by susan | Mar 31, 2020 | Uncategorized
Geography is everything.
The year I graduated college, it was decreed that geography was no longer just one thing, but was now essentially everything.
No longer was geography simply the study of countries and where they were found on the globe. Geography became a five-themed study: that of location (both absolute and relative), place (physical and cultural), movement (of people, ideas, information, goods and services), region (formal, functional, and vernacular), and human-environment interaction (adaptation, modification, and dependence).
Language, home ownership, procurement of food and fuel, love, interdependence, employment, culture, exploration, interaction with others and with one’s environment… geography, all.
Colum McCann’s Apeirogon tells a story of love, connection, anger, ignorance, community, culture, peace, healing, falcons and frigatebirds and tunnels and motorbikes and Hitler and Einstein and everything that swirls around the heartbreaking, vicious, violent death of two young Middle Eastern girls, and his fragment number 173 states geography is everything. It determines who lives, who falls in love with whom, who dies.
At the present time, most every aspect of geography is confrontative. Because one lives on this side or that side of the continental divide, because one lives in a city or suburbia or a rural space, because one shops at this store or takes one’s car to that service station, because one shook hands with this person or hugged that one, one’s fate may be guided in a different direction than it previously was. The enormity of it, the improbability, the in-your-face reality that one has so little control over anything, ever. And then the dawning realization that what one does have control of is self, the inner experience, the mindset, the response to that with which one is surrounded.
To connect with oneself and understand that this is the only certainty; what a rich, vital certainty it is.
The inner geography. Which is, ultimately, everything.
We often gain access to this inner geography through place.
Ah, place. Landscape. Those mountains, wheatfields, expanses of snow, cloud clotted skies, mossy creeks, hanging valleys, granite peaks, dunes and shaded lanes and talus slopes and silently whispering deserts. These connect us with our core sense of self, they alone have the absolute ability to hone and heal our inner geography. We ground via actual ground.
A story exists of Buddhist monk Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, who is said to have once sat with his master in a garden, admiring a great elm tree. Sunlight danced through the leaves, a squirrel paused to study the men, this magnificent tree spread its limbs far and tall. One monk turned to the other, “they call this tree,” and both burst into laughter.
What we call it matters not. Place is the ground which grounds us.
We, whose hearts are tugged by landscape, feel the power of place.
We, who are separated from those we love, know the power of place.
We, who await the unknown, center ourselves with the power of place.
Geography, is everything.
by susan | Oct 30, 2019 | Uncategorized
deep, dark morning, while most slumber, is a bewitching time of day up my canyon. deer lower their heads to graze, porcupines waddle along the edge of the road, coyotes trot through sage and grass, crickets sing, songbirds hail one another, owls look down and peruse their kingdoms.
during late spring and early fall the sun gradually lightens the landscape as I ride, and I seek silhouettes and vague forms that delineate as I near. as fall stretches forward and the days shorten, I attune to sound alone, as my vision is limited to the small cone thrown by my front bicycle light.
with any bit of light, I’ve learned to search for owls atop spindly, lifeless trees, and now know which trees are most often inhabited by these predators. at times an owl calls and I am kept, by the dark, from spotting it; instead I experience a spark of joy from the challenge of pinpointing, sightless, its perch. owls are there; they watch me pass.
one early october morning, I crested the summit, and coasted down toward the reservoir. as the road leveled and turned south, I resumed pedaling. well behind me, still at the summit, approaching headlights shot downhill.
a large shadow—dark against dark—appeared far to my left, a strange effect of the headlights, I thought. then the shadow moved closer, again in my peripheral vision, an illusion, perhaps. the shadow was then shockingly close, my nerves tingled, and suddenly an owl swept across me, left to right, its wings and torso millimeters from my head and arms. brown, darker brown, a pattern almost striped, I impossibly felt its feathers against my skin, its body against my own.
gone.
I pedaled.
the truck passed me, its headlights piercing the opacity.
I rode to the reservoir, jubilant, astonished. I turned and began my trek home.
jubilant.
astonished.
by susan | Mar 26, 2019 | Uncategorized
if here or there; if somewhere…
what landed upon me solidly this morning is the thought, this is not what I want.
what does one do with that?
we’re advised to flow, to embrace radical acceptance of what is, to be grateful for what we have, to not push, to not allow our energy to overwhelm that of others or of the universe.
we’re also told to keep moving, to take right action, to take steps every day toward what it is we do want. to not hold back or stop that natural flow of energy.
how do we balance this? especially when we’re sitting in a situation ~ usually of our own making ~ that does not fulfill us, that isn’t, truly, what we want?
I sometimes feel as though I am walking through muck, my shoes sticking, every lift of foot demanding tremendous effort…the forward progress almost nonexistent.
my soul cries out for something different, perhaps just new experience. perhaps I can assuage it without major upheaval. yet how do I do this when my feet are stuck in a seemingly neverending field of muck?
left, right, left, right.
buddhists chant om mani padme hum, and tell us the meaning of this mantra is nearly impossible to express in mere words, but that it has much to do with compassion and loving kindness, which are more easily understood when we release our fixation on our personal self. aha.
this, apparently, is what I must do, for most obviously, this is my struggle. the simple answer: to release my fixation on my personal self.
if here or there; if somewhere…
om mani padme hum.
left, right.
left, right.
The True Sound of Truth
(from dharma-haven.org)A devoted meditator, after years concentrating on a particular mantra, had attained enough insight to begin teaching. The student’s humility was far from perfect, but the teachers at the monastery were not worried.
A few years of successful teaching left the meditator with no thoughts about learning from anyone; but upon hearing about a famous hermit living nearby, the opportunity was too exciting to be passed up.
The hermit lived alone on an island at the middle of a lake, so the meditator hired a man with a boat to row across to the island. The meditator was very respectful of the old hermit. As they shared some tea made with herbs the meditator asked him about his spiritual practice. The old man said he had no spiritual practice, except for a mantra which he repeated all the time to himself. The meditator was pleased: the hermit was using the same mantra he used himself — but when the hermit spoke the mantra aloud, the meditator was horrified!
“What’s wrong?” asked the hermit.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your whole life! You are pronouncing the mantra incorrectly!”
“Oh, Dear! That is terrible. How should I say it?”
The meditator gave the correct pronunciation, and the old hermit was very grateful, asking to be left alone so he could get started right away. On the way back across the lake the meditator, now confirmed as an accomplished teacher, was pondering the sad fate of the hermit.
“It’s so fortunate that I came along. At least he will have a little time to practice correctly before he dies.” Just then, the meditator noticed that the boatman was looking quite shocked, and turned to see the hermit standing respectfully on the water, next to the boat.
“Excuse me, please. I hate to bother you, but I’ve forgotten the correct pronunciation again. Would you please repeat it for me?”
“You obviously don’t need it,” stammered the meditator; but the old man persisted in his polite request until the meditator relented and told him again the way he thought the mantra should be pronounced.
The old hermit was saying the mantra very carefully, slowly, over and over, as he walked across the surface of the water back to the island.
by susan | Mar 11, 2019 | Uncategorized
(from a work-in-progress)
I walk the desert, thinking of ocean.
anyone who’s spent time at the seashore has witnessed the drawback of water—the exposure of sand and detritus from the last wave, the deep breath of the ocean—before the next wave crashes against the beach’s sandy edge. an empty moment, purposeful, portentous. I imagine this as a metaphor in my life, that I am in the drawback, the removal of what had been in order to cleanse and prepare for what is next. that pause—an interminable dreamlike state that once ended, slips and disappears into folds of memory—which is filled with vision and clarity, the sharp pang of loneliness, self-scrutiny, despair, joy, a sense of dread that perhaps it will never end, and moments of delight painful in their intensity. a pause, an absence. a void that is not in any way a void.
what inspires this thought is a dry wash, a site of former storm run-off that is now a parched channel, cut into a shallow of the hillside. water, gushing, frothing and spilling over the edges; an image familiar yet likely not witnessed here during the past five months. water, precious is this part of the world, a gift from the storm gods. our mountains aren’t formed in a way that allows them to stretch high and poke heavy, moisture-laden clouds, causing them to unleash daily showers, like those in a part of Colorado I once knew. showers in Estes Park, where my grandparents’ cabin sat, were as dependable, each afternoon shortly after lunch, as the warm hug I’d receive from my grandma each morning. those showers enforced downtime, craft time, book time. how would this desert I’m in respond to a daily sprinkle of moisture? cacti may rot, flora might actually flower. dust would give up its rush to fill the air, would instead settle more deeply into companionship with neighbors and colleagues. wild horses would root out more to eat, with less energy expended in doing so. we pray for many things here in Utah, one of the most common being rain. we pray and wait, we sit in that absence.
if I rest in the drawback, take a deep breath, allow it to be, I feel sensation that speaks of both comfort and deep disquiet. fear, this must be fear, the unknown, the unlimited potential for harm. a lack of faith, rooted in what lies behind me, tries to overtake me. I breathe through it, remain in the present, press the toe of my shoe into the crumbling earth of the dry wash. moving my shoe back and forth, I soften the edge, smooth it. I can’t know what lies ahead; the only way to prepare for the unknown is to move deeper into oneself, to center, to ground. breath. footstep followed by footstep. om, mani padme hum.
the incoming wave could devour me; it could be meek and insufficient, leaving me unfulfilled, inducing yet another wandering path.
by susan | Feb 27, 2019 | Uncategorized
[the following is a reprint of a 2011 post on my blog, the tao of cycling, titled the great escape. the only changes I would make are in the second line: “five” now becomes “thirteen,” and to add that I now am with a new therapist who is even more streamlined and responsive than those who came before… ]
here’s a not-so-secret secret:
I have been in intensive therapy for the past almost-five years.
I’ve changed therapists a few times, from a rather heavy, stable, predictable gal to someone a little more streamlined and frosty, to my current therapist, a gal named ruby who is sleek and slender, sharp and responsive, understated yet subtly persuasive, and always ready and available for a session.
the best thing about my therapists is that they all–all–work outdoors. none of this sit-on-a-couch stuff. they’re into movement and nature, and they’ve all been extremely tolerant of less-than-perfect conditions.
they don’t mind getting a little wet.
they don’t mind cloudy skies and temperatures in the 40’s.
they don’t even seem to mind those 100 degree days, though I’m tempted to believe they prefer heading up canyons when the air gets that hot.
I’ve been with ruby for over two years now, and have spent so much time with her you’d think I wouldn’t need her anymore. but the thing with this kind of therapy is that it becomes a regular, almost standing, appointment. it’s more like yoga and meditation: daily practices that heal and soothe, center and relieve one of stress and anxiety.
ruby and her predecessors have helped me learn many things, not the least of which is that I am capable of more than I thought I was.
I’ve also learned:
- no matter how long the road before you, the only way to shorten it is to move forward.
- one’s mind will opt out long before one’s body will.
- the only way to get up a hill is to start pedaling, and keep doing so until you reach the top.
- the less baggage you carry, the easier it is to move forward.
- some baggage is necessary for self-care along the way. it’s okay to carry a little. it makes you who you are.
- rewards you earn are more enjoyable than those just given to you.
- we all need an escape at times.
- what hurts for a little while will ultimately make you a stronger person.
- it doesn’t matter whether those rivulets running down your cheek are tears, sweat, or a result of wind-irritated eyes. it’s all good.
- before you can go anywhere, you have to be where you are.
and then there is this:
all the training in the world won’t get you anywhere unless you possess and exercise some courage.
the initial investment in my therapy made me gulp, and changing therapists can be expensive, too. but the daily expenditure is minimal, and mental health is truly priceless.
by susan | Feb 21, 2019 | Uncategorized
most times we left-click it’s routine, part of a process: editing, deleting, completing a form, maneuvering around the internet.
but every so often we pause before we click, take a deep breath, check with ourself to make sure we’re sure . . . and only then do we click and send our commitment on its way.
yesterday morning I had one of those experiences. today: no regret, no excessive excitement. just a contentedness. I did it. and now, what will be will be.
residencies are a thing that exist in the world of creative arts. time away from home/school/employment, often in a more rural or natural setting, with space and unscheduled opportunity to embrace whatever creative pursuit one has been awarded the time to embrace. some residencies include meals, some include gathering with other resident artists, all include–at a minimum–a place to sleep and work.
popular and often prestigious, all require a formal application. vitals, CV, proposed project, samples of one’s work, references. proper grammar. capitals and periods.
I’ve completed two of these applications in the past ten weeks: one with time slots this coming spring, and the other, next fall.
in 2015 I applied for a residency and crossed my fingers, hoped, worked to let it go . . . when I received word that I’d been awarded a two-week slot as artist in residence, I was shocked.
this time? radical acceptance: I gave my best to the applications, and what will be will be. I actually have tried to keep the goal forefront, but find myself just letting go and moving into that let it be place.
which isn’t to say I don’t want to be awarded a residency. I just am less attached to outcomes in my writing career these days. the writing world in its current form is subjective, confused, and nothing I can predict or control. a “yes” is an amazing gift, a “no” is just that my proposal didn’t click with those in power. I can’t let that stop me from doing me.
so I may be in northern cal this spring, or I may be in oregon next fall. or I may be here typing away on my computer in my own lovely office. or I might create my own residency somewhere, find a space in a place that suits me.
it’s possible I finally have a sense of how to keep moving along with my river, noting spots I’d like to visit, but not becoming anxious when the current doesn’t seem to be within my power . . . trusting that my little raft will take me where I am supposed to go.
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