She's a Writer

“Hey, I really enjoyed what you shared today. It was really good,” thanked Dee Jay, visiting poet, heading out the door.

“Thanks.” I looked up from the papers I was quickly filing between classes.

“She’s a writer,” Teresa, from the District Office, explained as the door closed behind them, on their way to the airport.

She’s a writer. SHE’s a writer. She’s a WRITER! Those words echoed over me all afternoon.

Dee Jay DeRego was a guest speaker in my classroom today. He is a spoken word master from Juneau who has traveled the world sharing this art form. He writes and recites poetry, but it’s so much more than that. He bares his soul, causes the listener to reflect, and teaches students to do the same.

The highlight for me was when he recited his own “I am from…” poem, reflecting back on growing up homeless, filled with metaphors and descriptive language. He then gave the class five minutes to begin writing where they were from. After walking around the room for the first minute getting all of the students settled in to the task at hand, I sat with my own notebook and favorite blue ink pen. I began to write.

I am from broken hearts and broken homes,

Shattered dreams and drowning tears,

All washed away in this fast moving river called Life.

I am from second chances

Rising above the horizon like a late sunrise on a winter’s day.

That’s when he called time. A couple of students couldn’t manage to put their pens down and kept writing as he began talking again. I actually love when that happens.

It was difficult for me to share, and I wasn’t going to at first, but none of the students volunteered to share and I wanted to set a good example.

I thought about and shared how's it interesting to see how our "I am" poems change through the years. I've written them before when they felt more fact-based and less emotional. Today, my emotions are open wounds across my face as I begin to mourn the loss of a teaching job that I love, going up in flames around me, no water to end the fire. However, my next dream is rising from the ashes and gives me hope that all is not lost.

What stuck with me the most about the experience were those three words Teresa spoke as they walked out the door. I’ve always struggled with identifying myself as such, never taken it too seriously. However, that’s who I am. That’s who I’m becoming. It’s time to jump into the deep end of the pool and do this. I look forward to the next time I hear someone say,

“She’s a writer.”

Living Deliberately

(written on Saturday, April 8)

Do you ever drive home from work and when you pull into your driveway, you don’t even remember how you got there? You don’t remember the drive. You were just lost in thought and motor memory made all the turns for you and it’s like you just woke up when you turned the car off? I think most of us have done that or had a similar experience. It’s just routine. We can do it without giving it any conscious thought. It’s a sort of numbness that takes over.

That never happens in cabin life.

Living in a cabin off the grid, every move Gregg and I make is calculated, starting with the initial seven-mile snowmachine ride up the river, following my two dogs. The temps have been in the 30’s this past week with lots of sunshine, making the river pretty slushy, even though the ice under the main trail is still three feet thick. Diligent attention must be paid at all times to the condition of the ice underneath and around me. In places, the river is openly flowing along the shore 30-yards away reminding me of my little swim last year about this time. I’m not only watching out for myself, but also my dogs as they meander on and off the main trail following animal scents.

When we pull up to the edge of the river in front of the cabin, it’s time to unload and pack totes of groceries or clean laundry, 40-pound bags of dog food, and five-gallon cans of heating oil up forty-odd steps. I think about every step.

“How much can I carry to make as few trips as possible?”

“I should probably carry the heavier load first, because the second trip up those narrow stairs, railing on just the right side, is always more difficult.”

As I’m lugging totes, I gaze out at the hill between the cabin and the river and make plans for a pulley system. I’m pretty sure Gregg is doing the same as he mentions it when we sit down for a whiskey and water – river water, that is.

Finally inside, it’s time to start peeling off the layers that I mindfully put on before leaving town. First off are the beaver gloves, then beaver hat with my red Bolle’ goggles strapped around it, and my pink neckwarmer (gotta have a little somethin’ feminine in that getup!). Finally, I can slip out of my wolf-trimmed parka, insulated overalls, and mukluks – first making sure my slippers are close by to immediately slip my feet into, because the floor is wet and dirty from tracking in with the loads from the sled. Totes are covered in snow kicked up from the back of the snow-machine. No worries, we have hard floors that’ll dry once the oil stove gets turned up. Every piece of clothing gets carefully put in its place. A 16x20 foot cabin is no place to just throw things around. Everything in its place makes life a lot easier.

All of this driving and hauling, dressing and undressing has taken little over an hour. Gregg heads back out, cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth, with the two water buckets before he takes off his outerwear. We’re running low on water and two five-gallon buckets will last us three to four days. Those buckets weigh 40 pounds each when full and I feel bad about not going out to get the water myself, but in the winter, river water has to be obtained through the ice – usually where the natural springs have melted the ice, and my fear of open water in the winter is still pretty strong. Gregg never complains, always smiles as he jokes about how much water I use (20 whole gallons a week, and that includes bathing!).

There’s no microwave, toaster oven, or crockpot. I try to keep a pot on the oil stove at all times, to take advantage of the “free” cooking heat, whether it’s a kettle of water or our next meal simmering away in a cast iron skillet. There is no just throwing dinner together at the last minute here. Every gallon less of propane that I use with our cook stove is not only money saved, but also saved time and effort on our part to get it here, so I try to keep it to a minimum in the winter by using the oil stove to do all of my cooking.

It’s the same way with water. Every little bit that I can save or reuse can add up to one less trip carrying that 40-pound bucket of water up 40 icy steps. Also, no running water means that dishes and baths have to be done in Rubbermaid tubs designed to wash feet in – they’re not too big, that’s for sure. We do have a sink and those tubs stay in the sink because we cannot drain the water down the sink drain in the winter, or it will freeze the pipes. So, every bit of liquid – toothpaste spit, dish water, coffee dregs – it all has to be carried outside and dumped. I buy organic canned vegetables and always use the juice from the cans for cooking. Otherwise, it’s wasted… and I have to hand-carry it outside. It’s mindful living. It’s deliberate living. Everything we do impacts every other thing we do.

Everything we throw away has to be hauled to town, so I try to use things with less packaging or reusable containers. My label maker is one thing I couldn’t live without! LOL

I try to cook one-pot dinners to cut down on water used to clean them. We let the dogs lick off our plates so that they are easier to wash since I can’t rinse the scrapings off under running water. I’ve learned to cook some meals to be eaten on plates and some to be eaten out of bowls so that we can go longer without having to wash dishes. Last night we had soft tacos served on plates. Tonight we’re having slow-cooked beans and sausage served in bowls. We often eat the same dinner two nights in a row, because we have no refrigerator but do have one extremely cold corner cabinet in the winter (a cooler with ice in the summer). I put the dinner away somewhere cool in the pan I made it in and we just warm it up the next night. No microwave needed. No Tupperware needed for leftovers. It works!

We even share clothes - not everything, of course. I love flannel shirts, sweatshirts, and t-shirts, so it works out!

Everything about this life takes thought and planning. If we don’t think ahead, we do without. Conscious thought leads our days and routines are done deliberately, with care and awareness. We live in the wilds of Alaska (although today, the river seems more like a superhighway than anything). We have grizzly bears and moose, the occasional musk ox and wolves. This life is not for the faint of heart or the weak of spirit, but it is everything I’d always dreamed of. The cabin is my happy place because it forces me to live deliberately. Numbness doesn’t have a chance to set in and this mindful way of being causes me to be more productive and happy with myself and the world around me. I am a better version of myself at the cabin.