Passing on Wisdom

It's a hot summer day and I'm resting my carcass on a lopsided boulder partway up a mountain at a small ski resort. I'm not an Alpine skier, so I'm not privy to the glorious white panoramas my husband and son tell me about all winter long. And as a non-skier, terms like green circle, blue square, and black diamond don't mean much to me. Supposedly, green is easy, blue is intermediate, and black is hard to scary-hard. Perhaps blue is intermediate going down, but as I catch my breath on this boulder, I can tell you that hiking up a blue trail is no joke.

The boy discovered photography a few years ago, and I'm waiting here in my less-than-comfortable spot while he snaps pictures of a decommissioned ski lift. He is a truly creative spirit, finding beauty where I can only see a dilapidated lean-to surrounded by weeds. My heart is a bit in my throat as I watch from a distance his climb up the side of the structure for a better vantage point. He calls, "Hey D!", his name for me, and waves, and I know he's fine.

I'm learning, slowly, to give him his space, let him explore his independence. He'll be 14 in September, and his childhood is coming to a close. Only a few years left to teach him what I want him to know before he's making his own way in the world. These 13 years together have been a blessing to me, and I hope I'm having as positive an impact on his life as he's having on mine.

Wisdom isn't a river, rushing in one direction from a large source to a smaller pond. For me, wisdom is that uncomfortable fizzle of water in your sinuses when someone shoves you in the deep end before you can grab a breath. I've been treading water, grasping the life preserver ring, unsure which way to go, learning to swim out of necessity. And the boy is shouting to me from the side of the pool, telling me I can do it.

Fourteen years ago in the childbirth class I took at the local hospital, a labor and delivery nurse told a room of anxious, soon-to-be moms to relax. She said that we wouldn't be alone in our labor. We thought she meant we'd have a team of healthcare professionals by our sides, but no, she said. She meant that our babies would be right there with us, working as hard as we were to bring themselves into the world. That message has resonated within me from that day to this.

These past 13 years have not been easy. We've had good times and bad, individual struggles and family struggles, but all along the way, the boy has been right there, working as hard as I've been to be a part of the world. And he has passed on so much wisdom to his old mom, as the young are wont to do to their elders, if we only listen to them.

Wisdom is nothing if it is not shared, so I share with you three of my boy's top lessons:

1) Open your eyes and see the beauty around you. You'll find it in the least likely places--like an old ski lift, a wet rock, or a deer antler.

2) Be always unapologetically yourself and your people will find you. He's been teaching me this one for a while, and I love his confidence in expressing his essence in his clothing, his music, his photography. Simply put, he's an interesting and authentic individual who I'd want to be near, even if he weren't (blessedly) my son.

3) Don't be afraid to take risks. I've watched him throw himself into new situations, embrace new people, and share himself fearlessly with others. His mother is more cautious, some have said socially anxious, and I watch him in disbelief. How did he become so confident? Not my gene pool, that's for sure.

I watch him inch down slowly from the roof of the ski lift and he yells that he's climbing up higher. Wisdom of the young to their elders. Persevere. I pack up my writing pad, dust an ant off my shin, strap on my backpack, and follow.

Butterfly Wings, Anyone?

Early rise this morning to get on the trail, trying to escape the heat and smoke.

The Pacific Northwest, Seattle in particular, is known for its rain. From July through September however, our forests and fields are as dry as those in California and Colorado. Our summer temps hover in the mid-seventies. Low eighties are unbearable for most of us, sending us in droves to air-conditioned movie theaters, stores, and coffee shops. And for the many without air-conditioning, we open our windows and crank up our fans.

This week we're rising earlier than usual to walk, run, and bike--not only to escape the heat, but the smoke as well. Forest fires in Canada are blanketing us in a gray haze. Friends without air-conditioning open their windows for a breeze and inadvertently set off their smoke detectors.

And that's only the Pacific Northwest. Montana, Colorado, and California residents go to sleep with acrid air polluting their nostrils and wake to more of the same. The west is burning up while we all pray for rain.

Friends in the midwest, in the south, and on the east coast, you are experiencing your own weather hells this summer. Record-breaking heat, hurricanes and tornadoes where none should be, hailstorms in August. Around the world, more of the same. You know. You live there.

Our Earth is talking to us. It's a sick child with a bad cough, whining and crying, needing attention and comfort and medicine. If we keep ignoring the cries of our beautiful planet, our home, how long before it develops full-on bronchitis or pneumonia?

I've been called "crunchy" and a tree hugger, and yes, I wear those badges honestly and proudly, but before anything else I'm a human, a card-carrying member of the political party known as Mankind. And I love our Earth with my entire being. I hate seeing any member of my family sick in bed, and the Earth is our mother-father-grandparent, family to all of us.

But Dear Reader, if you've stayed with me this long, enough doom and gloom. Negativity is not action. What are we going to do about it? How are we going to work together to heal our glorious planet? Arguing amongst ourselves about whether or not Johnny has a cough or is faking it to get out of a test today doesn't make him climb out of bed and go to school. Rather, let's love our Earth, our human home.

While we wait for the brilliant minds of our scientists, the policies of our elected representatives, and the future environmental inventions of our children (and I have faith they will be beyond our imagining), we can each do something small, individually, to impact. We all know what those things are: reduce, reuse, recycle, repeat. Let's not make each other feel guilty about what we can't or choose not to do. Rather, let's promise to each other and celebrate what we can and choose to do.

For my small change, I vow to implement and enforce mellow yellow in my home until the fall rains are well underway. (For fans of poetry: "If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down.") Maybe my family's reduction in water consumption won't have much effect worldwide, but it is a small change I can easily make at zero cost, and at least that's a beginning.

What small change can you make? Butterfly wings, anyone?

Woodpecker on a Snag

It was still this afternoon as I walked through the forest by my house. The midday heat had something to do with it, I'm sure. A temperature gauge showing 80 would be a welcome sight to many East Coasters and Midwesterners this July, but for Pacific Northwesterners like me, blue skies and temps above 75 engender panic, leaving us gasping for breath and looking for the nearest air-conditioned building. Our furred and feathered friends don't like the heat much either, which is why my favorite walking spot was so quiet.

All the better to hear the persistent tap-tapping of a Downy Woodpecker. A quick perusal of my field guide indicated that he's the smallest American woodpecker found north of Mexico. At 6 1/2 inches long, he's just over half the size of his cousin the Northern Flicker and a whopping third of the size of the flashy Pileated Woodpecker. And yet, despite his diminutive appearance, he was unphased by the 200-foot Douglas fir he was exploring.

He dug into it with gusto, not stopping his urgent quest for bugs and grubs even when I approached and noisily fumbled with my phone. He scrambled off to one side and up the trunk and I stepped back, gazing toward the sky into the boughs of the newly dead tree. It was an old one, easily 100 years old, and I feared my friend the woodpecker had bitten off more than he could chew.

He seemed confident though. Day by day, he'd drill holes in the bark, working his way up and down and around the splendid snag. Calmly, diligently poking and searching for his livelihood, he had faith that he could conquer this tree, size be damned.

He shared his confidence with me, this tiny messenger of perseverance. Slowly, persistently, a little bit every day, he will conquer that Doug fir and move to the next and the next. I aspire to do the same. I hope you will join me from the height of your own snag.

Win a copy of The Crystal Lair →

From April 18 until April 25, I'll be giving away three copies of The Crystal Lair, Book 2 in the Inventor-in-Training series. If you haven't yet read the second installment of Angus's and Ivy's adventures, or if you'd like to give a copy to your favorite science-loving teen, here's your chance to get it for free.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

The Crystal Lair

by D.M. Darroch

Giveaway ends April 25, 2017.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter Giveaway

Angus and Ivy are in Nevada! My dear friends Lilly and Ellen are selling books and making friends in Reno.

Drought

I’ve mentioned it on my blog a few times, and if you’re a weather aficionado like my dear old dad, you’re sure to know this already—we in the West are having a bit of a dry spell. A dry spell, as in Seattle hasn’t seen a drier May in 23 years. (Thank you for the “weather in a nutshell”, Seattle Weather Blog.) Don’t even get me started about June. My flowers are gasping their last dusty breath before crumbling into oblivion. Cacti are beginning to look like a viable alternative for my PNW flowerbed. On Wednesday, I sat in my sunny office concentrating on the day job. The by-now-unfamiliar pitter-pat of raindrops on the skylights above my head intruded on my focus. My wild whoops of “It’s raining! At last, at last! Moisture at last!” intruded on my cats’ naps. As they raced off in search of quieter environs, I logged on to Facebook to track the path of the rain storm. My local friends were equally thrilled about the change in weather—for about 60 seconds. It seems that those ten raindrops on my skylights were all that were allotted per household. The little gray cloud rationed out my family’s portion and swiftly moved on to my neighbor’s house.

However, those ten raindrops. What excitement they caused. They were something different. They were what we all needed. Okay, they didn’t do much good, but we were all thrilled about a gray cloud—and how often can you say that, especially about Seattleites?

The Happy

I dropped my son off at school this morning: the last day of school before summer break. A yawning, three month span of unstructured time begins for him this afternoon. Not for me, though: the day job, the deadlines, the work politics, the family and home organizing, the cooking and cleaning—those will continue all summer long. Adults don’t get summer breaks. And yet, The Happy flowing off all those excited kids and smiling, waving teachers was infectious. After driving away from the school, I waited patiently as the driver in front of me braked and swerved and did a U-turn and held up traffic. I watched with the interest of a preschooler as a road crew stopped traffic so an excavator could cross the road. I noticed the squeaky strings of the guitar solo on the song playing on the radio. The sky was blue; not something to be taken for granted on a June morning in the PNW. The Happy was running deep in me.

The Happy is a warm rush of content. The absence of fear and anxiety. The love for your fellow man. The desire to nurture every living being. The knowledge that you are a part of everything: the dirt and trees, the sky and ocean, the road workers and your fellow drivers, the teachers and students, your book club and work group. You feel accepted and loved for who you are, and you are satisfied to just-be in the world.

Within a few minutes, my thoughts turned to the day’s responsibilities: documents to edit; dinner to plan; volunteer obligations to fulfill; household jobs to accomplish. I’m also one of those for whom no day is complete without worrying about the responsibilities of next week and next month, so I began making mental contingency plans for everything and anything that could possibly happen in my little world. The Happy was rapidly evaporating.

And then I recognized The Happy. I named it. I grasped onto The Happy tightly, and then I gently released it. But I had named it and because I did, I remember it. And it was wonderful while it lasted. Maybe I’ll feel it again later today. Or tomorrow. And I’ll welcome it back with open arms: my old friend, The Happy.

I hope you feel The Happy today. If you do, name it.