Presence
Day 16 of 21 Disrupt the Gap
Two lodges tucked into the outer edge of this riverbend bring me significant belonging, healing, and flow. In fact, they brought my parents to Alaska, and I followed, though I was still married back then.
On summer solstice in 2007, sheer exhaustion sweating from the backs of my eyes, with swollen ankles, and unable to get comfortable inside for the three hours of sleep I could claim, I found myself making a bed on the deck, in an almost reclining lounge chair. It was barely the start of the season at the original family B&B lodge, and I was newly arrived from Colorado to assist for a few months. I’d not yet found the stamina to be awake about 3:00 a.m. to prepare breakfast for guests—homemade muffins everyday—learn the lodge business, and finish clean-up and prep for the next day by 11:00 p.m. ish. Four hours to sleep, so in that half-awake state when you are so exhausted you single-track focus and stumble to your goal, I found myself on the deck of the Kenai River Raven lodge. Wearing a fleece beanie, thick socks, t-shirt, wrapped in my down comforter in a 100% cotton duvet, with my tempurpedic travel pillow … the chaise lounge almost feels like heaven. Then my new-to-Alaska mind sunk in. Would a bear climb on the deck and eat me? What about the moose that roamed the woods. #$%^.
I was too damb* tired to care. I stared into the still light midnight sky, and became aware I was ever so slowly being showered in ash—it was the summer of the Caribou Hills fire, and the wind had shifted. The muted smoky sky on Solstice carried golden peach colors, and to calm my rapid heartbeat and belly clench, I began to focus on the green spruce trees, breath deeply, find my rhythm. A jack hammer pounding concrete resumed, literally. #$%^ I’d forgotten about that, and outdoors, it was louder. Bridge over the Kenai construction in the land of the midnight sun would last weeks.
I lay there thinking of my life, ash settling onto my duvet. My son was dead. My husband was in Colorado finishing packing our home up for a hopeful move to Alaska. I was here, with two suitcases in the shed, to assist my parents, and to pivot into a new beginning. I breathed with the real fear that bear in my imagination might show up on the deck, and pulled the cover up to my chin. It was then I saw the trees dance. Dozens of dark green spruce treetops slowly moved in the air dense with wildfire smoke. I gazed at their greenness, their trunks rooted into the earth along the river. And then I knew … this land would show me the way. Those spruce trees standing still amidst everything, they would be trustworthy sentinels for me, too. Now with three hours to rest, I was outside, listening to my fear and the mighty Kenai River flow. I could smell wild salmon in the river, and I’d accepted the call, was in the belly of a whale—thank God not a moose or bear—I had a lot to learn. I was most definitely on a journey.
Kenai River, Alaska, October 26, 2018
image: I crossed the bridge and pulled over at the fish processer empty parking lot. In the dawning light with traffic passing, I strode to the center of the bridge, and breathed into the present moment vivid light. During the drive to town, I’d been listening to a recording of Dr. Jean Houston speak about “The Art of Impactful Storytelling” for a class I’m taking. She’d just said, “But, let me tell you a little bit about the wonders of your brain and consciousness itself in regard to story. Your brain, your mind, your soul are designed to recognize and create patterns, connections, and stories. If novels did not exist, the brain would have had to invent them. …You have arrived and are available to all story, you see. So if you can put in these four levels: sensory, psychological, mythic, and spiritual, you’ve got a story that will galvanize everybody.”
The power of a river running through my life has a story to tell, and disrupting the gaps while beginning to touch the depth and presence on every level is rather exciting. I’m so very grateful for this land, and for life, and for you, who is reading in this present moment.
#DisruptTheGap
*Damb: acronym for “Dingo Ate My Baby”, the cry made by Australian women when their children are carried off and torn apart by the wild dogs of the Outback.