That's No Ordinary Vacation...

Recently, my amazing daughters and I attended Alasdair Fraser’s Sierra Fiddle Camp. Wait. Hold on. Before you go too far down the road with images of gnarled old farmers sitting on dusty front porches playing twanging tunes, let me explain:
This was eight days of creative immersion into a community of people (many in whole family units) of all ages, drawn together to learn a variety of Celtic and Galician-influenced music though fiddle, cello, mandolin, piano, bag pipes, dance, guitar and singing classes. We went to classes all day, participated in family-style meals, danced late into the night - every single night - and were essentially bathed in round the clock music making.

But fiddle camp is much more than all that.

When you get 175 like-minded folks together for over a week who genuinely want to learn, grow and feel, and then toss in twenty-one world class musicians who have donned their teaching hats as well as extracted their hearts from their pockets and placed them out for FULL sharing -- what emerges among the community is nothing sort of miraculous.

For Sarah and Ginny and I, the event was a rite of passage that we experienced both individually and separately, and because we were there together we had the honor of witnessing one another’s blossoming. Thank goodness I was present to be a part of what occurred for Sarah and Ginny, and I am equally grateful that they got to watch their mom change. To all you parents who drop their kids at camp and return a week later to pick them up...and you wonder why the kid you’re taking back home isn’t the same one you left off in the packing lot on Monday....I would suggest that it’s true: You may be picking up a very different person than the one who waved good bye. Instant community in a very safe and tremendously creative container can radically create shift in folks of all ages. If you’re not there to participate, then odds are - you’re not going to fully fathom what happened to those who did.

Since cancer has come and gone came from our lives many things have changed about the way our family lives life, including a far greater commitment to pay attention and participate - especially where my children are concerned. Yes, many among you would argue that taking time off from a brand new job was impractical; yes, for some of you the notion of trailing along behind one’s kids to summer camp sounds completely ludicrous; yes, it was both of those things. As a matter of fact, two weeks ago this morning as we drove South to Nevada City, California, I could have listed about fourteen reasons why it was down right stupid for me to be going to camp with my kids.

But I‘ve learned too much this year - and at too great a price - not to pay attention. So when Sarah said in earnest, “Mom, this is one of the best things that I do, and I really want you and Ginny to be there too.” She had me - no matter what.

Perhaps we could’ve had as profound a journey simply by taking a family vacation, but I seriously doubt it. Sarah watched Ginny and I pick up and begin to learn to play violins for the first time ever, while Ginny and I listened to Sarah take her music to a whole new level with joyful determination; Ginny tackled the navigations of getting to know many new teachers and friends, while Sarah and Ginny watched me interacting with other men and women who share the same passions. Surrounded by truly creative peers, Sarah spread her wings to full span and showed her remarkable authenticity, Virginia was wonderfully independent and bright eyed, and I was simply and wildly happy. My girls saw me laughing and engaging more than they’ve seen in years, and while we only ate a couple meals together all week long - we harmonized in singing class every day and danced together every night.


Just as Alasdair, upon introducing the musicians at our final public performance - went to great lengths to explain to the audience that “We are NOT a symphony. No. We are 175 wild, unruly and untamed fiddlers!” So too I say:
This was definitely NOT the typical American family vacation.

And we’re so much the better for it until next year, when you’ll find me driving as fast as it’s legal, kids in tow - to get to the dance floor at fiddle camp and strike up the music of our hearts.

Squeak (Part II)

(A continuation from yesterday's post...
Death Valley, California
Monday, March 22, 2010)

Badwater Basin and the Salt Flats were incredibly beautiful. 

With Telescope Peak rising to its full 11,000 feet on the west and Dante's Pass behind us, we tip-toed around honeycombed basins of salt water. The rims of delicate crystal and mineral deposits, encircling each pool like lace-work and hand-hewn tatting, stretched for miles around us. The whole white scene was blinding to the eye and compelling to the soul. We simply HAD to look.

The girls picked carefully at the salt deposits. Mindful of the strength of their human hands on this hardy yet tender ecosystem, they touched with tenderness and marveled at the wet glistening gems on their palms and the sensation of soft chalk that it left on their skin. None of us could resist putting out tongues against our fingertips, as though our palates were the final authority of whether or not this was, in fact, a salt basin.

Heading back toward Furnace Creek, we detoured along the Artists Palate Drive to see an amazing crayola box of natural hues stacked upon each other throughout the surrounding cliffs and hills. 

This particular spot is a six mile stretch of tribute of the planet's age and ever-changing form - the layers of color showed us where glaciers, volcanoes, water, ice and heat have all conspired over time to geologically blend and separate varying colors and textures. It was powerful to acknowledge that whole mountains have uplifted and laid themselves upon one another, like great stone sweaters on a shelf. Moving mountains...now there's a concept.

Rich dark browns, tans, reds, black, beautiful swaths of palest blue, washed-out green and even an occasional stripe of lavender showed up for us as we roller coaster-ed through the looping narrow road of the scenic drive. 

 

The squeak had retired, both literally and metaphorically, as we made our way along in the Beckinator with mid day desert heat rising around us. 

Virginia's biggest concern was the number of images her wee Nikon would hold. Sarah was momentarily beyond concerns, as she was on an internal hike deep into a John Muir-ian state of being. I was just hanging out in a willingly suspended state of awe - for the day, the planet and the miracle known as "right now." 

Squeak (Part I)

(Death Valley, California
Monday, March 22, 2010)

We’ve been waking right around sunrise each morning. The desert birds have a lot to talk about, and their celebratory tones invite participation...that fact, and I’m needing to stiffly extricate myself from sleeping bag and sardine can tent.  I leave my sleeping companions alone so they can spread out just a bit more.(Did I mention that we accidentally brought the two-person tent instead of the four-person? Yes, the quarters are beyond cozy.)

Today, after a marginal camp breakfast, I underestimated how quickly over-easy eggs will cook in a good cast iron skillet at - 203 feet below sea level, we headed south to Badwater Road and points beyond. Our destination: Badwater Basin, elevation -282 feet, the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere.

As we navigated yet another long, mostly straight, two lane highway, a small squeak spoke up. “What’s that?” I asked Sarah.
    “Not us, “ she replied.
    “Hmmmm,” I responded with a frown.

After another mile, while passing a sign that read “Next Services 73 miles” another squeak - confirmed with windows rolled down for better hearing - that it did/does indeed belong to us. Or, it belongs to Becky, our steadfast bright red Cruiser. For this trip, we’re calling her “The Beckinator.”

Sarah and Ginny continued their gaze of appreciation at the Pinamint Mountains to the west and the Black Mountains to the East. I, on the other hand, immediately begin to fret about the Squeak. I moderated our speed, breathed deeply, and said my millionth prayer for no mishaps.

I decided to be proactive with my fretting. You know that old trick where you think of the worst case scenario, acknowledge it, contemplate all the ways one would deal with said horrific scenario - and then release it? I did that. I played out visions of tow trucks, being hauled to Las Vegas, putting the girls on a plane home, waiting for car parts, expensive mechanics and a long, lonely drive home weeks from now after having suffered the full wrath of the Squeak.


It then occurred to me: that’s not the worst that could happen.

The worst that could happen would be one of us getting hurt (or worse) and with a intuitive wash, I began to breathe deeply and peacefully.  We are well and whole, and all the rest is just idol squeaking and desert dust in the  cogs of the car.

Then, as if for confirmation, Sarah looked at me long and hard. “Are you worrying again?” She probed. I shrugged. And she raised her eyebrows and said in her most knowing voice of wisdom, “When you worry about stuff, I worry about you. Please stop.”

Do we all have a squeak that occasionally stops us from seeing the world around us and steals away our ability to be present and attentive? There’s no question about it. Sometimes, our squeaks actually manifest into something that requires action, but mostly they just work us over from time to time. The trick perhaps, is to treat the squeak not as an element of ominous foreshadowing but as a reminder that although we have no control over the events of our lives, we do  choose the attitude with which we’ll deal with it.

Not suddenly, but finally and wonderfully, the majestic mountains and the stunning whiteness of the salt flats and the brilliant cerulean sky climbed into the driver’s seat.

Sand Dune Sisters!

Sometimes, sand is not just sand... 
Check out "Sand Dune Sisters!" 
(I recommend double-clicking and watching in 480p on YouTube!)

Extending Life's Radius

 Mt. Shasta - a mere 76 miles from home - taken from Hwy 89 vantage

I heard somewhere that it’s not unusual for “most” people in the world to be born, live and die within a twenty mile radius. This is easy to imagine, when I consider the lives of folks living in developing countries, but it’s damn near impossible to fathom when I look through the rose-colored lenses of my middle class American educated upbringing in comfortable Ashland, Oregon. Nevertheless, the girls and I pondered this “leaving one’s known twenty mile turf” theory while our odometer logged in more and more miles in the opposite direction of home. We were readily able to acknowledge that our act of packing up and making a 1500 mile trip would be considered a very large departure of the norm for many folks.

Perhaps that was part of the reason our trip was such a stretch for me; I was actively choosing to drive away from a safety net I have had anchored in place since I was about ten years old. See, I was the kid who wouldn’t accept a sleepover invitation unless it was close enough to home that I could easily walk home (or be picked up by a sleepy parent ) at 12:30 A.M. That was about the hour I would invariably realize that I was SO wickedly homesick, so painfully anxiety-ridden with fear of being away - that,  with knees literally knocking together, I'd make the walk of shame to the parent’s of whichever friend had invited me over and ask permission to call home.

Mind you, after playing out that particular scenario two or three times in elementary school, it ceased to continue with regularity because I became a skilled practitioner of avoidance and was adept at politely refusing most invitations to slumber parties, Friday night sleepovers and summer weekend camp outs. In middle school, when the social ladder is as much a part of one’s overnight luggage as a comfy pillow, it was often a very tough call between accepting an invitation (and perhaps spending a night in overwrought tension) or declining (and being left out of essential adolescent  exploits to be shared among peers on Monday morning by the lockers). Sometimes I would momentarily forget my angst - in the excitement and thrall of potential adventures, and I would say “yes” to a generous friend who wanted my company. Then, I would remember my looming apprehensions at the last moment and crumble in complete humiliation - disappointing tenfold whomever my pal was with a phone call to say, “Sorry; I can’t make it after all.”

By the time I was fourteen, my parents were ready to disown me due to what they considered irrational behavior. It wasn’t irrational to me though, nor was it complicated. I didn’t particularly need THEM to be at home; in fact, they could travel away all they wanted, as long as they left me there  - safe and snug. About the time that they began to surrender to the idea that I would live in Ashland forever and never trot the globe, I began to conquer some of said homesickness by the company I kept, and made my first successful trip away with my high school sweetheart and his parents at fifteen, and the rest is - as they say - history. Sort of.

Diagnosis-wise, I’m fairly certain my symptoms were anxiety attacks, not exactly your run-of-the-mill childhood homesickness, but truly scary events. Do I still experience that knee-shaking, belly quaking fear from time to time? I guess the fact that I have traveled happily and successfully for the past three decades is some sort of “Proof of Ability,” but the honest answer is: Yes. Absolutely. (And I’ve learned to get over it.)

The first two nights spent with my son in the oncology unit at Oregon Health Science University gripped me like I’ve never been gripped, and since Reid’s cancer diagnosis, I have become reacquainted with fearful feelings I haven’t felt since adolescence.

So this first trip out and away since leukemia moved into our family, this first time away from Reid since he got sick, THIS was a big departure from the “new norm” of our life. All the way to Death Valley, California I asked myself, “Is fear of FEAR big enough to hold me back anymore? Do I decline otherwise new journeys because I’m afraid of being sick to my stomach with terror in the middle of the night? After having come all this way - after having left behind all that we once believed was comfortable and familiar, is worry big enough to keep us from venturing out, kids in tow to see, share and discover this amazing planet?”

I know it will be a damned tough call at times. Sometimes, like this past week, I will have to dig very, very deeply into my heart, remind myself to breathe and resolutely plant one foot forward. Being able to set forth and journey - both literally and figuratively - was and is a privilege and a joyful act of life celebration. The learning opportunities outside our doorsteps have as much to do with what we experience while away - as how they impact our return and the changed, hopefully sweeter relationship we will bring back home. 

 McArthur-Burney Falls Memorial State Park, CA

127 miles from Ashland, OR

Once upon a time in Luning

Luning, Nevada. Located in Mineral County. Listed as a ghost town.

 

While Southern Oregonians are generally the first to make proud declarations about the scenic beauty of their home, it’s also part of the human condition to forget how good we have it - until “it” is either gone or absent. Being away from the valley recently served as a pointed reminder to the girls and me of what an magnificent place we reside. With the forest-laden mountains surrounding and an abundance of water, there is exceptional allure to the State of Jefferson. Even our smallest towns are attractive, and it’s clear that the people who live in this area are actively invested in and have a care about the physical environment of this place.

Driving south from Fallon, Nevada along U.S. Route 95  (the major  646 mile long highway that runs north to south directly to Las Vegas), one is treated to a stark and dramatic landscape of both naked nothingness (or so it seems to the novice passing eye) and nature in her most raw miraculous form. This is high desert county where daily survival of plants and animals is an act taken neither lightly nor for granted. Rough dirt and sand stretches blandly away from the asphalt into distant rolling hills, followed by folded steeps of curved perfection, into valiant and ruggedly stunning snow-capped monumental ranges of the truest velocity.

Most of the little towns - pinpoints along I 95 map - are simply and literally falling apart. We saw wind blown and weather-wrecked buildings, trash heaps and gully-washed ruts large enough to swallow whole houses and cars, abandoned everything (even military bases)...clapboards shacks, mining machinery, rusting signs, now broken promises of cold beer - hot coffee - rooms for rent - ice cold Coca-Cola, whispers of lives that once were - banging unheard along the exposed highway.

Passersby barely slow. They maybe, just barely, even give it all a notice or a thought - that once in Mina, you could get a hair cut or have your oil changed, and once in Goldfield, you could stay at the historic hotel where today each window across the first floor bares a bright red "No Trespassing!" sign, or three miles down the road you could find the Shady Lady Brothel.

All this evidence that “humanity came here once, but gave up and left” poked at my heart, as we made our way across the Silver State. While the distant ranges and changing colors of the steeps and mountains pulled us forward in anticipation to our adventures in Death Valley, the forlorn roadside trash provoked me - the way watching a bloody boxing match makes you want to look away and yet, you can’t. 

It’s the stuff of life. It’s the oddness of human behavior flanked by impressive natural beauty, and it’s hope declared out loud and then lost in silence to something more powerful. 

Thanks to those among you who endorsed my recent two week break from blogging. It's been a rich time with pen and paper and a healthy step back from the screen. It's also lovely to be home. ~ mlp