by susan | Feb 19, 2015 | Uncategorized
and two elbows.
forearms, hips, teeth, wrists. five toes on each forefoot, and four toes on the hind.
twenty months ago I knew almost nothing about wolves. today I know a great deal, but I didn’t learn they have knees until yesterday.
and something about this matters to me.
wolves, canis lupus, are the long-ago forebears of man’s best friend, the dog. everyone knows this. we humans love our dogs. twenty or more are walked past my windows every day. one, a jack russell terrier, runs out in front of his master, who rides his bicycle behind. labs, boxers, bulldogs, mutts, shepherds, and little teeny yippy dogs trot past, tugging their masters. it’s difficult to envision the evolutionary process that led from wolf to shih tzu. inbreeding, mutations, selective breeding: the answer to how (and from where) today’s dogs actually came to be are still being studied, and argued about.
the connection between man and dog, though, is rarely fodder for argument.
and it’s part of what draws so many of us to wolves.
but there are also those who fear wolves. who consider them vicious and violent, an unnecessary, destructive species.
the marshall family, in the 1950’s, spent years living with a tribe of kalahari bushmen, in southern africa. the bushmen lived, at that time, basically as their ancestors had lived for the past thousand years. the apex predator in africa is the lion, and the bushmen had an understanding with it, as one explained to the marshall’s daughter elizabeth: “where lions aren’t hunted, they aren’t dangerous . . . we live in peace with them.” lions and bushmen had coexisted for so long, they “knew” each other, and appeared to respect each other. bushmen were cautious and protective–they stayed in community at night, and didn’t place themselves at risk–knowing that lions were capable of ripping them to shreds. but the two groups shared the land, each recognizing and accepting the other’s existence.
the bushmen hunted with poisoned arrows, and by the time the poison took effect, the animal was often far away from the hunters. at times, the bushmen would reach their prey only to find lions already at feed. the bushmen would neither shoot arrows at the lions nor abandon their kill; instead they would calmly tell the lions to leave, that the animal wasn’t theirs to eat. reluctant lions might be encouraged by handfuls of soil, tossed lightly in their direction. and this was enough to make the lions leave.
it is possible for man and beast to share the land. what’s required are firm boundaries, and respect.
wolves are not dogs, and they shouldn’t be treated as such. however, they are animals that belong on the landscape. it is our job to determine how to set and enforce appropriate boundaries, and to respect the wolves’ nature, behavior, and right to exist.
like all top predators–lions, tigers, great white sharks, grizzly bears–we share many traits with wolves.
among them are that we like to choose our territories, we will defend them. we reproduce and raise families. we like to choose our own meals.
and we both–wolves, and man–have two knees.
Photo Credit: The Wolf Almanac by Busch, Robert H.
by susan | Nov 7, 2014 | Uncategorized
I am a writer who cycles. and a cyclist who writes. neither is separate from the other, and when I am cycling my mind fills with things to write about, from the world surrounding me to the bumpy road beneath my tires to the creatures (including motorists) who cross my path or pass my pedaling self. the world surrounding me is most evinced by temperature, skies filled with pre-dawn dark or sunshine or clouds, and the wind.
it’s rarely windless. some days wind whips past, sending fall leaves skipping along the ground or flying through the air. other days the wind is gentle, the tips of long grasses barely bending toward or away from my approaching body. moments of calm exist, but rarely do they extend further than a few minutes’ travel. typically, though, the wind is either up-canyon or down-canyon, and depending upon exposure and turns of the road, can at times be on one side of you or the other. and on wickedly windy days, it can jump and swirl, catching you by surprise, pressing against your chest, the side of your body, then your back, playing games and challenging you to keep your wheels straight and tall.
a book I recently read made generous use of the terms temporal and spatial, and in wrapping my mind around these concepts as he applied them I struggled. I was forced to look up definitions (spatial: relating to, occupying, or having the character of space; temporal: of or relating to time or earthly life as opposed to eternity ~ secular not sacred.) neither word exists in my usual spoken or written lexicon–though I certainly understand time and space–I added them to my mental list of “words of which to gain a firmer grasp.”
back to the bicycle.
please understand that when I’m cycling I am usually climbing or descending a canyon. while descending, I am hyper vigilant of hazards, while simultaneously on a landscape-fueled adrenaline high. thoughts flit through but rarely linger. while climbing uphill, much of the time I’m physically challenged enough that few brain cells are available for contemplation. thoughts come and go but my ability to direct them is limited. this pays off wonderfully in that the “inspiration silencer” is squelched by this lack of brain cells (and oxygen), allowing moments of brilliance to break surface. a few days back, during an uphill battle filled with unpredictable gusts of wind, displayed before my very eyes was a dramatic visualization of spatial and temporal.
the stretch of road I pedaled was momentarily calm: no leaves scattering before me, the roadside grasses tall and straight, a hush in my ears. but before me, not forty feet away, I watched a patch of swirling leaves and branches and grass bend fore and aft beneath the invisible onslaught. ah! spatial! my temporal zone was calm, but the exact same temporal moment, forty feet away, held a completely different spatial experience!
the wind gusts differed by spatial orientation, regardless of temporal designation!
yes, space and time are delightful words, both of which I will continue to select when discussing such concepts as–hmm–space and time.
by susan | Oct 25, 2014 | Uncategorized
I am impatient.
there are writers who spend five or eight or a dozen years writing a novel, crafting each sentence, paragraph, and chapter with the dedication and precision of a Bernini. I would be bald and fat if I worked that way, having pulled every hair from my head and eaten everything I could get my hands on.
this past week I took Word and Excel training sessions, eating an entire (large) bag of jelly bellies while doing so. I pulled only a hair or two.
but to worry a paragraph to perfection takes more patience and love than I can seem to find.
I love words, I enjoy playing with sentence structure and rhythm. I close my eyes and feel for what’s underneath the words. I read what I’ve written, I’ll niggle with words, clauses, the swooping of lines. I’ll fix redundancies, repetitions, recurrences. (that was a joke.) I read for clarity and interest. I chop the unnecessary, unless I’m too attached to it to do so. I strike articles and “that” and make sure to refer to people as “who” and animals as “that,” unless an animal needs to become a “who” because of the story.
but I craft very few perfect paragraphs.
Orion magazine has an online column named the place where you live, and there, this week, I discovered a perfect paragraph. caught midway between envy and appreciation, I acknowledge that I could try harder. I could quell my impatience–somehow–and focus more deeply on each word I write and how it behaves around those surrounding it. but no matter how long I write, how many hairs I pull or jelly bellies I eat, no matter the years under my belt, the volumes to my credit, the number of tweets I’ve carefully honed, I will always, always, be awed by the perfect paragraphs of other writers.
this one, by jaren watson, can be accessed by clicking the link above, but I’m also including it below. enjoy, be awed, be envious, be encouraged.
Rexburg, Idaho
Posted by Jaren Watson | September 17, 2014
My home lies in the shadows of granite giants to the east, limestone pilgrims to the west. The plain between was carved by the Yellowstone caldera a hundred thousand years ago, and now lies as flat as hammered brass. In the hills above my home, my ancestors shook the shoulders of Hin-mah-tu-yah-lat-kekt, the wisest and gentlest leader this land has ever known, and chased him from the belly of his lover, made his home their home. As now I sleep I hear his voice in the whistle of the elk, my neighbors. I feel his hands about my ankles as I wade the waters of the Teton River, my mother. My brothers are juniper and pine, and the wind through their needles is the whisper of our Chief, saying, “Rest, my son. Rest upon my bones, your bedstead.”
by susan | Aug 29, 2014 | Uncategorized
I am a cyclist.
one might even call me an athlete, an endurance athlete, as I train for and complete ridiculously long and challenging rides.
for the past 8 years I have trained for an event called lotoja, a 206-mile race from logan, utah, to jackson, wyoming. the event occurs in september and is the carrot at the end of the stick that dangles before me all spring and summer. I ride 6 days a week, I ride long and hard on saturdays, and I always–every year–hit a state of burnout.
the first year it surprised me. I was tired, grumpy, unexcited about riding, feeling pressured, and just plain worn out . . . I didn’t understand. so I went to my friend google, and found an excellent guide from an ivy league college’s cycling team that discussed effective training: work hard during most rides, but always add in an easy day or two each week. I had been riding hard each time I rode, climbing up canyons, pushing myself, always working to improve my times and strength.
make one day a recovery day? spin easily, go slower, don’t challenge myself so much? wow. okay. I added that piece to my training schedule, and life improved.
yet every year, come late july or so, I hit burnout. and it reminds me to back off, rest, not push so hard. recover.
this past year I researched and wrote a book. I worked hard, I pushed. it flowed, I loved it, I gained wisdom and knowledge and deepened my connection with earth and others. after a developmental edit and working through revisions, in early june I turned the manuscript over to my publishers. and have struggled to write anything since that time. I’ve told myself it’s a well-needed break, that I’m refueling, that I will write again soon. but even my blogging–the regular turning out of a brief essay which is similar to my daily riding–has shriveled to a bare occasional post.
it’s not writer’s block. it’s burnout. and what I need, what will heal me, is a lot of recovery. a lot of easy spinning, a slow down, an absence of challenges. and just as my “recovery rides” often seem to take forever (they are so slow! sometimes boring!), this period of writing-recovery seems to be taking longer than I want it to.
but I know it’s necessary. I must be gentle with myself, and allow the time to rebuild mental muscles, endurance, tenacity. muscles gain strength from being stressed then given time to recover. I will be a better writer from having buried myself in work, then allowing a time of non-work.
lotoja is 8 days away. I have ridden thousands of miles during the past few months, and I have challenged my body then let it recover. I will ride well, I will complete the race; all of my work–and recovery–these past months will pay off.
I will write again. I will write better than before. for I have challenged myself, and I’ve allowed myself this period of recovery filled with reading, yoga, housework, other physical labor. recovery heals and strengthens, as difficult as it sometimes is to not function at your optimum level.
so I will read a few more books, maybe jot a few things in my journal if so inspired, take a walk, make a batch of peach jam with a friend. always filled with faith that the writing will come, will return, will always be with me as long as I let it ebb and flow. to quote hemingway and add just a teeny tweak,
Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. or later.
by susan | Jul 8, 2014 | Uncategorized
approaching the final curve before the hill’s crest, the sun is moments from advancing the sky from dawn to day. particles of the night’s darkness hang in the air and everything—rocky hillsides, trees, the road itself—blurs gently around surfaces and edges and my headlight throws a fat cone of weak light that illumes naught but hovering molecules of night.
nothing is sharply defined, and all is tinted by the watery mutedness and appears mottled green or one of sixteen shades of earth.
when a dust brown creature suddenly appears at the far reach of my vision it shifts from apparition to solidity slowly, my revolving wheels lessening the gap between us and changing fuzz to fur, brown, mottled, four legs, a slender torso, a long and narrow tail.
it is my coyote. he has crossed the road south to north and disappeared into the tall grass and scrub edging the asphalt. I watch the spot with intensity, wondering if he will wait and watch me pass as he often does. the steep grade retards my approach and I am still half a dozen yards away when a howl shatters the air. bark, bark, howl. I see him now, he sits in the sage and cheatgrass, his back to me, and howls. another bark, and a long howl sent out over the valley opening below him. the sound dancing on those lingering particles of dawn, dropping on trees and shrubs, falling on leaves, tickling the ears and minds of squirrels and rabbits.
parallel to him, now uphill of him, he howls again, ignoring me, or perhaps serenading me with nonchalant neglect. I pedal, he howls, I reach the top of the climb after his vocalizations have ceased, their reverberations no longer trembling blades of grass. the air is still, and the sun, lifting itself over the furthest eastern mountain, has removed the last vestiges of dawn and what had been soft is now sharp, what was unclear is now illuminated.
this morning’s sighting is my seventh, and each has brought me as much delight as the one before. it’s an unspoken hope each time I ride, let the coyote cross my path today. he is curious and, other than the single concert, silent. for a canine he is surprisingly cat-like, his paws like fog. he has dashed across the road behind my descending wheels, he has hovered on the side of the road. he has feinted toward me like a pugilist, then apparently thought better of it and retreated to the shoulder to watch me pass. I’ve been studiously ignored; I’ve been studied as though I’m the first human he’s encountered. he brings what’s untamed, wild, to my border and dares to cross into my land.
great horned owls hunt in my canyon as the sky releases its deepest ink and the world becomes one of silhouette, their wings spread wide in flight, to scan, to attack. I look to treetops, utility poles, seeking that familiar elliptical shape focused on examination of the shrubs and ground below. details cloaked, it is shape, silhouette, everything dark against a sky of baltic blue. porcupines amble and deer startle, bounding up hillsides of scrub oak and balsamroot. a stretch of road is silent, then the cacophony of bird song reigns for the next mile. raccoon eyes shimmer between scrubby brush, a rabbit turns tail and runs. but not a creature is anything like my coyote.
perhaps it is the teeth, its predatory nature, the fact that it is only size that keeps me from being at risk. or perhaps it’s that he is only evolutionary steps away from being a household pet. that my mind and heart think dog when he trots across the road or seems to consider interaction.
or maybe it’s the howl. a howl that send shivers up spines, that declares desires and needs, that energizes air and speaks to all within earshot.
the canyon is not mine, nor the coyote. but at the edge of dawn and day when all is dirt brown and muddy green, I am transported to a world of deepest truth and being by four-legged creatures that leap and amble, bound and jump and trot, and, when all my stars align, occasionally and resonantly, howl.
[this post also published on my tao of cycling blog under the title the coyote in my canyon]
by susan | Jun 10, 2014 | Uncategorized
earlier I wrote about reviewing others’ works, and how difficult I find it. I wrote about losing myself in books, finding myself in books, falling in love with what I read, becoming spellbound. and the other day, while reading a book, I discovered the reason I’m not a book critic and why I react to books as I do.
it’s not earth shattering. in fact, it’s something we all innately sense. I’d just never heard–or read–it so beautifully put as I did by carlos ruiz zafon in his book, the shadow of the wind, when he wrote,
books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you.
ah. I read, I see, and I stay in that place, not able to tear myself away and pretend impartiality.
hold this thought; consider your most cherished books.
ponder.
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