senses—the things she is certain mean something even if she doesn’t know what.

Soon we were writing in-class assignments and then trying to be courageous enough to read them aloud. I tried to follow her instructions and just write the scene—not interpret it, and it worked. When I read my scene in class, Pam made it clear that she understood more about my brief scene than I did. It wasn’t magic, really. I guess it was just the fact that we give away more than we imagine through the details we choose, and readers understand more than we give them credit for comprehending.

I was actually shocked when I read my piece, and Pam said she could feel the rage. I explained that the glimmer I had chosen to write about was in fact a prelude to a fight that Brian and I had had the night before. Pam said, "You don't need to tell me. I can tell."

Here's what I wrote: 

We’re in the soaking tub, and the water is very hot—a notch below scalding. I think it is a good thing we’re not large people, and I explain to Brian that I didn’t overfill the tub because I didn’t want the water to cascade right over the top once we both got in. We talk, and he tells me that he and Moriel talked about my writing when they went hiking the other day—about the fact that I’m trying to write, and yet I’ve lived a rather trauma-free life. It’s something I’ve been wondering about. Where does my conflict come in? I ask Brian what they discussed, and he says, “Well, you could always just write fiction.” And then he suggests that I could write about the time one of my colleagues on ski patrol was killed—horribly—in a ski accident. He thinks I can write about this; he thinks there is enough conflict.

A lighter in-class writing assignments resulted in me writing the following about the most embarrassing thing that happened that day:

I’m sitting in an upstairs room in Port Townsend, and the tease of mild air is pouring in through the open window. Pam Houston’s strong voice is filling the room, and all of a sudden, she pauses, perhaps says something, and then the whole room is looking first at the door, and then at me, as Brian holds up the little metal room key—just like the one I forgot to fish out of my purse and return before walking over to this class. Pam continues her talk, and I start rooting around in my purse. I slid the little—possibly brass—key and disc with the room number on it into the purse yesterday when we headed out from the room, and now I know that it has migrated to the bottom. I feel around, groping past the tampons, the lip balm, and the iPhone charger, but it’s hopeless. I grab my purse and sneak my way out to the hall where I try to be quiet. I grab handfuls of purse contents—little green gloves, more tampons, cables, change purse and checkbook, along with unorganized receipts—and I dump them all on the floor. Brian sees the little bronze disc with 17 on it—for our room last night—and he plucks it from the mess. I scoop all my purse crap back into the leather bag with the crumbling strap and try to quietly get back to my seat after giving Brian a “thanks and have a nice day” kiss.

I didn’t read that little glimmer of humiliation aloud in class. I could, however, have listened to Pam for days. I left thinking that I’d like everyday to be as much fun as this one had been—despite the fact that we’d been indoors all day as the sun shone warmly again on Port Townsend.

Happily, I’ll get to hear more from Pam, as I’ve signed up for two additional workshops with her in October, and she’ll be at another writing event I’ll be attending in July. In the meantime, I’m rereading my notes from her class, trying to remember her advice, trying to understand her techniques, and of course, reading and rereading her work. What can I say? Between Cheryl Strayed and Pam Houston, I’m a bit of an addict—or groupie—I’m not sure.

Any other huge Pam Houston fans out there? Have you taken a class with her? Read her books?

On Meeting Cheryl Strayed

When I was a kid, I didn’t have many celebrity heroes. I never wrote to any rock stars or signed up for any fan clubs. I never even hung heartthrob posters featuring tanned abs or feathered hair on the walls of my bedroom. I read some Teen and Tiger Beat magazines, and I once thought Andy Gibb was something special—but throughout my life, celebrity fascinations have been both minor and fleeting.

With few exceptions, even sports heroes were only marginally more prominent than celebrities and heartthrobs in my life. My family didn’t attend professional baseball, football, basketball, or hockey games, so I find it curious that I owned a small autograph book with a yellow cover and multicolored pages. I have no idea how I came to own the little rectangular book with the word AUTOGRAPHS on the cover in all-capital, gold-embossed lettering; though, I’m nearly certain that the first and only time it ever got used was when the Waterville Valley Resort hosted a World Cup ski race.

I suppose I grew up in a family that was a bit more focused on doing than on spectating, and from the first, ours was a family that skied. My dad had been obsessed with skiing ever since he taught himself to ski as a teenager at a local hill, and skiing, it turns out, was a big part of my parent’s courtship. When I came along, my parents even named me after a little girl they had seen skiing before I was born. This other little girl had been skiing at a very early age, and I was meant to be just like her. Thanks to my parent’s slight obsession, I may have even beaten her; I was on skis at age one.

So by the time the World Cup came to Waterville Valley, I was a junior ski racer, and Waterville was our home mountain. I’m not sure exactly when we learned that the World Cup race would be coming to Waterville, but it was a Sunday night when my sisters and I pitched a huge fit, begging to skip school on Monday to watch the races. We were sure that seeing a World Cup ski race in person was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and we claimed that it was tantamount to child cruelty for mom and dad to deny us this opportunity—especially since they were the ones who had gotten us into skiing. But despite our histrionics, my parents proceeded to pack the car and drive us back home to Massachusetts—intent on sending us to school.

That night around nine o’clock—after the two-and-a-half-hour drive back to Mass—my friend, Anna-Britt Coe, called to tell me that her family was keeping her out of school on Monday to watch the World Cup, and her parents wanted to know if we’d be at the mountain as well. Thanks to Anna-Britt’s family, my parents reconsidered. We then loaded the car back up, and the next morning, Anna-Britt, her family, my parents, my sisters, and I were all at the mountain before it even opened, ready to watch the best ski racers in the world compete.

Somehow, I’d remembered to take my little yellow autograph book; though, I can’t remember how I carried it with me as I skied. I must have had a big enough pocket because I know I had it the morning of the first race when we encountered our first two World Cup skiers in the small lodge at the top of the mountain. It was so early that hardly anyone was in the lodge. My two ski-racer targets were eating breakfast when I asked them if they would sign my autograph book. They did—though they looked somewhat surprised when I asked. They weren’t the biggest-name skiers of the day, and at the time, I didn’t know a thing about them—not even their names. I only recognized them as World Cup ski racers because they were wearing their race gear. Today I’m almost sure that one of them was a former U.S. racer named Dave Stapleton, who’s now a ski adventure guide. I think the other was a guy named Pete—perhaps Peter Dodge—who along with Stapleton became a U.S. pro racer after his World Cup days. It’s strange that after not thinking about any of this for decades, I can still vaguely see the script letters in my mind from their signatures. Of course, at the time, it didn’t really matter who they were; they were ski racers—World Cup ski racers—and that was all that mattered.     

As the day went on, getting autographs became our quest, so Anna-Britt, my sisters, and I would hunt down ski racers in the lodge and ask them to sign my book. Phil and Steve Mahre, the ski racing twins from Yakima, Washington, were two of the top skiers at the time and were definitely the leading U.S. racers. Both were friendly and courteous when we asked for their autographs, but the other top racer—Ingemar Stenmark—just growled and waved us away. We hadn’t paid attention to the leaderboard, and apparently, Stenmark’s first run had not gone well. Anna-Britt and I reported to our parents that Ingemar had been grumpy with us. So, since Ingemar Stenmark was Swedish, as was Anna-Britt and her family, her mother returned with us and asked Ingemar very nicely in Swedish if he would indulge us kids with an autograph. The friendly request in his native language did the trick, so we walked away with yet another trophy signature.

The autograph thing was funny. I somehow knew that I was supposed to collect these autographs in my autograph book, as this was the objective. But I didn’t really know why or what it was supposed to mean to have these autographs once I’d collected them.

Years later, I would be ski coaching in Zermatt, Switzerland, when Pirmin Zurbriggen, the dominant racer of the day, would ski past my students and me leaving a perfect, deep, round arc in the corn snow beside us. The kids all reached out to touch the arc he left in the snow—as if his power, talent, and brilliance as a skier were transferrable, as if all we had to do was touch the arc left in the snow as he whizzed by, and we would be elevated somehow.

When I think back on how we choose our heroes and who we decide to admire, I’m somewhat pleased that I seem to have always gravitated towards valuing people for the amazing things they do and less for the way they look, which probably explains the lack of teen idol posters in my childhood. But I still wonder a bit about exactly what it is we hope to gain when we do meet those we most admire.

I’ve had a little bit of time to think about this since Saturday morning when I turned to see my newest literary hero, Cheryl Strayed, standing less than three feet from me. Getting to hear Cheryl Strayed deliver the keynote address at the Wild Mountain Memoir Retreat this past weekend at the Sleeping Lady Resort in Leavenworth, Washington had been a huge motivation for attending the event. I’ve read all three of Strayed’s books—twice. And her bold, powerful prose won me over from the first page. She is a smart, strong, seemingly fearless woman who writes with a candor and compassion that seems capable of disarming even the most jaded reader. And for these reasons, it seemed as if all of the attendees at the writing retreat—including me—were like giddy teens awaiting her arrival.

On Saturday morning, I was honestly shocked when I turned to my left and saw Cheryl—less than an arms length from me—looking for the start of the breakfast line. When she turned slightly in my direction, I said, “Cheryl, I’m a huge fan of your work.” She extended her hand and introduced herself, and I thought, “Oh, right, you’re supposed to introduce yourself before you start gushing.” Cheryl worried aloud that she was in the wrong place, and I was thrilled to inform her that she was in exactly the right place and that a man behind the counter would soon hand her a plate. She asked me about which class I was taking, and I explained that we were able to take up to five classes from the retreat’s writing instructors. She asked me another question about the event, and I said that the retreat was wonderful. I may have said that the food was excellent, but I don’t really remember. Then Cheryl started ordering her food from the buffet, and I saw Theo, the event’s organizer, walking up to greet her, so I left Theo to do the official welcoming and I wandered back to my seat thinking, “I can’t believe I just talked to Cheryl Strayed.”

Of course there is absolutely nothing in all that I’ve read that could possibly have led me to think that Cheryl Strayed, author of Torch, Wild, and Tiny Beautiful Things, would have been anything other than a real, live, flesh-and-blood person—and an easy-going, warm, and courteous one at that. So, what was it that made actually meeting her, talking with her, standing right next to her seem like such a special gift? What made me so attracted to seeing her and to hearing her speak in person? And how was this attraction similar to how I’d chased after all of those famous—and in some cases not so famous—ski racers all those years ago, pleading for their autographs? And what made standing in her presence feel like touching the arc in the snow carved by Pirmin Zurbriggen? In what way is Cheryl Strayed’s brilliance transferrable?

Later that afternoon, I was walking back into the dining room, and Cheryl and Theo were walking out. Cheryl looked at me and said, “Hi. You spoke with me this morning, didn’t you?” Once again, I couldn’t believe that Cheryl was talking to me. I said, “Yes,” and apologized for accosting her in the morning. She said, “You didn’t accost me,” and I explained that I’d worried about having interrupted her by gushing and chatting her up before she’d even had a chance to have her morning coffee. But she assured me that she was accustomed to interruptions. “I have kids,” she said and indicated that she hadn’t been bothered at all by my interaction. Once again, I walked away with a warm feeling—something akin to having good news to share.

Cheryl’s keynote address was brilliant, and even if I hadn’t had three separate opportunities to talk with her, her discussion on writing would have had a supremely positive impact on my thinking about both writing and about life. She had sensational, grounded, earnest, and caring advice for us, and I hope that Theo will be able to make the video of Cheryl’s talk available to us; I’d love to review her wise words again and again.   

But still I ask myself, what was it about actually being there, about meeting her, about being in her presence? Could I not have learned the same lessons had I seen a video of her talk? What was that warm glow we all took away with us?  What did I, what did any of us, touch of Cheryl Strayed’s brilliance? What was transferred?

I suppose it’s unlikely that there really is any alchemy in proximity, but I can say that Cheryl’s presence, her poise and her caring, reinforced my belief in graciousness. With everyone fawning and grasping and trying to touch the magic that Cheryl—through her hard work, her tenacity, and her faith in herself—has created—she was supremely gracious. She lived her own words; she held us all in high regard. She was generous with her time, her energy, her leadership, and her patience for all of us seeking an autograph—and to know something of her—this exceptional woman who has defied conventional wisdom through her achievements.

That evening, during the book signing, I asked Cheryl to sign two books for me: one for a 62-year-old friend who hiked the Appalachian Trail last summer and one for my partner, Brian. I recognized that I didn’t need Cheryl’s autograph for myself. I have her words on the page, the advice from her keynote, and the example of her presence. I also have Theo’s introduction of Cheryl in which she stated that one of the most remarkable things about Cheryl Strayed was that she behaved like a wildly successful author even before she was one, working to build strong writing communities and to support other writers long before her own first book was ever published. These sorts of activities—helping to build the writing community in my own area and working to support other authors—these are tangible things I can do immediately. Whether or not I will ever write in a way that touches people as Cheryl Strayed does, I can’t say. How my writing evolves and improves depends on me doing the work—day after day. But being a good member of my community, being gracious, and being thankful for the opportunities I have—all of that I can do now. And I can be humbly grateful for the tremendous good fortune of being able to spend a couple of days in an exquisite location with interesting, inspiring, and like-minded people. And I can follow Cheryl’s example and act like the person I want to be, and I can do that today.   

Wakulla County Swamp Running – Mini Adventure #1

If you’d told me, even just a few short months ago, that I’d find myself out running in a Florida swamp, I might theoretically have threatened to feed you to an alligator. I also might have assumed that you were professing some dark form of clairvoyance and were alluding to my imminent demise. You see, before moving to Wakulla County, Florida—gators, swamps, snakes, sand gnats, yellow flies, cockroaches, and locusts were, to my mind, the stuff of horror movies—not creatures with which I ever expected to come into contact.

Of course, several years ago, when my partner, Brian, and I were still living in Seattle, he would sometimes travel back to this—his—part of Northern Florida to visit his mother and the rest of his kin, as he liked to say. During his visits, he’d call me daily to tell me about seeing fish jump and porpoises crest the water’s surface on the bay. He’d also call me to describe spectacular sunsets and the sounds of the frogs at night. He especially loved to call from his neighbor’s dock or from his mom’s deck, where he’d be hanging out either fully naked or in just a sarong. He’d typically call from the dock late at night to tell me about the stars, the solitude, the warm winds, and about listening to the whippoorwills. In these phone calls, I can now see that what he was trying to do was woo me with the wonders of Wakulla.

But, he also used to call to tell me about some of his other exploits in the area—and while his more adventurous tales were probably meant, on some level, to impress me—instead they left me feeling smugly safe and secure in my humble little home back in Seattle. His first memorable tale was of the time he went running along the dikes in the Saint Marks Wildlife Refuge and nearly ran up on an alligator. The gator appeared to him as a pure inky-black smudge, and what Brian said initially just looked like mud eventually revealed itself to be the shoulder of an enormous alligator. By the time Brian realized that the tire rut he was approaching was more gator than mud, he also realized that there was likely no reasonable way around the beast. So, he turned tail and trotted back the way he’d come.

His second scary story was about a time when, while trying to outrun mosquitoes, gnats, and yellow flies in a swamp near his mother’s house, he ran up on a pack of wild boar, two of which boasted big tusks. Brian was full of amazement, excitement, and energy as he relayed this extraordinary encounter, and he explained recalling the notion that you’re supposed to make yourself look big and tall to scare certain wild animals away. The big, tall, scary-deep-voice act turned out to be a tactic that did, in fact, work for him, somehow convincing the family of wild boar to turn and amble back off into the brush. Warm and snug in my own bedroom in Seattle, I just kept wondering why the hell the boy couldn’t find someplace other than a swamp to go running.   

After we moved to Wakulla, Brian worked hard to introduce me to the whole kaleidoscope of weird and wondrous experiences that could be had here. The dolphins and porpoises on the bay were an easy first step, and they delighted almost daily. We could often step out onto the deck, sip our coffee, and watch the cetaceans slip by. On lazy afternoons, the mullet were perhaps even more entertaining, throwing themselves fully out of the water, headlong in the direction of some new patch of river a “fish-yard” or so towards what I imagined must be a fish goalpost somewhere up or down river. The pelicans also never failed to amuse and impress as they flew in bomber-style formations back and forth overhead. I also became and remained perpetually intrigued by the noisy Bonaparte gulls, the talented diving terns, the occasional migrating loons, and even the somewhat unsightly anhinga, and over the course of my first summer, I even saw sharks, manatees, and stingrays—all right outside Brian’s mom’s cottage, where we still live.

And as Wakulla migrated from merely warm when we arrived in February to generally steamy and then started heading straight towards stifling, Brian and his cousin, David, coerced me into going out on the Sopchoppy River at night to fish for catfish. After swearing that there was no way I would join them, I had to admit—after finally relenting—that it was a much lovelier experience than I could have imagined. The river at night wasn’t what a Yankee like me could describe as cool, but it had a soft, pleasant feel, and to the best of my knowledge, nothing actually bit me while we were out there tending the cat lines.

Later in the summer, I even surprised myself by remaining shockingly calm while watching a rat snake emerge from some shrubbery in the front yard. Brian and I stared for what seemed like an eternity until all six or eight or ten feet of the damn thing stretched across the grass and slipped off into the woods to the east of the house. Brian and I both spent some time reminding and reassuring me that the only things rat snakes really want to eat are rats, which, provided that the snake remained off in the shrubbery, actually seemed like a pretty fair deal to me.

As the furnace-like conditions of mid-summer finally arrived—Brian and I continued to explore Wakulla County, and we soon discovered even more fascinating facts about our surroundings. We learned that what Brian had always referred to as Whippoorwills were actually Chuck-wills-widows, which have a beautifully distinctive and repetitive call with a rhythm that matches their name.

We also grew accustomed to hearing the nightly commotion that was the frogs in the swamp. While Brian had tried to tell me about the sound of the frogs many times, until I heard it for myself, I couldn’t fully appreciate it. From the open door of the cottage at night, the frogs were loud, and many evenings, the frenetic frog performance would be the loudest thing we could hear. Brian would notice them starting in towards dusk, and then, as if encouraging me to attend a neighborhood concert or a block party, he’d enthusiastically say, “Come on, let’s walk down to the swamp and listen”? It took numerous requests before I’d go, and I only went then because he assured me that he didn’t actually mean wading around in a swamp but merely standing on the edge of a road next to the swamp. When we finally did wander down the mostly still road in the sultry summer air, the symphony of frog noise was shocking. How many were there? Hundreds? Thousands?

There were clearly different types of frogs in there—each one contributing their specific call to the composition and crescendo. Brian noted the bullfrogs, which hit the deepest notes, sounding like a cross between a bassoon and a didgeridoo. Then there were the crazy, alien-sounding frogs that may have been squirrel tree frogs or southern spring peepers or even ornate chorus frogs. I still don’t know, though I started looking them up as soon as we got home. One of the most interesting things was that the chirps and squawks being made by the the sopranos, tenors, and baritones would all start slowly—calling and responding, repeating and insisting until the whole thing became a roiling summer evening concerto, and then, as if cut off by the wave of a conductor’s baton, the voices would cease—simultaneously—and silence would take its turn. And then after several moments of calm, quiet, stillness—never knowing what it was that made them stop or start—we’d hear—perhaps one lone bullfrog call dark and low, and then the chorus of little space-alien frogs would start in—sounding something like an old spring bed repeatedly creaking up and down—and then the rest of the amphibious instruments would come in, the sound of a North Florida summer evening building again and again.

All of which brings me back to running in the swamp—something that, despite my ever-increasing affinity for the wonders and the wildlife of Wakulla, I thought I’d never do. But I’ve noticed that never is a long time, and whenever I say never, time usually makes a liar out of me, so my progression towards running in the swamp all started when, several weeks back, Brian told me that he was engaging in a get-back-into-shape-intelligently fitness program. I’d never taken such a common sense approach to getting in shape, but I decided his plan had merit.

Brian then explained that while I’d been away over the holidays, he’d started executing this new fitness regime by going out running and walking in the wildlife refuge on trails that ran between a series of little lakes and swamps. He assured me that here in the depths of winter, the bugs would be few to non-existent and that running along the refuge trails was in fact very pleasant. So, after all of my reluctance, I decided to give it a try. And—as with nearly everything else I’ve discovered here—I wasn’t just pleased, I very quickly became enchanted.

On our first excursion, we drove down Surf Road towards Sopchoppy and pulled off the road across from the newly paved bike path alongside a small wire gate, preventing cars from actually driving into the refuge. As part of our intelligent, get-back-into-shape fitness program, we had decided to alternate between walking and running, and so we started with a nice five-minute walking warm up. Just moments into our first walking segment on the sandy trail, which was littered with long brown pine needles and enormous pine cones, I noticed that the warm, low-angle winter light seemed to bath the whole landscape in deep reds and golds. I also noticed that the broad expanses of Long Leaf and Slash or Swamp Pines made me think of pictures I’d seen of the African savannah. These tall pines hold nearly all of their branches and leaves up high—allowing the eye long views and letting the sun light all of the wiregrass and palmettos below.

We ran along the trails between the small lakes and swamps on several occasions before actually seeing an alligator, and when we finally did see the gator, it was only because a Dad and his son, who’d been out biking, pointed it out to us. The gator was lounging, partially submerged, in a tiny, thick little swamp area just off the side of the road.

We didn’t have much trouble with bugs, and we didn’t see any wild boar. We saw no snakes and no buzzards and nothing else off of my critters-that-make-me-squeamish list. We did see formations of geese and ducks that flew so closely overhead that we could hear the beating of their wings moving the air, and we watched as the slowly setting sun turned all of the tree trunks to a rosy umber against the pale blue sky.

What have I learned from this little mini adventure? Running in the wilderness of the wildlife refuge past small lakes and swamps has not been the scary, horror movie experience I immediately conjured in my mind when Brian first mentioned it. Instead, it has been a magical little adventure that has sent me, full of curiosity, rushing to my computer to look up the names of trees, shrubs, and grasses. It has made me want to return to the refuge with a really good camera to take pictures that—were I a good enough photographer—could grace the pages of National Geographic. It has taught me that I should push myself harder to get past little fears—especially those that arise from simply being in an unfamiliar backyard. It has also taught me that mini adventures can be found anywhere, if we only take the time and make the effort to discover them.

Have you ever had an experience (a mini adventure or a true epic) that first required that you get past some sort of fear? 

The Great Holiday Card Debacle

It went this year, as it goes nearly every year. I had the thought. I suspect the thought burst into my brain for the first time sometime in July or August—early. It went, “This is the year. Yes! I will finally, really, no I’m serious this time do it. It will be perfect. I will send holiday cards to everyone I know. Splendid,” I thought. “I have time this year—so no excuses. Perhaps I’m finally a grownup.”

Some weeks later, I was on FB, and I saw that a very talented woman I know from Maine was selling her art as greeting cards. She was selling beautiful cards, some of them resplendent with snowy landscapes that made me wistful for New England. They were special, which just ratcheted up my enthusiasm. By then, I’d been seeing all the pleas to shop local, buy local, and support businesses here at home. So now, not only would I be a good person for—at long last—sending holiday cards and telling all of my truly excellent friends how much I really appreciate them—now I’d save the U.S. economy and support the arts. How much better could I get?

Of course, I’d have to find—in the physical world—where all of my truly excellent friends actually live. I typically have to call my mother each and every time I need to locate my own sister’s addresses just to send presents to my niece and nephews. “It will be okay, though,” I thought, “I’ll just email, FB, and tweet out to all of my friends and get them to send me their mailing addresses.” It shouldn’t be that hard. I’d finally start that great big name and address spreadsheet I'd always imagined, the one I assume most women start when they get married and have to send out all the invitations and thank-you notes. Perhaps the fact that I’m so bad at this exercise every year is really just because I’ve never walked down the aisle. Maybe it’s not me, per se; maybe it’s just my status as a partnered, yet not married, woman that is responsible for my annual apathetic performance when it comes to holiday cards?

The truth is, I’ve always been bad at getting things—any things—into the mail. (Think about it; when did you ever hear from me before email, FB, and Twitter?) Being a tremendously scattered person does not do me any favors because getting something into the real, physical, nearly bankrupt, snail-mail, U.S. postal system requires one to collect, coordinate, and eventually call upon your local post office or mailbox; you need at least all of the following:

1. Card or Paper or Postcard (the thing being sent)
2. Pen (in working order)
3. Envelope (except in the case of postcard)
4. Stamp
5. Mailing Address
6. Post Office or Mailbox 

That’s six whole things, and I’m sure I’m missing something. I typically am. And it always plays out exactly the same way. I always start out with enthusiasm and with the best of intentions. For example, I buy postcards—as I did 25 years ago when I was in Switzerland. The post cards then get toted around in a backpack—waiting for that perfect moment when I’m sitting in a café, looking cool and sipping tea—because that’s when I’ll write them. I never end up sitting in a café, looking cool and sipping tea. When I’m in Switzerland in my early twenties, I spend my time schussing about on the ski slopes, hiking around in the lowlands, and in the evenings, chugging beer in bars with my coaching buddies while the postcards languish in the backpack back in my room.

At some point, while waiting for one of my ski-coaching roommates to finish in the shower, a few postcards will actually get written. And, then, as soon as the shower is free, they’ll get tucked into a book or a notebook or a journal. And at the moment when they get slammed between the pages, they will likely just be written. It is unlikely that they will be addressed, and it is highly improbable that they will be affixed with a stamp.

Years later, I’ll be flipping through an old book or notebook or journal, and I’ll find the postcard—never completed, never sent. I’ll look at it with a twinge of nostalgia and regret: a good idea never seen through—another friend or family member not reminded that I was thinking of them.

After my initial mid-to-late summer burst of goodwill—accompanied by my half-year resolution to do the whole holiday card thing—Brian and I scoot off to Maine to learn how to build wooden boats. We then return home to Florida to decide that we are no longer going to build a wooden boat of our own—at least not now. So, we dash off to Seattle to visit with old friends there and to figure out how to rekindle our Pacific Northwest lives—both of us now hoping to pursue dreams that had been put off on a shelf while chasing the boat-building, sail-around-the-world dream.

Less than ten days before Christmas, I have a sinking feeling. “Have I missed it yet again?” Online, I learn that Claudia Diller’s note cards are sold out. “Rats! All the punctual people got all the cards.” And now I feel bad. I’m leaving for New Hampshire in four days to be with family for the holidays, and not only am I not packed, but I’ve bungled the whole holiday card thing—again! I still don’t even know both of my sister’s addresses, and I haven’t saved the U.S. economy, supported the arts, or helped the ailing postal service, and none of my friends will know how much I’ve been thinking of them. They won’t know that I’ve actually been trying to concoct a scheme for getting out to Seattle by way of all 48 contiguous states—just so that I might pop in and see them. They won’t know that I’m secretly planning a huge reunion for someday when I’ve finally rebuilt my rotted-out little shack in Maine. And they won’t know that I’ve been thinking of them today as I watch a pair of cute little diving ducks repeatedly follow each other beneath the surface and then bounce back up one after the other as they swim around our little section of OchlockoneeBay, where we’ve been living in Florida.

“Well,” I think, “maybe I’ll write one of those ‘here’s what we’ve been up to in 2012’ letters, and I’ll send it electronically.” I research these letters online. I see that some people try to make them very funny. The funny authors try to tease the people who write holiday update letters that are too boastful or that over share about life events that not everyone would want to hear. This idea leaves me feeling somewhat defeated, so instead of packing or rushing out to buy whatever remaining holidays cards might still be hanging out on discount shelves just eight days before Christmas, I read the funny book by Caitlin Moran that has had me laughing out loud, and I write in my journal, and I watch the diving ducks—and I think, maybe next year.

So, to all my family, friends, and readers, please know that despite my terminal disorganization and ineptitude with certain standard social practices, I love you all, and I wish you the very merriest of Christmases, the happiest of Hanukkahs, and the most Splendid of Spaghetti Monster Days. I hope that your New Year is bright, cheerful, prosperous, and healthy. I wish you vast quantities of friendship, laughter, and love to see you through all of your days—and I hope that 2013 will bring you great joy, peace, and comfort.

And to Claudia Diller, I’d really like to order some of your cards for next year. Please let me know when they’re back in stock! I'd like to buy the book you illustrated too.  :-)

And to all of you who actually do manage to get real, tangible holiday cards into the actual mail, how on earth do you do it?????? I’m in awe!

Oh, and if you’d like to help my desperate cause for next year, please send me your physical mailing address: (beliveaulisa at gmail.) 

On Saying “Yes.”

During my junior year at Colby College in Waterville, Maine, I applied for two opportunities—both of which I considered long shots. The first involved an application to be a Colby Senior Scholar in creative writing during my final year. The second was an official request to be hired as part of the coaching staff for a summer ski camp in Zermatt, Switzerland—unquestionably the best summer job I’d ever heard of, and one I couldn’t truly imagine getting.

One day that spring of my junior year, I walked into the student center to check my mail. I’d just returned from break and knew I would soon be hearing back, one way or the other, about both opportunities. As I walked toward the banks of student mailboxes, I was afraid to be too hopeful. I hated disappointment. I still do. So, I reasoned with myself that since I had put a lot of time and effort into both applications, there was a reasonable likelihood that I would get one acceptance—but definitely not two. I somehow figured that two rejections were also unlikely—though I knew little of odds and didn’t have any idea how many other applicants I’d been up against for either position. Of course, I wanted both like a kid in a candy store wants both 100 Swedish fish and a pound of red lace liquorish, but the summer ski camp job was the easier one to lust for; it sounded like an all-expense-paid trip to Disney World with souvenirs included. It sounded too good to be true, so I imagined it was.

When I sorted through my mail, I found envelopes from both the Senior Scholar Program and from Swiss Challenge, the ski camp in Zermatt. I opened the Senior Scholar letter, and read a sentence that started with something like, “We are pleased to . . .” No further reading required; I knew I had at least landed opportunity number one. The envelope from Swiss Challenge was less formal and included a personal note. It too indicated that congratulations were in order, and it urged me to contact the camp right away with my decision; it explained that there were many other candidates who would be happy to take my spot should I decline. I called John Morton, the director of Swiss Challenge, immediately to accept. I accepted the Senior Scholar offer as well—but it was only after saying “yes” to both that I began to doubt myself, to panic, and to question whether or not I was qualified. Was I good enough? Would I be successful? I said “yes” to both immediately and impulsively because “yes” seemed to be the only answer. Logic told me it would have been idiocy to decline these obviously splendid offers. In the abstract, they were perfect—they were the types of things I’d hoped to be able to say about myself: “Yes, I am a Senior Scholar in creative writing this year.” And, “Yes, I’ve been hired to coach skiing in Switzerland.” But when I really thought about it, when I tried to picture myself doing these things—for real—I got scared.

The only thing tempering my anxiety about the Swiss Challenge job was my friend R.B. Klinkenberg. R.B. had been a coach at Swiss Challenge the summer before and was the one who had not just encouraged me, but told me unequivocally that I had to apply. He painstakingly explained every step I needed to take in order to be hired. The process involved submitting a formal application, then following up with many letters explaining how I wanted the position more than anyone else. I followed R.B.’s instructions and advice without question, and when John Morton told me I was hired, he confirmed that my persistence had indeed won me the job. But despite knowing that R.B.—both the big brother I never had and the captain of our alpine ski team—would be going back to Zermatt with me, I was deeply concerned. Most of the coaches Swiss Challenge hired were ski racers from division one colleges. R.B. and I were at Colby—a division two school. I figured that all of the other coaches would be far more qualified. They would be in better shape. They would ski better than I did. They would hike faster than I did. They would leave me in the dust. I would be embarrassed to even be there. How could I expect to coach with them? Even the junior racers attending the camp would probably ski circles around me. Such was my insecure monologue, which I now understand was all about just one plain yet powerful thing: fear. I was simply afraid that having leapt before I’d looked; I would stumble—and I would fail at this thing I had wanted so badly.

Despite my fears, I bought a pair of purple-trimmed Hi-Tec hiking boots, and with my parent’s help, I packed way too much gear for my Swiss adventure. My parents brought me and all my excess gear to the airport, where I was a nervous wreck. I was worried about my shirt being too see-through despite the bra covering my A-cup breasts—so my Mom, as always, told me to relax and loosen up. I looked just fine, she said.

What seemed like minutes after arriving in Zermatt, I was told to join a couple of other instructors for a hike up to an alpine restaurant called Edelweiss. Before I had a chance to protest, I was breathing heavily and sweating my way up the steep and dusty path rising out of the village of Zermatt and leading to the mountain restaurant perched just a 20 to 30 minute hike above town. It was day one. I didn’t yet know anything or anyone, but I was there in my new hiking boots, doing it.

In the days that followed, I reconnected with R.B. I got myself settled, and I met my ski-coaching peers. We hiked up and down the valleys beneath the easily recognizable Matterhorn and the massive and sprawling Monte Rosa. We skied on the Klein Matterhorn, and I was constantly mesmerized by the three dominant colors of the landscape: the perfect cerulean blue above, the dazzling and nearly blinding white of the snow fields and mountain peaks, and the verdant green fields and trees spreading out below and off to the sides in shades of mint and pine. It looked exactly like every postcard I’d ever seen of the Swiss Alps—except life-sized and far more stunning.

When our coaching duties ended each afternoon, we sat back in reclining chairs on decks and porches in the late afternoon sun to dry our sweaty t-shirts and prop our hiking boots and finally rest our now amazingly toned and tanned calves. We drank big frosty mugs of beer—and in the evenings after the campers were checked into their chalets and hotels, we coaches sang and drank tequila and joked and flirted and played darts and danced and laughed. On a few occasions in mountain restaurants we tried local fondue and Raclette and strange fruit liquors with names like kirsch and pflümli. One night in the North Wall Bar, I bought a yellow t-shirt that said “Just do it—in Zermatt.” Most of all we had fun. We were young; we were healthy, and we were being paid (albeit not much) to coach skiing in the Swiss Alps. How could we not be deliriously ecstatic?

Just days into my adventure, I could no longer imagine what I’d been so wrapped around the axle about. None of my fears came true. Sure, there were more high-powered ski coaches, but there were also some with less experience. I wasn’t the most fit, but I was fit enough. I made it through the first days of blisters and sore muscles, and after about a week, I was pretty certain that Zermatt was the coolest place on earth, and I was absolutely certain that I was the luckiest human on earth.

When my coaching session was about to end, a few of my coaching peers (three deliciously handsome, tanned guys, who made it tough for me to decide which one I had a crush on) were trying to figure out how to scrape together enough money to extend the trip by a week. Somehow I was invited to be part of this little adventure, which involved selling ourselves as super cheap manual labor to a man named Isadore Summermatter, who ran a mountain restaurant called the Jägerstube in a hamlet called Zmutt. (I’m really not making this up.) Anyway, Isadore liked us, so in exchange for us helping to bring in his hay, he agreed to provide us with food, drink, and a place to sleep in a loft above his restaurant for a week. He had a group of friendly guys from what was then Yugoslavia who were really responsible for the haying; we were just there to help or to “clean,” as Isadore put it, once a hayfield had been cut. Cleaning meant raking all the bits that were left into neat little piles that could then be picked up and put up in the hay barns. Of course, with what we ate and drank that week, I think all we really provided Isadore was of entertainment value, but he seemed to enjoy our company. And at the end of the week, we hiked down into town and caught a train back to Zurich to fly home.

My Zermatt experience was—at the time—the most extraordinary and inspirational thing I had done, and it succeeded primarily because of two things: first, R.B. absolutely insisted that I apply. And second, I had at least enough good sense not to turn down an opportunity so exceptional that to this day it still sounds far fetched. Despite my misgivings, I said “yes.” I got on the plane that led to the train. I laced up my boots, and I went. At other times in my life, when the goal has not been quite so tantalizing, I sometimes fear that I have played my life a little too safely—listened too much to nagging fears and doubts. But when I look back, though not every leap yielded the same superb results, and even the Senior Scholar program ended up being less than an ideal fit for me, the very best experiences of my life have unquestionably been the ones where I have jumped at a chance to do something spectacular, and I’ve worried about the implications later. Four instances come to mind immediately. Swiss Challenge was definitely one. Signing on to cook aboard the windjamming schooner, Nathaniel Bowditch, was another. Sending a letter to a friend and fellow Colby grad, Matt Murphy, who was and is the editor of WoodenBoat Magazine, was the next: a move which resulted in the greatest summer internship of all time. And finally, saying “yes,” to taking the offer of a last-minute vacant spot on a helicopter hut trip to telemark ski in the Monashee Mountains in British Columbia, Canada.

Now my question to you is this: When have you taken a leap of faith and said “yes” to a dazzling opportunity and only worried about it after making your commitment? Positive or negative, I’d love to hear your stories. I want to better understand how we make the decisions that shape our lives. Please feel free to leave your comments right here on the blog, and I hope to hear from all of you soon!

P.S. For all of you boat fanatics like me, Brian and I met a fun and friendly guy who is captain of the sailing vessel Surprise: You can check out his blog about boats, wooden boat building, and travel here: http://sv-surprise.blogspot.com/

An Unconventional Life

When I started this blog, the theme was “I Sold My Pearls To Do It,” and it was my intention to write about the choices I’ve made and the goals I’ve set that defy convention. I liked this theme because it’s the unconventional choices I’ve made that I’m most proud of and that I find most interesting; they’re the ones that have shaped my life most singularly. I have made some poor unconventional choices, for sure, but for the most part, defying convention, for me, has been about having the courage to leave a defined path, to color outside the lines, to stand out more than to fit in, which is where I think the most interesting parts of life are lived.

But sometimes—in between making big life choices and actually attaining long sought after goals—there is a lot of doing dishes and vacuuming and procrastinating and completing work projects and going to physical therapy and surfing the internet and drinking coffee and sleeping and clipping toenails and washing clothes and reading and writing and having sex and taking walks and visiting with family and dining with friends and waiting in waiting rooms—you know, everyday life. And while there are a lot of good, honest, true, and even interesting stories in all of that general life stuff, it’s easy to loose the connection. It’s easy to forget how all of that everyday activity is related to the big choices and the big goals, which is why I’ve been sweating this blog lately—and by sweating it I mean ignoring it in all demonstrable ways while silently stewing over it in the shower and in bed before I fall asleep.

So, I’d like to refocus. There are a lot of choices I’ve made that have not been highly conventional. Selling the pearls I received from my now-deceased great uncle, pearls he gave as Christmas and birthday gifts over many, many years, and trading them to purchase a small boat when I was 14 was one of the early choices. But there have been many others including a nearly three-decade’s long career that includes all of the following titles: babysitter, surfing store shopkeeper, house painter, waitress, ski coach, ski instructor, ski patroller, whitewater raft guide, tractor driver, trail crew member, condominium check-in center manager, windjamming schooner cook and deckhand, magazine intern, magazine advertising coordinator, grad student, on-hold advertising writer, outdoor education coordinator, tutor, high-tech sales associate, IT business analyst, program manager, consultant, consulting manager, marketing manager, and writer. With my two degrees in English, I never went to law school or became a certified teacher, and the fact that I ended up working in the tech industry was more due to geography (living in Seattle) than any aptitude or proclivity. I was quite good at some of these roles, and I was awful at others. I was an excellent grad student, and I was the most forgetful waitress to ever carry a tray. I’ve also surely left out a few jobs, but most of the colorful ones are on the list.

Anyway, in the coming weeks and months, I’m going to try to explore—and refocus my writing—on some of my unconventional career history, unconventional life choices, and unconventional goals. I’m going to try to post shorter pieces a little more frequently. And if I’m lucky, I’ll also get better at not ignoring the everyday, precious little life activities—and will instead improve at making connections between the tiny little things of today and the big stuff out ahead. Things like my stellar partner and me building a big boat and sailing off to who knows where!

I’m also extremely, intensely, and passionately interested in your opinions, so I have two questions for all of you highly awesome and fascinating friends out there who haven’t yet lost all patience with me:

• What’s the most unconventional life choice you’ve ever made?
• What’s the oddest or most unconventional job you’ve ever had?

Feel free to answer one or both and to share as much as you’d like about the impact of any of your unconventional decisions.

To the unconventional life! Cheers!

Lisa

Revelations from the Spa

This is a short piece I submitted for publication. It was not accepted—but upon further reflection, I agree that it wasn't ready and perhaps should eventually be turned into a longer piece. However, I thought I'd share it here because it touches on two topics that are important to me: female empowerment and boats as a metaphor for freedom and empowerment.

I didn’t expect to learn much from an hour at the spa, but revelations often begin while we’re busy getting stuff done. I like the spa, but this appointment was for a leg and bikini wax--not a luxurious massage. I was there because I believed a leg and bikini wax was an obligation, and I was about to leave for a vacation where I just might end up in a bathing suit. So, I sat, sipping the spa’s herbal comfort tea, and I waited to have the dark course hairs ripped from my pale legs and soft inner thighs.

My name was called, and a young woman showed me to the room. She offered me a small plastic roll, which held the gauzy, disposable panties I’d wear for the session, and she left to let me undress. When she knocked to reenter, I was self-consciously wearing the small, single-use panties and had draped the small modesty towel over my midsection.

She urged me to relax and lean back on the table as she mixed the hot, dark green, sticky wax. Ambient music brought to mind jungle sounds and waterfalls, and I noticed that the hints of mint and citrus-based aromatherapy oils I could smell contrasted starkly with the painful purpose of my appointment.

“So, is there a special occasion that brought you in today”? The young aesthetician asked, as she prepared for the waxing.

“Actually, yes. I’m going on vacation.” I replied.

“Wonderful,” she said, using a wooden stick shaped like an old-fashioned tongue depressor to smear green wax down my shin. “Where are you going”?

“I have a small sailboat, so my partner, Brian, and I are sailing up to the San Juan Islands.”

“How, great,” she said absentmindedly. “So, he has a boat”?

“No, I have a boat,” I corrected, calmly.

“Oh, so, is he the captain”? She asked, seemingly confused.

“No, I am.” I said, and then there was silence.

Moments later, she was ripping strips of hair from my legs, so I let it drop. I remember feeling a tired disappointment, and it saddened me that I actually felt more defeated than shocked. The young woman waxing my legs couldn’t envision a world where women owned and operated boats—something that really shouldn’t have required a tremendous amount of imagination.

I’ve owned two boats, and having captained them ranks in the top ten of my life’s achievements thus far. Neither boat was large, nor complicated. The first was a 14-foot, mini-runabout with a 10-horse Evinrude for power. I purchased it at age 14, with my parent’s consent, using funds from liquidated pearls that had been given to me by a great uncle before he died. The second vessel was a 21 foot pocket-cruiser sailboat, which I defiantly bought while I could little afford the modest purchase price—let alone the moorage and upkeep.   

I suppose what was so special about boat ownership as a young woman was that it let me imagine a world without limitations. With my hand on the throttle and the wind full in my hair, it wasn’t hard to do. But, in the spa, I found that instead of burning my bra and shouting loud and proud that I was a woman who could not be caged, I was instead a woman conforming to some conjured need for silky smooth legs, awakening to a world that seemed to be slipping backwards in time. Where had all the feminist energy and action of the 60s and 70s gone? At 14, it didn’t occur to me that buying a boat was a feminist act, but how, here in the 21^st century could I have found myself in a world where one small example of female accomplishment and autonomy could not even be conceived?

When I now read about the startling disparity between recognition of female writers and male writers, my disheartening experience at the spa comes to mind. Small, everyday examples of dynamic, empowered women exist, but why are they so few and far too frequently missed?

Have you ever known or seen a woman who was the sole owner and operator of a boat? Can you close your eyes and imagine her, adjusting the main sheet, manning the tiller? If you are a woman, can you imagine the feel and power of the throttle in your hand, and can you see the open water spread out before you all the way to the horizon?