I made it. I finally got north for two full weeks of fishing. After months of being a caretaker, taking time away from Mom was difficult. It seems I fell into a bit of a trap, being drawn to create order in the midst of the seeming chaos of my mother's illness. So I cleaned, sorted, mowed, planted, folded, dusted, rearranged, tossed, and organized. The list is long. But even in the middle of my orderly behavior, I recognized my actions were not really about creating order. They were more about trying to be in control.
Just like the ease with which summer gives way to fall, when I take a minute to breathe and observe, I can see that order is already inherent in any chaos. There is nothing for me to do. If I'm willing to relinquish control, I can always see the present order within the mess before me. That order is, at its heart, natural and expansive. The control I was seeking is contrived and limiting.
So, thanks to a complicated (dare I say “chaotic”) system that involved train conductors, a shortwave radio, a fly-in fishing camp to our south, and a bush plane pilot, I was finally able to get away and muck about in chaos, knowing the order was there when I needed it. Some days I caught too many fish, some days I didn't fish at all. Some days I slept in and stayed up late, other days I was up before the sun and in bed before the stars. Some days I ate every hour, on the hour. Other days I ate only one meal. Some days I had milk and cookies for a bedtime snack, other days it was good bourbon and a cigarette. I can't say I felt more in control after all my disorderly conduct. But I can say that I have a better, more trusting, relationship with chaos. And that gives me peace.
“Chaos in the world brings uneasiness, but it also allows the opportunity for creativity and growth.” ~Tom Barrett
“Chaos is a friend of mine.” ~Bob Dylan
“Chaos is the score upon which reality is written.” ~Henry Miller
“Chaos is a name for any order that produces confusion in our minds.” ~George Santayana
I am submitting this contribution to Deb for her perusal: to accept, reject, or modify, as she sees fit. It matters not what she decides: my venting will have been done, and I will thankfully move on, all those pent-up emotions having been expressed.
Because, you see, this piece pertains to a highly sensitive, but seasonal (it changes in winter) hate-object: the minuscule but intensely phobia-inducing...
MOSQUITO!
So, Iasked Deb: "How do the good people of Michigan cope, when those pesky critters are driving them stark raving bananas?" Quick as a whip, just like that,she quipped: "Well, we just drop everything and run into the house! Duh!"To which I replied: "But, Deb - I AM in the house!" Do you now understand the sheer intensity and depth of my torment? Our home is in the mid-north. That's what the news anchor calls it. Northern Ontario, that is. It is also the home of the dreaded mosquito. As well as the lowly blackfly...but that is another story.
I was not sure how to start. I thought a catchy opening line might be:
"There are blood-spatters on my bedroom ceiling and walls - but don't bother calling the CSI, as they are my own."
OR
"Dead bodies lie helter-skelter on my bedroom floor. I willfully leave them there, in plain view, as fair warning to future intruders: Beware - a madwoman lives here."
OR
"My notches are innumerable - but they're on a swatter, not a pistol."
Instead, I decide to go with my original How I Threw Out My Shoulder Wednesday Morning.
Now, it's not like I have no ammo here: an arsenal of anti-bug implements, supplies, and equipment have been put to the Test. Every conceivable lotion, potion, lamp, candle, spray, garden stake, zapper, stick, and trap has failed the Test. Every electric, electronic, butane-fuelled, battery-operated, as well as hand-held weapon has failed the Test. Every conceivable attire such as netted hats, jackets, pants, jumpsuits, gloves as well as domed food covers has failed the Test. A four-poster bed frame was purchased for the sole purpose of holding up a home-made mesh enclosure, fashioned from a whole bolt of fine wedding tulle. Failed. They used GPS and found their way in.
I had my husband dip himself in Deet. Then, armed with hockey tape and various sizes of cut-out screen, his mission was to creatively install a barrier onto every possible aperture leading into the house, from the dryer vent to the wash-bay drain hole, including the chimney (we agreed to desist from using the fireplace - a small price to pay indeed). They are still getting in.
Yet here I stand before you, swearing to the efficacy of the common bedroom slipper. Size 7.
Long ago, it became clear to me: There must be something in the water at our place. There was. Literally. Larva: huge, mutant-ninja Larva - that soon hatch into huge, mutant-ninja Skitters. This unnamed species, an aberration of nature, is limited to one biosphere: our property, both the house and our very wet and wild backyard. The catalytic nature of the local water seems to dramatically increase, in the female of the species Culicidae, both the size of the proboscis and the creature's I.Q. I'm theorizing here, but based on my clinical experience, I can personally vouch for their superior intellect: take it from me - those suckers are a pain to kill.
But they shouldn't, should they? After all, their brain is but a fraction of the size of mine. Yet they are born innately knowing how to strategize, regroup, huddle and plan their attacks with military precision. They are a formidable foe indeed. They can even tell time. And their tiny little ears are highly developed, for they know the sound of snoring. Snoring occurs at approximately 2 a.m., in our house anyway. This signals the deployment of the first bloodthirsty troop. Anyone sitting in the dark on our street, in the dead of any summer night, will bear witness to the lights suddenly turning on in our bedroom window between 2 and 3 a.m. Regularly. And when those lights go on, then, my friends, so is the War.
You can hear thunderous thumping, explosive smacks, and sometimes - o.k., many times, there is crashing. Unfortunately, the source of the wails, shrieks and howling is not from any winged insect, but from the grimacing, disheveled, evil-eyed Medusa, swaying in the middle of the creaking bed, brandishing her deadly slipper menacingly: moi. Yes. Beware. She may be panting and worn down, but has learned to remain persistent, obsessive even, and will strike at the slightest flitting. Her nerves are frazzled, but her eye is keen.
After a whole contingent has succumbed to the zeal of her blows, she spies a lone straggler! It is fully laden and slowed by its' burden of blood: HER blood! This sends her into a frenzy of ill-choreographed prancing, which inevitably leads to grave injury, to both pest and swatter. Hence the injured arm.
This is a true story.
Madeleine Beaupré
"If you think you're too small to have an impact, try going to bed with a mosquito.
~Anita Roddick
As a child, did you want to change your name? I did. And a lot of my friends did too. I remember sitting outside with my childhood friends imagining all sorts of better names. Most of them were not traditional names. We wanted to be called names like Chipmunk or Daisy or Leapfrog or Brook Trout or Dragon or Gray Girl. Don't ask me why. I may have understood our logic then but it has escaped me.
But I'm spending more time in Oba, Ontario. So Oba, population about 8 full time residents, has given me a sense of the ways of up-north living. In Oba, everyone's "real" address is General Delivery. The mail gets thrown off the train about three times a week. The Postmaster rides his 4-wheeler to the train crossing, catches the mail bag, and delivers the mail on the spot. If someone is not home, he just takes it back to his house to be picked up or delivered later.
Everyone in Oba, because they are General Delivery, gets to create their own address. My friend Sam is at #1 Shoreline Drive. This is not because his shack in Oba is on any shoreline. It's in the second row of houses back from the tracks. But because Sam spends so much time running the Oba River to Cameron Lake and back, often daily, he figures he has the longest “Shoreline Drive” of anyone in town. When Tex the old trapper was alive, his address was #13 Sled Dog Lane. As the dogs got older and died and Tex slowed down and didn't need to replace them for his work, his address became #12 Sled Dog Lane…#11 Sled Dog Lane…#10 Sled Dog Lane…
I've entertained Walleye Way, Pike Place and River Route, but they all seem too obvious, too ordinary. Maybe Wondering Woman Way? What do you think? I'm taking suggestions. I'm well aware that we manifest better and more in our lives when we name peg we hang our fishing hat on.
Hey All
I've missed writing. I've been attending to the needs of my Mother. So far, her 89th year has been a challenging one.
But while I did not find the time to write about it, I have found some inspiration. I've been inspired by my visit to Northern Ontario last month, before my world turned just a little cockeyed.
But while I had inspiration, sitting calmly and writing without distraction has been lacking. Just when I think I will be able to carve out a little time to write, there's one more doctor to talk with, one more nurse who needs more information, a physical therapist who wants history and one more signature needed somewhere. And right now, that's just where my attention needs to be.
So, here's April's inspiration in May. I started it, my friend David happened to call in the middle of one of my frustrating days and offered to finish this up for me.
Thanks David!
As I've said before, my intention in writing, if anything, is just to present the musings of a wandering woman. Take what works for you. Discard what does not. David and I won't mind a bit.
Ice Out...With A Little Help From My Friend, David
April is always the month of flow. My April musings have often been about the rise of my backyard creek, the torrential downpours, the flooding of my driveway, and the flow of maple syrup. This year was the year of Ice Out in Northern Ontario. The few hours it takes lake and river ice to disappear is generally unpredictable so I did not count on being privy to the ritual. But this year I happened to be there just in time.
One moment the lake, and the river that flows from it, is totally covered with ice except for a little ring of water along the shoreline where the warm sun has heated the ground enough to melt the ice. The next moment, dramatic movement begins as the ice starts shifting.
One moment, it's a calm spring day. Birds can be heard in the background. The next moment, nothing can be heard over the thunderous noise created as the ice moves swiftly from the lake and down the river.
One moment the shoreline is flat. The next moment the ice is piled up on itself in a geometric design that has Mother Nature's signature all over it.
One moment the sound is deafening as the ice crunches and grinds upon itself. The next moment, as the drama subsides, the gently swaying ice sounds like the tinkle of wind chimes as it lightly bumps back and forth.
One moment birds on the lake ice are taking flight and Mr. Beaver is diving deep. The next moment that same wildlife is calmly floating by on spring ice 
flows.
So much like life, eh? Right now, I'm stuck in the “next moment.” David listened and took over….
"I am your biggest fan."
Isn't that a lovely statement? I’ll take credit for it because I said it. I said it to Deb Martin just a few minutes ago.
Deb has been my coach and very good friend for about 6 years. I called her a few minutes ago and she was stuck, just not feeling the normal mushroom-loving, fishing-loving, moose-loving mojo that she normally does.
Deb is a love so I call her from time to time and I tell her I love her. I tell her I love her because it makes me feel good and I think it makes her feel good too.
When I called her today she said she was stuck with her essay and I offered to ghost write something or just write something. She said I should so I am.
Since this is ostensibly a coaching column, I’d like to talk a bit about coaching. Since this column is also from portagecoach.com, I’ll throw in a little ice and ice fishing just so you all feel comfortable.
Deb and I struggled over the years because I kept wanting her to coach me to do something. She just wanted to coach me and let the process lead me, and she and I together, wherever it may.
Just like her columns, she lovingly suggested, that the most wonderful and powerful experiences could be had just going outside, walking around, and taking your clues from the moss on a branch or whether the morels had decided to grow on the roots of the oak trees.
I have found her suggestion to be true. Whenever I try to live my life strictly according to goals it feels empty and shallow … hollow. I came to Deb wanting to change the world, solar power the world, get my musical on Broadway, etc. I came to her convinced that these achievements would give me peace and serenity, joy and meaning.
She didn't say I was wrong. She listened lovingly, for hours. I wondered why she spent so much time listening to me, talking to me. Her attention did not seem at all tied to my achievements or my attempts at achievement. She seemed to love me for exactly where I was at every moment, regardless of whether I was achieving mightily or (in my estimation) screwing up.
Deb let herself wander in my life and quietly and sweetly, by her trusting and generous nature, invited me to wander in hers.
Today's conversation between she and I was unusual. Usually, I bring the conversation around to what I am doing, achieving, and she as always, listens lovingly. Today, I listened to her talk.
Deb is tired. Her brain and maybe her soul is tired, if a soul can be tired. She had a potential topic for this month. She had already written about the ice breaking up at one of her favorite bodies of water, one of the lakes or rivers where she communes with nature (and her friends sometimes) and recharges her soul.
Recently she had been at this lake or river and the ice started breaking up and moving. She told me the melting ice and shifting and breaking sheets of ice made thunder noises and tinkling noises and crushing noises. She intimated it was beautiful, maybe moving to her. We didn't talk about it much.
It was another of nature's demonstrations and showpieces that Deb loves so much. She seemed a little sad or confused or just frustrated that this tasty piece of nature's showmanship was not as inspiring to her as it might be if she was not dealing with her mother's caretaking.
Funny. I think the roles have reversed. It seems to me that Deb was just a little concerned with performing and meeting expectations and I am the one who is saying, Deb, it's okay, I love you just the way you are.
I love you for struggling.I love you because you are
letting me write a story for you.I love you for teaching me how to just be. I love you for teaching me that if you can't write a kick-ass story, maybe one of your friends will call you up and write it for you.I love you for teaching me that there is no right or wrong … there is only love.I love you for taking such good care of your mother.I want to assure you that there are many years of ice melting and rivers thawing and glorious crunchings and groaning of Canadian lakes in the springtime.Right now, you are exactly where you need to be, struggling to write an essay so that I might write one for you.You are my friend, Deb, and I love you very much.
David Freund
“You never really know your friends until the ice breaks” ~~Eskimo Proverb
Did you make the shift to daylight savings with grace and ease? I didn't. Oh, my routine wasn't altered much. Within a day or two, I was past any effects on my circadian rhythm. It's just that twice a year the time change annoys me. Now before I hear from all of you who have a preference one way or the other about daylight savings time, let me explain. I don't care whether we're on DST or ST. I just wish we'd land somewhere and stay there.
Every year, twice a year, our time shift makes major news. Especially this year with all the speculation about how going on or off daylight savings time helps or hinders global warming, depending of course on the expert of the day being interviewed.
When did we all become so obsessed with time? It used to be that sunrise, midday with the sun directly over our heads (give or take), and sunset were enough to keep us together in some sort of common rhythm. Then, as we became more industrialized, we needed to divide our days into smaller and smaller increments as a way to coordinate with each other. At first, on or about a particular hour was good enough. Then minutes within that hour became necessary. Now, especially for those coordinating in the world of computers, seconds hold greater importance.
And if that's not enough, as if our game of hours and minutes and seconds has become too boring, we have created a new game where we get to change the time of day twice each year. Now there are whole discussions and disagreements about daylight savings time, how and why it became our practice, whether or not we should be going on each spring and off each fall, when the shift would be most helpful and most appropriate for school children, the earth, business…and on and on and on it goes. What have we come to that we are so busy we need to divide time into tiny increments and then adjust it twice a year based on some theory that only really works for a percent of the population?
All I want to do is sit in my chair with my cup of coffee in the morning and watch the sunrise. And I’ll gladly sit in that same chair each evening and watch the sunset. What time the sun rises or sets is not important to me. For the rest of the month I will have the time of my life ice fishing, no longer “doing time,” but instead, in time out! Try it for yourself. I bet you can find one or two days, on occasion, where sunrise and sunset are all that matter. There's no time like the present.
"Clocks slay time...time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life." ~William Faulkner
"But what minutes! Count them by sensation, not by calendars, and each moment is a day."~Benjamin Disraeli
"You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by." ~James Matthew Barrie
I made it. I finally got north for two full weeks of fishing. After months of being a caretaker, taking time away from Mom was difficult. It seems I fell into a bit of a trap, being drawn to create order in the midst of the seeming chaos of my mother's illness. So I cleaned, sorted, mowed, planted, folded, dusted, rearranged, tossed, and organized. The list is long. But even in the middle of my orderly behavior, I recognized my actions were not really about creating order. They were more about trying to be in control.
