Skagway homecoming

Here we are, in Skagway. It felt so good to come down the valley, back to this place I once called home. We saw some old friends, who I last saw in 2004. We wandered around downtown and ate at the best restaurant in town (still quite good even though they changed names and owners last year). We stayed in the fancy hotel downtown since the others were full. I had never stepped foot in their doors before- a place reserved for tourists and employees, not us trailer trash locals! Now, as a visitor here, the Westmark seemed like a perfect basecamp.

All the while, I felt deeply into this place, this valley with its throngs of cruise ship tourists walking down the boardwalk sidewalks and taking photos of each other in front of the mountains and the Red Onion Saloon. I had some of the best summers of my life here. I had some hard times, too. I knew most of the people in town... I thought that I would move here someday. I wondered what a winter would be like. Then I fell in love and reigned in my nomad ways, settling into a different kind of lifestyle in Boulder, Colorado. 

Skagway remained in my heart and I knew I would return one day, although maybe not for a full season, and definitely not without Dave!

Now, nine years later, only 3 of my community are left, replaced by a new group of 20somethings- most of my friends having moved on to the real world of having families and homes and careers in the lower 48. Me, too. So much has changed, but the Skagway streets are still lined with most of the same shops, and the same cruise ships drop thousands of people off at the docks, just as they did before.

We head out tomorrow for a week long exploration of the Tormented Valley by the Skagway/Canada border- something I would never have had time to do while working here. I'm nervous, since I know no one who has ever been up into the valley on the route we are about to take.

I expect bears, mosquitoes, wind, rain, and unspeakable beauty. This may be our greatest adventure yet!

The North Country is calling: Alaska road trip part 1

So here we are on the Alaska highway, curled up in our tent hiding away from the mosquitoes. Dave is sleeping peacefully beside me and I'm awake, hearing birds call in the night that I have not heard in 9 years. I miss this drive. I wait to hear the varied thrush who I know so well. But, I hear other birds that I didn't know the names of 9 years ago. I recognize them. I remember. Hermit thrush calls out clearly, 10:30 at night, and white throated sparrow chimes in as well as the familiar robin. The kiskatinaw river murmurs the refrain. Silence. I feel as though I'm heading home. Home. Skagway. Only a few days away. I've worked so incredibly hard in the last 2 months, preparing, cooking, packing, and working incredibly long days, so I can be ready for this trip. I had a few panicky, exhausted nights when I had no idea how I would be able to maintain this momentum. Now, I'm here. 6 weeks on the road. In less than a week, Dave and I will set out to explore a valley I've dreamed of... Via pack rafts, upstream on a swollen river, into the unknown. We have not used pack rafts on our annual river trips yet. I anticipate an incredible new level of versatility and freedom... As long as they are fun to paddle, I see the possibility of easy portages, ability to handle whitewater, and ease of transport and packing. Will canoes be a method of the past? We shall see.

The birds have quieted and my husband snores lightly. The river beckons to us with its soft murmur as I drift into dreamland, the silence of the Tormented Valley beckons, less than a week away.

Mim.

I have been spending my mornings with a woman who blows my mind in her joy. 

The first time I met Mim, we realized the deep connection we both have with birds. She has birds on her bed sheets, on her pillows, on her walls, at her bird feeder, and very obviously in her heart.

Mama owl

I told her of my Great Horned Owl neighbors. I showed her a picture of the mama with her babies and she asked over and over to see that picture. "Her eyes! She is looking right at me!" " Her feathers are the same color of the bark!" 

Then she said to me, "I've never seen an owl before.... I'd like to see one before I die... Can you take me to meet them for my birthday?".  So, we did. She was all bundled up in a wheelchair for her outing to celebrate her 86th birthday, gratitude emanating from her very being. We picked her daughter up and headed over. 

Dad owl cracked an eye open and stared at my new friend. He stretched as the sun neared the mountains, and hooted in Mim's direction. Mom was bundled up in her nest, keeping her newborn baby warm. Dad stretched as Mim ignored the cold and stared back at him. He spread his wings and puffed his feathers, and Mim got her birthday wish.  

She asks about the owls every time I come to visit. I let her know how the baby is doing, where dad has been sitting, and what mom had for dinner last night.

We read poetry together- I offer Robert Service, (Listen to the wild, it's calling you!) and she shares Grace Noll Crowell's knowing that each day will bring some lovely thing.

We sing her favorite hymn, "for the beauty of the earth... For the splendor of the sky""... It must be SPLENDOR, she tells me. It's such a perfect word. Today she tells me that on her headstone, she wants to have this quote: 

"She never made it to Target, but she saw the splendor of the the clouds at sunset"

...And we laughed and laughed.

She is not afraid to talk about death. She has instructed me very clearly that we must sing that hymn at her memorial service. I MUST use the word splendor!  And, I will. 

What is happening to me here? It's love. It's awe. It's a feeling of immense gratitude.

This woman shares her stories freely. She tells me of living in Muskegon, Michigan, diving in the waters to gather old, gnarled knots of wood buried in the muck below. She tells me of her favorite cousin, who she played hide and go seek with well into her teens. She tries to swim across any body of water she comes into contact with, from the quarry on the farm in Wisconsin to rivers in Europe, sometimes needing a boat to follow to keep her safe.

Mim's bird feeder

She tells of camping with her four daughters and her husband, and I am there with her. I am diving into the muck hunting for gnarled knots of wood and listening to the birds, as we sit looking out of her window at the assisted living facility so far from the places these stories took place.

This woman has LIVED life. She has filled her life with joy and birds and lakes and card games and family. I am in awe. I want to soak in every story she will tell me. I see how I want to be at 86, passing my stories along so vividly that we are transported to times long ago...

This is what I love about caregiving. I am so honored to be there with Mim. I anxiously await my time with her, and I'd like to be there for her for the rest of her life. My life is enriched in the stories and birds and poems and hymns and hands of gin rummy. 

I am honored to be of service. Gratitude fills me every single day.

Pinyon juniper scrublands

A cool wind blows through the pinyon juniper scrubland, and I think of my senior friend who passed last summer.

"She had an extreme, ecstatic response to nature," her lifelong friend said. How perfect. That description said more to me than her words could convey.

I open an old pinyon nut shell, and note its emptiness. I wonder if any human has eaten the pine nuts from this shady spot overlooking one of the many arches of this incredible national park. I remember the last time I collected pine nuts, salting and roasting them in abundance at Valley View, my favorite hot springs in Colorado. I ate so many pine nuts that I got a stomachache, but still I wandered/wondered in amazement that these little nuts had sat, undeveloped, all around me for years, never knowing that such a feast could await me... Only once every 7 years. No wonder pine nuts are so expensive!

How could one grow a field of them and have the financial stability to survive for so long, when they produce their edible cornucopia so rarely? I haven't gathered a wild pinyon nut since.

Wait! This is year 7! I wonder if they will ripen again this year! Is the timing that reliable?

This I ponder as I allow my thoughts to wander quietly in the shade of the scrubland.

I've been thinking a lot about John Muir, Ed Abbey, and John Wesley Powell. Ed and John Wesley knew these scrublands intimately. They knew these canyons with their green streams streaking through it long before I was even a speck of existence in my great-grandparent's time.

We would have all been friends if we'd been alive together- John, John Wesley, Ed, and I. Who were the unsung females heroes of this movement that I embody? Rachel Carson is the only one I know.

Were there others? Did they write of their experiences? It seems as though it is my turn to follow in those footsteps.

Belonging. 10 years of rivers!

So here we sit at Green River State Park and I realize the powerful urge I have to hop in the river and float through my favorite canyons. I remember the first time, as Dave and I left this shore, this incredible feeling of leaving everything I had ever known to venture into the canyon I had dreamed of for years. I remember the incredible freedom, and praying that I remembered everything.

Green River State Park launch site, April 2013

The same place in 2004, with Rex who joined us on many canoeing trips until her passing

I remember camping for our first night in the tamarisk, reaching camp just at dusk and setting up camp in the only clear space we could find, ducking and crawling into the thick tamarisk to find this secret opening.

Our first Green River campsite in 2004

I remember the incredible feeling of.... Aliveness. Of fear of the unknown. Of exhilaration. Of HOME. That day in 2004 was the first time I realized how much I BELONG on the river. I BELONG in these canyons. This river is a part of me, and I am a part of it.

I think of all the rivers I've floated since that first trip with Dave. I think of the hurricane we came upon in 2005 on this very river, here in the desert of Utah where the last thing I would ever expect was a hurricane! The headwinds were SO strong that day. We had to fight waves and wind until finally we gave up and camped across the river from Anvil Butte, on a sand bar protected from the wind. The next day as we packed up our gear, we watched a huge dust cloud billow up against the canyon walls upstream of us, headed our way. I looked up and the clouds were swirling around a blue eye right above us. The center of a hurricane! I had laughed at the 3 guys here at the put-in, where I stand right now in 2013, when they said that a hurricane was coming! I was not laughing now. Dave and I sat, huddled under a tarp with Oso and Rex, our canine companions, between us- marveling at the wind whipping around us and the freezing temperature that was 25 degrees warmer 5 minutes before.

Anvil Butte, 2005, the day before the hurricane

Something unexpected always happens on rivers. Always. In the 10 years since I stood here in this spot for the first time, I've experienced crazy wind, terrifying thunderstorms, an insane flash flood, hidden grottos and streams snaking their way through rarely visited side canyons. I've awakened to canyon wrens and ravens singing and frogs croaking all around us, huge clouds of mosquitoes, fish snapping at the debris swirling in eddies, double rainbows (oh my god!) arcing over the river brightening a dark, ominous sky, and countless peaceful silent picnics and naps under cottonwoods, and magic around every corner.

These last 10 years have been the best of my life, and it all started here, on the banks of the Green River, where my life became one with the water that I gaze upon in this moment. The gratitude is overwhelming. The gift the Green River gave me in 2004 is the greatest gift I could ever have: the birthing of a sense of HOME.

Just before sunset on the Green River in 2005

Takahano, Grief, and Camp Fire USA.... and Hope.

Yesterday, I became a member of an alliance dedicated to preserving some incredible land outside of Boulder for future generations... I can take clients, children or adults, up to this incredible 640 acre parcel of land and get to know this place deeply... as deeply as I knew Camp Takahano, the camp I grew up going to.

Inspiration Hill at Takahano, with The Rocks in the background

And, here come the tears. What are these tears about? Camp Takahano was my home away from home. I knew every acre of that 200 acre camp. I knew where the streams led, where the wild mint grew, where the spring was and the monkey bridge that led the way toward the Appalachian trail.

The Monkey Bridge

Takahano was where I felt the most joy of anywhere. Takahano was the home of so many memories, of so many magical places hidden from view.... It was my escape from a difficult school life where I was constantly tormented by bullies. I learned about knots and knives and firebulding, started assisting in those classes by age 10, was teaching them on my own by 13, and was first paid to be the “lead outdoor skills instructor” at a Camp Fire camp at 16.

The Pond behind the Farm House

The tree house

When Takahano went up for sale, I sobbed. I was 18, and wondering how the hell I could afford to purchase that 200 acre piece of land so it could continue to be the source of so much for kids in the Washington, DC area. I was petrified that it would be purchased by a developer and that my 200 acres of heaven would turn into a housing development. This grief of losing Takahano has seated itself deep into my being.

Meals around the fire behind the farm house

Camp Fire's logo from my childhood

Grief is a part of my path. I grieve for the loss of the camp I called my second home. I grieve for the death of Camp Fire's club program. Which, by the way, is doing well now due to the dedication of Rosemary Pezzuto and others who volunteered countless hours and years of their time and passion to revive the Patuxent Area Council of Camp Fire. See http://www.campfireusa-patuxent.org for the exciting news of what Rosemary has created with my childhood organization. Rosemary was one of the Camp Fire club leaders when I was a child. She was the one who stepped up when the council was in danger of shutting down, and held the vision of continuing the hundred years of Camp Fire tradition and memories in the Washington, DC area, even after our camps were sold and our club program dissolved.

Camp Fire's logo today

Rosemary has hundreds of kids attending summer camp as I write this. She has created a resource for thousands of kids and their families, as I sit here across the country and grieve about what was lost. As I look at Camp Fire's website, and Rosemary's Facebook page, my tears become tears of joy... and of hope... What do I know about what has happened with Camp Fire in the 16 years since I graduated from high school and left home? Very little, honestly. In the 16 years since I moved away, Camp Fire's Patuxent Area Council has revived and grown, and is thriving in a way that fills me with immense gratitude for Rosemary's dedication to the kids of Maryland and Washington DC.

What can I learn from that dedication? What can I learn? I realize, now, as I sit here writing this, that I share the dedication that Rosemary has. I have also dedicated my life to creating the same kind of deep connection to place that we all had with Takahano. I went to school for Animal Behavior and Environmental Studies, and got a master's degree in Environmental Leadership. I've been an outdoor educator for how many years? 18? 21? 24 years? Where do I begin? I've been a naturalist for close to 30 years... Why not start that count with my obsession with identifying every salamander and snake and tadpole at Takahano?

I have the opportunity, now, to create the same kind of memories here in Colorado. I've already done a lot, exploring the open space and national forests outside of Boulder, teaching about the plants and animals that live there with my meetup group, Boulder Naturalist Outings. (http://www.meetup.com/Boulder-Naturalist-Outings/). I've explored many miles of rivers that stretch out onto the plains, and made friends with owls and eagles and coyotes along the way.

Lefthand Alliance

But now, by joining the Lefthand Alliance (http://www.lefthandalliance.net/), I see so many possibilities of deepening my work by getting to know the Alliance's land deeply. I applaud the work of the founders. This area is so rich with wildlife and magical places. I barely know any of it, honestly. But, I share the vision of my new friend Ira, who is dedicating his life to this place. He says on the Alliance's website:“The Alliance offers an invitation to directly connect with the Father Sky and Mother Earth. It offers a sanctuary to enjoy a 'Rocky Mountain High'. She offers abundance in the earth, the forest, the wild- life, the water that continually flows as the Lifeblood of the Father Sky and Mother Earth dancing with love. This is my version of heaven, and I love sharing it with each of you.”

This very well may become my version of heaven, too, as Takahano was when I was a child.

Special thanks to my mom, Marg Bond, for leading my Camp Fire group, being the director of Camp Takahano for so long, and, you know, for everything!

Mom and I on my wedding day!

Dementia and the present moment.

When I'm not canoeing or leading hikes, I spend a lot of time with elders, helping them bathe and keeping them company. Caregiving came to me in synchronicity and has become a major part of my working hours. I enjoy it, because I enjoy hanging out with people who have much more history than I have. I love hearing their stories, learning what they care about and being able to help them have the quality of life they desire as they edge toward a century of living.

Tonight, something has changed in my appreciation for this "job", this way that I'm spending my time.

It hit me today, as I walked around the block gathering flowers with my senior friend, holding her hand and trying to keep ahold of the growing collection of blooms in the other hand... I realized that my friend's experience of the world is completely different than mine.

For her, the only time that exists is right now. She has absolutely no short term memory left. I believe that she recognizes me and she always smiles when she sees me, but she will never remember my name. She does not remember anything that happened ten minutes ago, and can't recall the heading of a newspaper article when she's a paragraph into the story. Five minutes later she will read the article again as if it was the first time. Once, she even laughed at herself and told me how absurd it was to try to make sense of what she was reading when she has no short term memory left! She said this not with the grief that I imagined I might feel if I lost my memory. She said this in laughter, and it made me smile.

It's easy to feel pity for her... To imagine what it must be like to not remember what happened yesterday or even remember she has a caregiver sleeping in the other room when she doesn't see me in the moment.

But, something changed in my perception of my friend tonight. What happens when there is no memory of the past and no thought of the future? She has no memory of the flowers we gathered an hour ago. But, each time she reached down to pick another one, her face lit up and she just glowed in the beauty of what she had found. When we sat on her porch watching the sunset, every time she looked at the clouds, she smiled hugely as she exclaimed "the clouds sure are pretty aren't they?"

What is left when memory is gone? Only the present moment. What must it be like to live in that perception? I only saw one sunset tonight. She saw hundreds, a different snapshot in every second... Each moment held more beauty than the last!

I wonder what gift there is in that way of being. Maybe dementia isn't something to grieve for. In the loss of remembering what happened yesterday, my friend is sitting in the present moment in a way that I will never know, even with years and years of meditation and mindfulness practices, years of sitting with the birds and feeling the water glide by under my canoe.

I looked at her with new eyes tonight, and I realized that this moment, right now, is part of my path.

This moment, as I sit quietly, pondering memory and presence while my friend sips her nutrition shake and nibbles on her dinner, and nods off as the last light from the sun silhouettes the mountains outside her window. This is the only moment that there is. There is no future, and no past... There is only right now. Isn't that what she is experiencing? What would it be like for me to experience this moment in the same way?

This I ponder, and I appreciate the chance to spend this evening with her, and not planning for tomorrow's events or thinking of the incredible events of the last few months. I look at my friend's world in wonder, and in gratitude for having the chance to experience her world with her.

I have much to learn.

The River's Path

Bald Eagle by Lauren Bond Kovsky

There's a whole world that we have NO idea about. This world is home to eagles and herons and mink that even I, as a lifelong naturalist and nature girl, have never had any idea about. When I started exploring the rivers east of town, I discovered a magical, wondrous place that is literally teeming with wildlife... it's surrounded by development, oil wells, cars, and cows. Does anyone know about this place? Does anyone know where the river goes when it leaves town? Does anyone know how much water is withdrawn from the river for irrigation? How would the river flow without barker and gross reservoirs? How would the river flow if we didn't use more water than we need? If we KNEW this place?? How could our life change if we knew this place?

Pelicans by Bob Braudes

Watersheds. The natural delineation of the country. We all live downstream....What lives downstream? Eagles, owls, muskrats, mink. Who gets killed due to the abundant litter gathered in piles in the eddies and against the bridges buttresses? The pelicans. How would we know? Only if we know this river. Only if we know that pelican would we know that it had broken its wing trying to escape from a flotilla of debris.... And that it no longer soars in the skies above the St. Vrain river.

Where did that trash come from? What's the water quality here? What does fracking on the shores of the river do to the water quality? How much oil and sewage and god knows what comes through the drains and the sewage treatment plant's outlet?

Great Blue Heron by Paul K

There are so many questions I have about this place and our effect on it. So many. What I do know, though, is that the lower st vrain river is a magical place. There's a family of bald eagles that are thriving. There's an absolutely huge rookery of herons. There's at least 2 families of owls on the shore, and many many red tailed hawks. There's deer and mink and raccoons and fish and snapping turtles and a coyote and more.... What I see here is hope. What I see here is hope. What I see here is a relationship waiting to happen. What I see here is a way to heal our relationship to the natural world. What I see here is..... something no one knows about. And they need to know. Everyone needs to know.

St. Vrain riffles by Wendy Gronbeck

This is part of why it's essential that my work begins at home, not at a retreat center upstream. The retreat needs to be downstream... That water connects us to home. It connects us to the rainwater from our roofs, it connects us to the snow covered peaks that we ski on and see every day. It connects us to Nebraska and Missouri and Iowa and Kansas and Illinois and Arkansas and Tennessee and Mississippi and Louisiana and the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic and... beyond. To the rest of the world. To every other culture and to the rain and to the trees and the Amazon and to EVERYTHING.

Lauren on the river by Lawrence Braun

Water connects us to everything. This is why I am attracted to rivers. This is why the river's path connects us to everything.

It blows my mind that these rivers connect us to everything. Really.... to EVERYTHING. The molecules of water that I am floating on are the same molecules that my mother drinks in her glass in Maryland and that fall over my waterfall in Pennsylvania and waters the cedars on the Olympic Peninsula and fills the Pantanal in Brazil during the wet season and was the very same molecule that my ancestors drank, and that sustained the dinosaurs. It blows my mind!!!!!

Killdeer by Wendy Gronbeck

The river's path connects us to history and to the future. It connects us to the eagles and the dinosaurs and our ancestors and to future generations. I feel this as I float down the St. Vrain river, and it blows my mind.

This is what being on the river means to me.

Platte River watershed display at the Lake McConaughy Visitor's Center.  Photo by Lauren Bond Kovsky

(Thanks to all of my Boulder Naturalist Outings members for the incredible photos and the joy of sharing these magical places with you!!!)

Raging Thunderstorm on the Colorado River

Staccato. At the start. A low rumble, a suggestion. We pay attention. We set up a shelter and start a camp fire. The rumble gets closer. Louder. We pay attention.

The fire is raging, and the corn is ready to roast. A crack rings out with a flash of light- the thunder is no longer distant. The rain comes in torrents. Wind is howling, whipping through camp... Whipping our shelter like an old, frayed flag that has become ragged from years of flying high. The wind came out of nowhere!

 There is a river through our shelter. The fire is out, and mud has covered everything, including the corn we were just about to roast. We hold the shelter down- we are human stakes. Lightning blinds us and the crackle and roar of thunder hits at the same moment. I scream. Then I laugh.

Something unexpected always happens on river trips. Always. I've been around storms. I've canoed through crazy wind. But this storm, swirling all around is and soaking us even through a tarp and our rain coats, is more intense than any I've experienced in my life. Another crack, and again I'm blinded at the same moment of the roar of thunder.

We've found another tarp and I stand with my back to the storm, tarp stuck to my back from the howling wind... This is the only way to keep the driving rain from soaking us.

I laugh. The absurdity of watching all 4 of us stand as human stakes, the only thing that has ensured that our shelter doesn't fly away.

More than 2 inches of rain have fallen in 45 minutes. It seems like longer. Finally, we have a moment between the flash of lightning and the still deafening roar of thunder. Only a moment. And then the rumble moves on into the distance. I no longer feel the tingle of electricity in the air. Finally, my heart stops pounding and I can breathe again. The sky still spits out sprinkles and the distant thunder breaks the silence, but it has passed, and we are safe.

The Call of the Wild by Robert Service

I memorized this poem in 2004 while guiding in Alaska.... Every time I wander in the wilderness, whether it's the sagebrush desolation of Colorado or the black and red canyons of Utah or the naked grandeur of Alaska, this poem runs through my head, a silent refrain that responds as I listen to the wild... It's calling me. And I must go. :)

The Call of the Wild
by Robert Service

Have you gazed on naked grandeur
where there’s nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley
with the green stream streaking through it,
Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence?
Then for God’s sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation,
The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
And learned to know the desert’s little ways?
Have you camped upon the foothills,
have you galloped o'er the ranges,
Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa?
Do you know its moods and changes?
Then listen to the Wild -- it’s calling you.

Have you known the Great White Silence,
not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?
(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies).
Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,
Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map’s void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,
Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is,
can you round it off with curses?
Then hearken to the Wild -- it’s wanting you.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed,
groveled down, yet grasped at glory,
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
"Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?
Have you seen God in His splendors,
heard the text that nature renders?
(You'll never hear it in the family pew).
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things --
Then listen to the Wild -- it’s calling you.

They have cradled you in custom,
they have primed you with their preaching,
They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching --
But can't you hear the Wild? -- it’s calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There’s a whisper on the night-wind,
there’s a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling. . .let us go.

Our local baby great horned owls!

I have had the joy of watching some beautiful baby Great Horned owls growing up in my neighborhood! I've led 3 meetups so far to bring people to see the owls, and my members have gotten some incredible photos!!! The parent owls have lived in my neighborhood for 4 years, and have used this nest for 2 seasons so far. It has to be the best nesting site I've ever seen!! The owls are completely sheltered from any weather, and they have a great view of all of the people passing by on the trail! They seem to enjoy the attention- at least, that's what I think!!



This photo, taken by Sue of my meetup group, is of the babies at 3 weeks old. When I saw them a week before they were tiny little white fluffballs. In only a week, their down has turned gray!



In only a week, the babies have grown substantially! It was a cloudy, rainy day so only 2 people came this time. The babies are very well sheltered, so they didn't care! Luckily, my friend Paul came with his fantastic photography skills and was happy to share his photos with me! Unless otherwise stated, most of the photos on this blog are his photos.



I don't have a fancy camera so I tried to take a photo through my binoculars. It came out pretty darn well!!!



Here's my best photo through the binoculars.



Edited and photoshopped- who needs a fancy camera anyway???



Dad is a bit smaller than the mama owl and he usually sleeps a bit further away from the nest. Great horned owls mate for life and will choose a territory where they live for their entire lives!



Mama has just awakened in this photo- she's getting ready to fly for the evening!



The babies are now 5 weeks old. They are spreading their wings and no longer falling all over each other! Notice the legs hanging out of the nest- apparently the babies had a meal of red tailed hawk! That's what some of the local birders think, at least.



This time, mama decided to go a bit smaller and caught a vole to feed her babies with.



She is giving the vole to the babies here.



She also caught them a rabbit!



These babies are quite well fed, don't you think? Great horned owls will eat a wide variety of prey: rabbits, birds, fish, raccoons, and even, apparently, red tailed hawks! Their talons are extremely powerful- with them, owls can exert pressure that is 300 pounds per square inch!

If anyone would like to come see the owls, join my meetup, Boulder Naturalist Outings, and sign up! I'll have outings to see them throughout the summer. They will fledge in late May but they'll stick around until at least October.

What a magical experience to see these owls so close to home. It's amazing. What I really love is that the whole neighborhood CARES about these owls. The male disappeared for a couple of weeks and when he came back, people spoke of him like they would an old friend.

"I was worried about him! I'm SO happy that he's back!!!!"

This is the first time in my life that I've witnessed an entire community of hundreds of people CARING so deeply about our local wildlife! This is the type of connection I dream about facilitating to my meetup members and to society at large. Imagine what would happen if everyone was so aware of their local landscape and wildlife?

The world would be a different place. When we care deeply about the Earth, we take care of it! When we care so deeply, duality disappears and we become, as they say, "one with the universe"... When we know a place as deeply as we know ourselves and our families, our community expands to include the more-than-human world, and we gain wisdom about our place in the world that informs WHERE WE WANT TO BE and how we can have an impact.

These owls have changed our community for the better, and I love them for it.

Wild geese

I've been appreciating my life so deeply in the last few months. A friend just sent this poem to me, and it touched me, as I head out this morning to connect with the birds and the chill in the air with 2o of my closest friends. Thanks, members of my meetups, for filling me with such gratitude and renewing my certainty that I am exactly where I belong. Maybe I'll even have a photo of a wild goose to add to this post later today!!

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
Love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile, the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

-Mary Oliver

The somatics of emotion

Have you ever noticed what happens in your body as you experience different emotions? Do you know what it feels like to be grounded, centered, and present? When you are grounded, centered, and present, where are your shoulders? Where is your attention? Can you feel your feet on the ground? What does your breathing feel like?

For me, breaths are slow when I am centered. My eyes are forward and relaxed with a soft gaze. I feel the earth beneath my feet, even when concrete and my shoes block the path. My weight is centered over my feet or slightly back so I can take in everything around me.

Now, imagine what your body feels like when you are angry. For me, my eyes still look straight forward but they are squinted- glaring straight ahead, not willing to take anything in outside of the focus of my anger. My weight is forward and all of my energy is directed to the front of me- my energy follows my glare. My breath becomes forceful but shallow and I no longer feel the earth beneath my feet.

What about sadness? In sadness, my breath becomes shaky, my eyes fall to the floor, and all I want to do is curl up into a ball and shut the world out. My shoulders are hunched forward, my arms are crossed or covering my face, and I feel so heavy that I want to sink to my knees. I do not feel the earth beneath my feet or notice anything outside of myself. My focus turns almost entirely inward.

There are many ways to shift our moods but for me the most powerful method is through the body. The next time you feel angry or sad, notice your body. Notice your breath. Then shift back to a centered, grounded, present way of being. This can be done indoors but tends to work more easily if you are surrounded by the natural world. Bring your shoulders back and center your weight over your feet. Take a deep breath and notice your breath filling your head, your lungs, and your belly. Feel the earth beneath your feet. Relax your gaze and take in all of the sights, sounds, and smells around you. When you breathe in, be aware that the air you are taking in was just exhaled by the trees, birds, squirrels, and grass. Breathe in. Feel the breath flowing through your feet and into the earth. Feel yourself filled with the strength of the earth beneath you. Let the earth's strength become your strength. Breathe out your anger or sadness, and breathe in the energy and peace of the natural world.

Has your emotion shifted?

Interestingly, your amygdala, which is the emotional center of your brain, sits right next to your nasal cavity and literally is cooled down when you take a breath through your nose. The next time you hear someone suggest you take a deep breath, realize now how profound that suggestion really is!

The importance of play

How often does lightness show up in your life? When was the last time you did something just for the sake of the adventure or the joy of it? When was the last time you did something not just to get better at it or to prove yourself good enough to someone in your life?

It's funny. I've been a ski instructor for the last 7 years and worked very hard to improve my skiing so I can get my PSIA level 2 certification, to get the higher pay, higher level classes, and the respect and prestige associated with it. Sometimes I can let those goals go, but a lot of the time I over-analyze myself, critiquing my balance, my tipping, turning, fluidity, and confidence level in every single turn......

It almost makes me forget why I love skiing. When I started teaching, I was barely skiing parallel. I made it down some black diamond runs without falling, but it was incredibly slow. I laughed every time I went out. I laughed at myself, laughed at the snow falling on my head from the trees as I skied through them. I laughed so hard when I fell that sometimes I would just lay there, making snow angels until I could stop laughing and find my skis that were buried in the snow somewhere uphill.

Even when I got my level 2 last season, I was so burned out that it was an effort to put my boots on int he morning.

Today, I bought an innertube with the intention of exploring the irrigation ditch next to my house. My neighbor asked where I was headed off to, and I told her of my plan. She looked concerned. She asked "Isn't that water poisonous?" The though had not occurred to me. I've waded in that ditch for 2 summers now, and my legs haven't fallen off yet!!!

Sure, this irrigation ditch is for all of the agriculture to the east of the city and thus may have pesticides and fertilizer and who knows what else downstream... But I'm not planning on drinking the stuff! Not to mention that I don't believe that there is much agriculture upstream of me.

The scientist in me wants to test the water to see what I can learn. My first reaction, though, is that nature is not anything to be afraid of. If I was too afraid to go outside at night because a mountain lion might eat me, I might miss the howling coyotes and hooting owls, and the cool night wind.

Google maps is possibly the best resource I've ever found for dreaming up expeditions near and far. My irrigation ditch is the drainage from Sixmile Reservoir just south of Boulder Res. It heads east past my neighborhood, then swings north to Niwot, then east again for a few miles before finally turning south in a cement lined ditch that leads back to Boulder Creek. It looks tubeable at least through Niwot and possibly beyond. It winds through suburbia until it passes out of town.

I started my exploration where 2 ditches meet, just downstream of the ditch that flows between Twin Lakes. I slipped my tube into the water, knowing some of what I'd pass, but there are parts that are too overgrown to see from the path. The flow was slow, and I had to wave away the cobweb and debris-covered branches that hung over my head. Only a few people passed me on the trail. The first man that passed did not notice me. The family that walked by a few minutes later smiled and waved.

When I was a child, I always wished that there was a stream behind my house. I loved my little patch of poison-ivy filled woods, where I played and swung on vines and built forts and ate berries. I loved it! But I always wished there was a stream to explore too.

I put my tube in the water for no other reason than to see what I could see. I didn't find any secret hideouts, animals, or any other major surprises. That wasn't the point though!

Play just for the sake of playing. Kids do it all the time (as long as their parents let them of course), but somehow we lose that desire as adults. That is, until we remember.

In the last year, I have encouraged every single coaching client I've had to find something to do just for the sake of doing it. Just for the sake of bringing lightness into their life, to balance out the heaviness of the stress in their lives. It's amazing how their perspective changes, just with a night of dancing or a camping trip.

I am going to float the section through the golf course next. I wonder if that's allowed? I suppose I'll find out!!!

Laughter beneath sandstone cliffs

How does it get any better than this?

I went to a networking meeting on Wednesday night and a woman named Rikka Zimmerman spoke about getting out of our own way. I was intrigued. Her work is all about living in the question, and one of her favorite questions stuck with me. I have played with it and felt it, explored it and noticed my gratitude for ordinary moments. How does it get any better than this?

Indeed.

Dave and I took my canoe through a part of Boulder Creek that is rarely boated. I'm not sure if it's even legal. I saw this area so close to my house first on a bike path and then by canoe last October. But what I wanted more than anything is for my husband to share my excitement. There is so much to explore right here. I've spent so much of my life exploring on my own, a side effect of being an only child. I like exploring solo, but it's so much more important for me to share this. I will still explore alone, but I want my Boulder Creek adventure to happen with Dave.

We slipped the canoe silently into the water, and I remembered what it feels like to disappear into a different world. There's nothing like it. I had forgotten exactly what draws me to the river.... It's not even the journey, it's the initiation of it. It's heading away from civilization and being surrounded by birds and cottonwoods, not a human soul in sight.

This is what I love about this river. So many people in Boulder are outdoorsy, hiking the same trails and floating the creek in the same places. How many people know where Boulder Creek goes after it leaves the city limits?

In this place, we see no one. In this place, we are in a different world, away from the crowds, flanked on the side by pockmarked sandstone cliffs and by field on the other. We feel like we're in a different world.

We float on, avoiding fallen trees and sharp corners, laughing as the tree branches cause me to fall backward, into the canoe, feet in the air and gasping for breath because I can't stop laughing. Seriously, did it happen again???? At least I didn't tip the canoe. Now, when Dave and I switched places, the story ended a little bit differently. He leaned back, lost his balance, and I gasped as the boat tipped. In slow motion, the boat tipped, we laughed hysterically, I jumped out and pulled the side of the boat up to keep the water from filling the boat. He said he did it on purpose. He said he was just imitating me. Sure, Dave, sure you were. Mmmhmm.

We fall into silence as the creek runs beside the sandstone cliffs, so close we could reach out and touch them. We are in a different world. Suddenly, we hear a flap of wings and two birds screeching. A golden eagle flies away, with two swallows scolding him, shouting and diving. How can those small birds cause such a reaction? Those little birds are fearless! And the eagle flies over the cottonwoods and disappears from sight.

We see great blue herons taking off from the shore of the river. Red winged blackbirds flock in the cottonwoods, calling to each other and maybe to us? There is something tan on the river side, silent and unmoving. It is the same color as the cliffs. As we float on, we realize this stone being on the river isn't a stone at all! It's a cow! She sits in the river and not even her ears twitch. She hasn't a care as we pass her.

Later on, we saw something floating in the water. It looked dead. We didn't realize it was a snapping turtle until we passed it! The turtle was tilted, half submerged, its skin looking pale and sickly as it slowly moved its legs under the water. He was HUGE! Then he noticed us as we turned back to look closer. He took off and swam under the boat! I guess he wasn't dying, after all! We watched until he disappeared into the mud at the bottom of the river.

Dave's sold on the adventure! He said he would even consider selling our kayaks and instead explore all of these rivers in eastern Colorado. I have my partner in adventure. My wish came true....

How does it get any better than this?

Onward!

Following the river

Imagine, for a moment. Imagine wandering past the lakes at the St. Vrain state park, passing the edge of the park and wandering along to the river. The St. Vrain river, which flows much more gently this far downstream than it does in the Lyons play park. It's hot. I feel faint, almost, sweating so heavily that my clothes are sticking to me and the now hot water in my backpack does absolutely nothing to refresh me. Yet, still I walk.

After leaving the park and crossing a ditch, I end up on a bike path to nowhere. It's deserted. The path goes under 3 bridges- cars and trucks zooming along above me. Cars and trucks, drowning out every sound... except.... Bank swallows. They swoop and dive and call and there are so many of them it seems as though it's a cloud above me. A cloud that sings and calls and dives. A cloud of eyes, watching. The cars zoom overhead and no one knows I... am... here. I am here.

Except the birds. They know.

I wander along the river, imagining my canoe slipping into the water, disappearing downstream, slipping past farmland and cottonwoods and landowners that very likely would not be happy with me if they knew I was imagining camping on the edge of their land as I float downstream into the unknown.

Cheatgrass gets stuck in my shoes, poking and prodding me, but I do not retreat back to the paved bike path. I am drawn to the river, cheatgrass and all. It's perfect for my canoe. I sometimes imagine slipping into a river and following it all the way to the ocean. This river. I imagine my canoe slipping into Boulder Creek, only a mile from my house, and living, unnoticed, along the highways and farms and cities, hiding in the willow thickets, with the swallows to guide me.

I decide to walk back. I return to the bike path only to realize that I've barely gone anywhere- it's only a 5 minute walk back to where I started! To the left of the bike path, I see birds in a nearly empty reservoir. I see Canada geese and snowy egrets. Snowy egrets!!!! I feel like I'm at my grandma's house in Texas as a teenager, watching egrets fly with their huge white wingspan, I had never seen anything like them, back then. I can't remember the last time I've seen them.... Maybe in Texas as a teenager.

I wander back to the bridge and I look up at the trucks passing over me. No one can hear me. No one knows I'm there. Except for the swallows. They know. I start to sing. Loud. I sing the song that has haunted me for years and years. Here I am. I went down to the river to pray. Studying about those good old ways and who shall wear that thorny crown, good Lord! Show me the way!

Don't you want to come down? Down to the river to pray!

Here under the bridge I sing to the swallows, and I wade into the river, finally cooling off, and finally feeling.... that this is where I belong!!!! Singing to the swallows, standing in the river, smiling at nothing and everything all at once.

I notice the tracks in the mud next to me. There are raccoon and coyote, skunk and heron, fox and... otter? I think so! Maybe my friend the otter is listening to me sing at the top of my lungs too! There is something missing in that mud, though. There is something very significant missing. I see no human footprints except my own. I see no domestic dog prints. All I see is wildness in the mud and on this river, and I wonder if anyone has been here before me.

I'm sure someone has. I'm sure someone else loves finding the secret homes of swallows under the bridge. I am sure that someone else has had the same idea of sliding their canoe into the river here. But right now, the idea feels like it is fully my own.

This is where I belong. This. Is. Where. I. Belong.

Somatics, Soulcraft, and Bullying

I wonder about the somatic effects of depression. My stomach is gurgling and I have felt exhausted.... but I can't bring myself to walk up the stairs to bed. I'm trying to eat well but it doesn't seem to affect my energy.

I had a great meeting today about a training program I want to develop, and it was incredible to be in this group of 6 people who share my vision for the creation of this training. It was my idea, but before, I felt that I was going at it alone. To be in a meeting with other people who share my vision was so incredible. My gratitude brought me to tears.... and I really didn't want to be crying in front of this group (that social anxiety thing.... ugh!). But seriously, I have a ton of faith that this training is going to happen.

Had lunch with a new friend today who suggested that I work with bullied girls in my practice. I've been working with adults and I love it but.... Wow. He said that my triggering is where my greatest healing is going to occur, but also it is where my greatest offering is. Does that make sense? I am intrigued. Sure, my "wounded child" that I'm working with in my study of Soulcraft by Bill Plotkin was born out of bullying I endured as a child. And, I recognize when I'm acting out of that (hmm.... like this intense fear of being around groups of people that I dont know). So. If I were to work with bullying interventions, the way I would want to do it is to get the bully and the victim together, face to face, and facilitate conversations between them.... Because out of understanding comes respect of one another. I have no idea how I would facilitate that. But, it's something I wish had happened for me as a child. There was even an opportunity to facilitate that conversation. In 5th grade I was seeing a therapist and I proceeded into group therapy with a few other kids. How crazy was it that my bully happened to be in this group..... How could a safe space for healing be formed when my bully who had tormented me all year was there? As far as I remember, my therapist NEVER ONCE brought up the torment I had endured at school. I wonder what healing could have occurred then if my therapist had the courage to make us talk about it? Maybe allow us to get to know each other in a different context than school? I don't know. But I've been thinking about that missed opportunity a lot as I actively work through healing that wounded part of me now as a 30something woman.

I'm totally writing in a stream of consciousness. No idea if anyone is reading this but I really don't care that much either.... I want to write. I want to see what it's like to get my thoughts on paper (or the computer as it may be). Maybe someone will read this. Maybe it will be just for myself. It doesn't really matter. I'll just write anyway.

Welcome

Okay, So it's been suggested that I should start a blog, but I wanted to wait until I felt witty and deep to start it.... But, I figured until that happens I'll just start with what I've got.

I don't know where I should start though! I have had a pretty emotionally tough few months and have some crazy social anxiety brewing, so I've been sitting at home alone WAY too much.... waiting for the phone to ring is not a good way to market for my new business or make some new friends....

It all started with a Tom Brown philosophy course. In my little group of 5 I ended up pissing one of the people off by... talking too much? She said I had been talking nonstop and not allowing anyone else's voice to be heard. Which is funny because I am always so careful (neurotically so) to talk just enough, not too much, to not always be first, to not always be last, to always offer just enough but not too much. And still, even with this neurotic attention to the way I interacted, I still managed to piss someone off.

Anyway, since that time I've been struggling with being in groups of people I don't know.... so much that I have to force myself to leave my house. I sit at home and play video games, try to e-mail people to plan going out for coffee or skiing or a hike or ANYTHING..... And then I feel sorry for myself when people don't write back.

Depression is a funny thing. It's a spiral that's so hard to get out of once I get caught there. I joined a choir, started taking cello lessons, joined a study group to explore the work of Bill Plotkin (Soulcraft), and attended some networking events. Even with that I still haven't managed to bring myself out of that spiral.

So, I'll just start an anonymous blog and maybe if I come up with something witty and thought provoking to say, I'll make a public one. Maybe linked to my business. Who knows.

It's spring and I really want to get out and.... start following rivers. Time to go kayak, canoe, tube, whatever. I want to be on the water. Maybe that will get me out of this funk.

Welcome to my blog, I promise it won't always be this depressing!