A remote Northern Ontario lake
Alone in the boat
Alone on the lake
I cast
Drat!
My lure hits a beaver!
Splash! Slap!
My line screams out
And out
And out
Do I cut the line?
I hang on
Little line left on my reel
But, wait!
I'm reeling in
I breathe
I reel in
My line screams out
I reel in
I am hopeful...
...to help that beaver
...to recover my lure
...to keep the boat upright
Will I be lucky?
Will this be a disaster?
My line screams out
I reel in
Dare I play this out or cut line?
Do I want that beaver near the boat?
He won't be passive
I ponder inconsiderate acts of fishermen
I'm tired
I reel in
A stiff drink and the warm camp, more than an hour away
I reel in
Big and heavy, under the boat
The water swirls
Can I recover my lure?
Can I rescue that beaver?
Can I save myself?
Wait!
A fish head at the end of my line?
Wait!
A fish tail on the other side of the boat?
Yes!
Drat! No net
Drat! No camera
I release the Northern monster
Drifting back down
Out of sight now
70 feet of water shrouds the giant
An hour back to camp
A warm campfire
A stiff drink
A clear night sky
The wolves are howling
And I feel alive!
"Many men go fishing all their lives without knowing it is not fish they are after" ~Henry David Thoreau
"I love fishing. You put your line in the water and you don't know what's on the other end. Your imagination is under there." ~Robert Altman
With March, we have more light. The sun increasingly rises above the tree tops around my home. Critters are sticking their noses out of burrows, dens, holes, brush piles and woodpiles and taking good long sniffs of the air.
Winter is hanging on this year with another 12 inches of snow just last weekend. Yet gone are the dreary days as we celebrate the light that now holds some tints of color and a warmth around midday that makes promises of more to come.
My furry and feathered friends and I are happy. How about you?
There is still a couple of feet of snow around my home. I’m not complaining. We need the moisture.
But since December I have lived by the path. The path, that is, to the compost pile and the woodpile, the bird feeder, the fire pit, and my well-worn path along the creek. The paths have become beautiful as the March wind carves striking lines and shapes in the snow. The banks, and the paths, and the piles have flowing and crisp edges.
The pin oaks are finally giving up the leaves they have held on to all winter. I beg them to drop their leaves in the fall, making cleanup needed only once each year. But they ignore me. My paths are full of leaves. The wind blows them down the paths and they huddle together in the dips and curves as though they were little brown creatures scurrying to get out of my way.
And now comes the fleeting warm ups when the temperatures rise just a little above freezing for short spurts during the day. It’s perfect Maple Syrup weather when moisture locks up tight on cold nights and then flows freely for even just a few hours during midday.
For months now, the way of the path was my limited walking world. But I have become flighty with the new freedom the contrasting warm and cold temperatures have given me on my morning walks. As the snow warms up each day and then freezes hard each night, a crust is created that can support me. If I rise and get out early enough, I’m free to go anywhere I please. Just this month, I've hiked over bushes that would grab at my clothing and snarl me up any other time of year. I've walked on water over the creek. I've run down slopes that, in the summer, have so much dead fall I’d surly break a limb on my way down. And I've walked over the marshes and swamps, knowing there are all kinds of critters underneath my steps waiting for Spring.
What a contrast to my path routine. I’m free, unconfined, and able to move quickly. March is warm sun on my face and cold wind at my back, serious enough to freeze my toes and frivolous enough to encourage me to take myself over the top.
"Spring is when you feel like whistling, even with a shoe full of slush." ~Doug Larson
Once again, January has locked the Northland in a deep freeze.
With the cold temperatures, little moves. The creek has numerous ice bridges over it and the little bit of running water moves toward the river like liquid gelatin. In an otherwise silent world, the river itself is full of ice flows, creating an unearthly groaning sound as they bounce off the frozen bank. The chickadees, jays and nuthatches stay busy at my bird feeder, a little more frantic for the food that will sustain them in these cold temperatures. They have become friendlier, grateful I imagine for the unending source of seed I am able to provide. They speak little, too busy eating for warmth than having conversation over a meal. The deer move in each evening for a snack on what’s left of the corn I’ve thrown down for the jays. The squirrels have moved inside their tree-top nests, the partridge and rabbits are buried deep in their snow caves. There is little evidence of night activity beyond a few mice prints on each night’s new snowfall. Life moves minimally. Everything has fallen silent.
And even though we have so little light during these days of January, I too feel the urge to close my eyes and enjoy the peaceful darkness of a nap. While I excel at napping any time of the year, my body seems to be designed for this midwinter type of siesta. In January I take napping to new levels, finding accessories like a down duvet, body pillows, hot baths and intoxicating scents sprayed on these adornments. I am a pro. What Mother Nature doles out at other times of the year, warm sunlight, breezes carrying heady smells, a hot sandy beach or the lapping of waves on the shoreline, I have learned to manufacture in my frozen north.
I’ve been good at napping all my life. Falling asleep during required nap time was embarrassing when I was in kindergarten and Brownies. I had no problem closing my eyes and drifting off. But I’d wake with all my mates staring and giggling at the spittle running down my chin, my damp mat-crushed hair, and one wrinkled and red cheek that had previously been plastered to my sleeping surface, usually a rug. They, of course, had not slept at all and had entertained themselves by watching me. I probably got unmentionable and gross things stuck in my nose, ears and mouth as I blissfully slept on. I’m thankful I’ll never know.
However lately, napping has new respect. Maybe I’m noticing more nap appreciation in others because I’m hanging out with an older, nap-loving crowd. Or perhaps folks of all ages are turning on to the power of a nap. Either way, I no longer get laughed at. I get envied. Those who do not have the time or a place in their day to nap, marvel at my ability to sack out for an hour or so each day. So, with new level of approval, I’ve improved my napping proficiency.
For those of you who want to learn napping, the single most important thing to understand is that napping embraces the often-forgotten talent of doing only one thing at a time and doing that one thing well. When you turn the prestige of being able to multitask on its head and elevate the old way of doing things, single-tasking, the lowly nap not only seems more respectable and even doable, it becomes art. Oh, granted, there are multiple benefits from napping; a sharper mind, better motor coordination, happiness, lower blood pressure, to name a few. But you are not the “doer” of these. You are, by simply taking a break and becoming a master of The Nap, “being,” the recipient of these, nothing more.
And as a reminder, all good things arrive when you’re sleeping; Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and even Spring. Try it.
"Think what a better world it would be if we all, the whole world, had cookies and milk about three o'clock every afternoon and then lay down on our blankets for a nap." ~Barbara Jordan
I've been away for awhile. I lost my precious pup, Jersey, in October and after 15+ years with her by my side, I felt paralyzed.
We are at the tail end of Fall and here in Northern Michigan everything is slowing down. I still manage to sit on the front porch with my morning cup of coffee, watching the stars twinkle out as dawn approaches. But it's quite a bundling I have to do to make that happen. Over my flannel pajamas goes a down vest and then a fleece jacket. A hat on my head, mittens on my hands and wool socks on my feet complete my ensemble. It's not pretty but it works. One cup of hot coffee and I'm ready to come back in. But it's a morning ritual I'm reluctant to give up. Perhaps the chair will stay on the porch all winter this year. We'll see. Come on over. We'll share a cup. On the mornings that the stars are out, it's really quite spectacular.
Now that we are a few weeks away from elections here in the U.S. I can't help but scream...Let's Do Better! Every year the election process gets uglier as candidates run less on their political views and more on attempts to scare us. The fearful banter that was floating around earlier this month has not dissipated and I'm talking to more and more people who are worried about their future.
Let's do better...
Let's create some space. Let's make room. Let's create some reserves in our lives. Let's do better at living with less instead of suffering in order to live with what we think we need. If it feels overwhelming to count the number of things we own, we've got too much. The less we want, the less stressed we become.
Let's all be super, super productive for a short period of time and then go play, rather than "putting in our time." Let's create a community of people who are having fun, enjoying life and happy.
Let's refuse to be scared. Let's turn off the TV, turn off the radio, turn off the internet and drastically reduce our time with these distractions. If you don't like what you hear or see in the media, do something about it. Otherwise, listening and watching with no action diminishes us. As someone who makes her living using the internet, I have come to appreciate it immensely. But I've also learned that too much time in front of the TV or on the internet drastically reduces my creativity. While we're at it, let's go paperless.
Let's test our assumptions about everything. Chances are that a lot of what we assume is not true.
Let's choose to do the things that give us pleasure without suffering.
Let's focus on what is important. Once we decide for ourselves what is important and not what the unimportant and negative people in media tell us, we can use our own filter. And that's empowering.
Let's let go of perfectionism. Everything we do is perfect in the moment. We don't have to micromanage our lives or those who want to help.
Let's stop being busy. Let's breathe. Let's create a life that is full of joy and cheer.
Let's make the upcoming holidays truly thankful occasions without the pressure to do it all, buy it all, and make it all while hosting numerous events in order to include everyone.
Enjoy your Thanksgiving everyone!
Love and Hugs
d
Summer in Northern Michigan is busy. Busier than I like. There are too many people, too many events, the lines are too long, the traffic is too thick and the noises are too loud. In Summer, I crave becoming disconnected.
Being connected is so easy. All we need to do is just call someone up on our cell phone, even while we, ourselves, are on the move. Or, just stop by the neighbors for a visit. Or, just pop into the local grocery and chat with everyone we know or don't know in front or behind us in the checkout line. Perhaps we go to an event where we are surrounded by people we don't know, and still we have the connection of sharing whatever it is we are all there to experience. Daily, most of us just get online and share our life activities with everyone we know on one or more of the social networks to which we belong.
So I go north to fish. And yes, I go north to disconnect. My travels take me far enough that a phone call is impossible without getting in boat and/or a vehicle and traveling at least an hour. I usually have a cabin to myself and make choices about who I will or will not talk with on any particular day; that is, if there is anyone else in camp to talk with. The laptop stays home, unplugged and unused for as much as two weeks at a time. My Jeep, also unused, rests at the furthest point it can go before I must find other form of transportation. At some camps, I can drive as far as the cabin door, but often the boat launch or the train station is the final resting point for the driving part of my journey north. My cell phone, too, has no need to travel north. Phone, cell and computer access are all "technically" possible if I'm willing to travel at least a couple of hours, but my unwillingness means it's just not going to happen.
I sit on a bench in front of the cabin or on the cabin steps and enjoy "twittering" of a different sort as the Whiskey Jacks are all too happy to see me and share my breakfast, lunch or dinner. At 5:00 a.m., a cow moose wanders on the beach, past camp and I feel no urge to wake others to see the sight. I fall deeply into a novel I picked up at my local library in a rush out of town, no thought to its contents or who the author might be. In the moments of my reading, I am consumed. Now, a few weeks later, I can't tell you the name of the author or the title of the book. I eat breakfast with the rain clattering on the metal roof of the cabin, absorbed in a simple meal, thinking it's the best I've ever had, with no desire to share, to pass the recipe on, or even to make note of what I did so differently when I prepared this simple, familiar fare.
Brainwashed, we often think that everything we do or say is dependent on others listening and reacting. And worse, we often think that everything we do or say is important. Only when we dare to disconnect, are we able to enjoy our own company without placing much importance on our perceived value. It's oh so very worth it.
