Stuff I've Been Thinking About
Up on the Hill
Early March, 2020
Mired in mid-winter inertia and feeling useless, I decided to go to Washington DC. Of all the places, right? Especially since COVID-19 was just starting to present itself and no one knew anything about the wisdom of any venture outside their front door. But I went anyway. Compelled by a need to feel useful in these uncertain times, I’d signed on to lobby on “The Hill” for a cause I care about.
My organization, a coalition of the Sierra Club, Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance and dozens of other groups, assembled a force of 38 well-trained, energetic citizens lobbyists of all ages, representing a broad range of states. Our “ask” was co-sponsorship of the Red Rock Wilderness Act securing wilderness protection of public lands in Southern Utah. This cause, important to me since I lived in Utah for 30 years and raised my family amidst its stunning landscapes, seemed very far from what someone in Washington DC would care about. But close to 70 Senators and Representatives agreed to co-sponsor. This shows the broad range of what Congress attends to, and also that nationwide, people value these lands. If you’ve experienced those places, you understand.
So there we were, venturing in teams of three into the maze of congressional offices, presenting our cards to receptionists in their stuffy, cramped quarters, and waiting as other groups finished their pitch and exited. Afterward, in the hours between end of work day and end of evening museum hours, I helped myself to Washington’s embarrassment of cultural and historic riches. At the Library of Commerce and the National Archives I felt expanded and enriched, even engorged, when chased by ventures into the Smithsonian, the National Gallery, the Native American Museum. I stayed extra days, after completing the lobby work, to wander and marvel, even hiking through the National Zoo to see the pandas (they go back to China at the end of this year) and dropping into the National Botanical Gardens for a complete re-set amongst its 6,000 varieties of orchids.
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I've always wanted to lobby on Capital Hill. Check!
Like any travel, there were challenges and uncertainties: in my 70s, did I still have the mental and physical stamina to figure out the METRO, keep pace with the crowds, make quick decisions? I tapped into old patterns from my career years: getting up early to an alarm, putting on make up, and “dressing for success.” I worried that my recently arrived foot issue would sabotage my need to walk all day on concrete. Were the intense schedules I laid out for each day too ambitious?
In the end, it was exactly what I was hoping for. Yes, there was an airlines snag that stranded me overnight in Philadelphia, but I flowed with it. I returned home recharged by a trip that I expected to be exhausting. Taking part in the process of government, seeing first-hand how it worked, was affirming. Direct experience, alongside all the historical exhibits and monuments, restored my trust in the long game. Most of all, immersion in America’s cultural treasuries – the central theme of all them is honoring and celebrating individual achievement – lifted me out of cynicism and dropped me back into the field of amazement. All those tributes to conviction and courage encourage and inspire me. I needed this.
Tell Me Your Tales & I'll Tell You Mine
Winter 2021
“Everyone’s a story teller. Not.”
So begins a cynical marketing company ad that undermines the age-old tradition of telling stories, easily and naturally, for amusement, to share wisdom, to keep memories alive. I don't buy it for a minute, nor do the folks who gather every month under the full moon on the Big Island, Hawaii, to “Talk Story.” I've been fortunate to be at several of these gatherings over the years, where food is brought to share and the waves surging and receding is the rhythmic accompaniment. A woman near me rose to her feet to dance hula, interpreting stories in the ancient movements. A man near the front rose to tell his story via song. Two elderly women settled in low lawn chairs near the back asked a stranger to take their photo. “We’ve been friends for 50 years,” they told him, “but haven’t seen each other in 40.” They were so tickled to be there together, and relished telling the story of their enduring friendship.
After relocating to the Midwest after fifty years in the American West, I'd hoped to enjoy trading stories with newly met or longtime friends. Late-life moves – and more of us are making them than we think, to be in better weather, more appropriate real estate, closer to kin – open voids once filled by friendships left behind. We want to be known in deeper ways that swapping photos on social media. We are hardwired for social connection. Moving offers the opportunity – and the challenge – to appreciate new people. Sharing our tales of foibles and discoveries and fascinating encounters and painful transitions is the key to the low gate in the garden that opens to magic. So many times I’ve been momentarily star struck by someone after they’ve spontaneously relayed a story about their lives, giving me a peak into their nature and the life they've lived. I tend to fall in love with people in that moment, feeling the intimacy of the shared trust of storytelling.
"Talk Story" night on Big Island of Hawaii, with musical punctuation and attentive ears
Yet we have much resistance to storytelling, personally and culturally. The word itself is loaded with negativity: “So what’s his story?” or “Wait ‘til you hear her story” do not sound friendly. The proclivity to share stories is regional, I’ve observed: midwesterners seem more reserved than folks in other areas, which perhaps is weather-related? Warm summer evenings on the porch swing, or around a campfire, catalyze storytelling, whereas folks in cold climes close themselves inside physically and figuratively. To be sure, there is risk in sharing a bit of ourselves: we could trigger a controversy, push a button, open ourselves to judgment. We want to avoid the cliché of the elderly prattling overlong about the past while listeners yawn and edge toward the door. Saddest of all is that we tend to fill what mind-space we have for receiving stories with the ideas and opinions of talking heads from the media.
Whatever the reasons we hold back, it’s a shame. Have you ever caught yourself listening in on a story being told by a stranger across the aisle or at the next table in a café? Wise or funny or mundane, the story grabbed us because it was relatable, humanizing, an affirmation our deep connection to each other. Such stories broaden our imagination, inspire an action, open our heart. We need more of that. So tell me your story. I’m all ears.
These Long Winter's Nights
Winter Solstice 2021
It is 4:30pm and already it’s dark outside. Twilight in the middle of the afternoon. My inclination to hibernate is strong: to eat an early dinner and settle into along winter’s night of . . . what? Television, Netflix, that pile of books acquired specifically for these long winter’s nights?
Or I could rally myself, go to the things I put in my calendar and now feel too much ennui to attend. I chose to live out here on this off-the-beaten path lake, which is ideal until it’s time to go anywhere. By the time I’d leave it will already have been dark for two hours. Besides, it is cozy near the hearth. Out there, not so much: slick roads, rush hour, my deteriorating night vision. But more than the dark, which seriously undermines my adventurous nature, I am weary of the challenges of being new to the area, of not knowing anyone, of being a committed single in the Midwest culture of couples, a social characteristic I didn’t realize until I moved here.
Nevertheless, despite all those disincentives, I do have to go. I do need to get away from my kitchen, my couch and my devices, and from the delusion that time online is a worthy substitute for face-to-face involvement. I do need lively conversations with compatriots who are creative, thought-provoking, and enthusiastic, who are more like me than unalike.
Yes, I have to get out of these sweats, put on something nice, and go out into the dark. To drive down streets where folks have strung cheery holiday lights across porches and pine trees. To venture into events where I’ll likely not know not a soul, where I will have to insert myself into groups of chattering, lively people out to raise funds, celebrate a milestone, make a show of force - folks who introduce themselves and explain their longtime association with the organization and each other, then turn back to each other while I hang in by the thinnest threads of connection.
Wherever we are, whatever window we gaze from: the question is whether or not to go out
I turned up at a small “coffee and conversation” gathering in the living room of a fellow alto from my choral group, supporting a project for adults with disabilities –a mission far afield from my usual range of causes, but one I was glad to learn about. I make a note to Google the references brought up in discussion, to go deeper. More often, I go to support something I feel passionate about: land preservation trust, saving public lands from what we euphemistically call the “extractive industries,” women’s rights, and racial equality. And sometimes I venture out to feed my need to be enthralled: last week to the University of Wisconsin symphony and chorale – hundreds of musicians on stage in the full force of the Durufle requiem . Afterward, a frosty walk across campus with my brother, the dark like a velvety wrap keeping the music close, still thrumming.
Driving home, carrying the energy of kindred spirits, I am glad I have not let the wintry dark bully me into seasonal inertia. Coming upon my cottage, its lamps amber-colored and inviting, I wonder how I could have left this cozy scene to go out. But I still have hours of wintry night left. These hours are long enough to both go and to stay. I am richer by choosing to do both.