Exhale: The Beginnings of a Story Started at The Tutka Bay Writers' Retreat, 2024

 As we pulled away from the dock, I could feel myself viscerally exhale. The anticipation of the peace and quiet, along with the creativity and adventure, that waited across the bay had me holding my breath coupled with the anxiety that followed me down the hillside into Homer.

I left Homer ten years ago with nothing more than my Jeep packed with everything I could stuff in the back seat and passenger front seat, and my dog tucked into the hatch storage area. Life there had not gone as planned, having moved there for a teaching position that was job-elimated due to funding after only 3 years, I floundered for 3 more before cashing in my teacher retirement to buy the Fresh Sourdough Express Bakery and Cafe. The owner-financed loan agreement was unattainable and two years later, on the verge of bankruptcy, an empty bank account, and no retirement, I ran away from Homer with my tail between my legs. It was not my proudest moment, and I never look forward to coming to Homer because I’m afraid of running into previous employees that may still feel slighted by me. I’ve only been back twice, and both times were only to have lunch before boarding the water taxi to Tutka Bay. I don’t stop at any of the cute shops. I don’t have lunch in town with the locals. I don’t dare walk into a grocery store. I just head straight to the spit where I can blend in with the tourists, holding my breath as I scan the faces. So, the moment that boat pulls away from the dock, I allow myself to relax and breathe. Feeling the familiar ebbs and flows of the ocean current as we bob out of the marina and into the bay calm me. Water is my solace in a world of chaos. It’s so predictable and unpredictable at the same time. I can set my clock by the tides and breath more clearly facing the wind that swoops down off of Grewingk Glacier. Once, we were caught out in the bay, miles from the spit, when an unforecasted gale blew up, reminding me how unpredictable the sea can also be. So much like life, we control what we can and let the waves of time take the rest.

Home is Where Whiskey and Water Meet

The whiskey-colored slough at low tide reveals a teaming bed of life invisible at high tide. Murky and dense with moss and bull kelp, the wet scent of laundry that’s been left in the washing machine too long catches on my inhale. I give a little cough. 

What kind of barnacles or sea creatures are on those exposed rocks, do you suppose? She asks. Too small to be edible, I reply as I remember describing the taste of swan to fellow writers yesterday.

She laughs.

I walk on, continuing down the meandering boardwalk supported by soft logs 20 feet above the bottom of the slough. When the tide comes in, the change is drastic. The blueness of the icy bay waters blends with the bourbony slough, creating a murky dark green not unlike some of those smoothie drinks that the millennials carry as they walk across the Fairbanks campus.

The grassy undergrowth disappears and the tide brings with it a freshness, a newness that covers the damp laundry smell with a brininess, bringing with it fish and waterfowl. Nearly twelve hours will pass before the sea bottom reveals itself again, bearing new treasures, perhaps a starfish or some other sea creature that will make the long wait for the tide to come back in and carry them back home. Some will live out their life in the slough, having found a quiet place protected from the vast, and often violent, sea.

We are not so unlike these sea creatures. Some of us are swept into a foreign land, waiting for the chance to return to where we came from, home. Others find their home in the new land, forcing themselves to adapt and adjust, forever grateful for the safety and security that the new land offers, far away from the madness that was our life before. 

Moving to Alaska 17 years ago was not a decision that I made lightly; however, it had always been in my heart. I yearned for the far north, even when I lived in the extremeness of northern Wisconsin, I knew there was more. I let the tide take me to this foreign place where I found a safe harbor. I did not immediately find the safe harbor; I found myself being tossed and turned, broken and smoothed, not unlike the sea glass on the Bering Sea beaches. Persistence and a sense of adventure brought me finally to the arms of a man who is my forever, who is my safe harbor, who is my home.

Had I never taken that chance, at 40, no less, to see what lay beyond the horizon, I would have never found my home. Now, the tide takes me from one corner of this fast state to the other, showing me all of the beauty and blessings that abound in the Last Frontier. However, I always find my way back home to my safe space, my center of the universe, where I prefer whiskey in my glass.

The Joyful Journey of the King Cake

“Lassiez les bons temps rouler!” Let the good times roll! After spending eighteen years as an adult in Louisiana, from age twenty through thirty-eight, this saying is as much a part of spring as Mardi Gras (French for Fat Tuesday). This year, Mardi Gras falls on Tuesday, February 13, and the weeks leading up to it are filled with food and fun that is grounded in centuries-old tradition. My favorite food tradition of Mardi Gras is the King Cake.

The first encounter with this circular confection is akin to stumbling upon a hidden treasure chest during a grand adventure. The vibrant colors of the sugary topping - purple, green, and gold - not only represent justice, faith, and power, respectively, but also symbolize the three wise men who followed the star to find the baby Jesus. Often filled with swirls of cinnamon, cream cheese, and/or pralines, this fattening concoction lives up to the pre-lent season’s reputation of carnival revelry. The most important feature of the King Cake is the small plastic baby figurine hidden within the layers of dough. This tiny treasure carries significant symbolism, representing baby Jesus, and the person who finds the baby in their slice of cake is bestowed with good luck, designated as the king or queen of the festivities, and has to bring the King Cake next time!

Beyond its delectable flavors, the King Cake carries layers of symbolism that prompt reflection on the essence of the celebration. The plastic baby reminds me of all of the hidden surprises that life offers and the interconnectedness of joy and community. The cake also serves as a reminder that traditions are fluid, dynamic, and capable of evolving while still retaining their core essence. As I move forward during this Carnival season, my friends on Facebook posting pictures of the hundreds of parades and multiple King Cakes, I am grateful for the time I spent and the friends I made in such a unique part of the United States.

Mardi Gras holds a special place in my heart as I recreate the decadent tradition of the King Cake. I have a friend who’s having a birthday party this weekend, and I think I’ll whip up a King Cake to share, but where to find a little plastic baby? At any rate, since food is my love language, “Lassiez les bons temps rouler!”

Just Trying to Escape the Pain

 My cardiologist recommended that I start taking one baby aspirin every day because of a sluggish artery and angina. I didn’t give it much thought until I took it out of the package and held the plastic bottle in my hand. My mind immediately zipped back to a time when I was 4 or 5 years old.

I remember kneeling on the top of the sink when I dropped the glass bottle in the sink. I don’t remember climbing up there, but I remember the yummy orange taste of the baby aspirin as I chewed a handful of it. My mom would give me an aspirin when I skinned my knee, and so, I associated it with pain, even though they tasted so good. 

That day, I was feeling a pain that I couldn’t explain to my mother because it partly included her. I had been up late, crying in bed as my parents yelled at each other in the living room, 10 feet from my bedroom door. The next day, my head hurt, but my heart hurt, too. I didn’t want my mother to know that I had heard them. Honestly, I was afraid of her. I was afraid that she would yell at me, like she had with my dad, and blame me for listening. Then, I remembered the orange-flavored baby aspirin.

When the glass bottle fell into the sink, it didn’t break, but it did make a lot of noise. I immediately heard my mother outside of the bathroom door, “Kathy? Kathy, what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” was not the right answer.

“Kathy, open this door now!” she yelled from the other side of the locked door. 

Shakily, I scrambled down from the counter and opened the door without thinking to shut the cabinet door or grab the empty bottle from the sink.

She immediately put two and two together and we were on the way to the hospital to have my stomach pumped.

I wouldn’t call it a suicide attempt, but I was trying to escape the pain, the emotional pain as much as the physical pain of a dysfunctional household. It would be the first of many attempts to escape the pain.

To Be or Not to Be - Native Enough

 Bristol Bay Campus Land Acknowledgement: We honor the indigenous people of the Yu’pik, Dena’ina, Sugpiaq, and Unangan that have given their land for the education of their people. We recognize the Curyung Tribe of Dillingham whose land the main campus resides on. We recognize the indigenous tribes of Unalaska, Saint Paul, Togiak, New Stuyahok, and King Salmon for their contributions.

It has become common practice for every University meeting to begin with a verbal Land Acknowledgement.

I attended a webinar last week called “Beyond Land Acknowledgement.” We had been discussing this very topic in our weekly Bristol Bay Campus meetings about how to not let our reading of the Land Acknowledgement at the beginning of every meeting become rote, which I think it has become. My anticipation for the webinar was that it would provide meaningful conversation and perhaps even some practical suggestions about how to make our Land Acknowledgement have greater depth and sincerity. That is not where the conversation between the four indigenous speakers went. Instead, it veered off down the road of blame and even making fun of white Americans who, in one speaker’s words, think it’s cool to claim Native American status on college applications because they figure that they must have a Native American great grandmother or someone kin to that in their family tree. That’s when I left the webinar.

As one-eighth Blackfoot (my daughters, at one-sixteenth, even have enough quantum to live on a reservation), I take exception to that. No, I have never lived on a reservation. No, I do not have a tribal identification number. No, was not raised with Blackfoot traditions or culture. Finally, no, that does not make me less Native American than the obviously mixed-race man who was making those comments in the webinar.

This week, for my “Images of the North'' graduate literature class, we read The Right to be Cold by Sheila Watt-Cloutier. Even though my story is much different from Watt-Cloutier, whose children are equally as indigenous (or unindigenous, however one chooses to look at it), as I am, I commiserate with her struggle of not looking native enough. Breaking through those stereotypes, and even using them to her advantage, she was able to make great strides for her people as well as for people around the world. As for myself, for the previous three semesters, I was taking courses toward my PhD in Indigenous Studies at UAF but was feeling that I wasn’t native enough to continue down that path and stay true to my own background, which I’m very proud of and felt that it was being belittled. For that reason, I have switched directions in my studies. Will I go back? I don’t know. However, I will continue to make Climate Change a focal point in all courses that I teach, and I will continue to impress upon my students the importance of local, indigenous knowledge as we move forward into an uncertain future for our state and our planet.

Because I don’t have a tribal identification number, since my grandfather opted to live “white” rather than be moved to a reservation, which meant giving up all current and future government and tribal benefits for himself and his descendants, I have never been able to claim that status on a college or job application. So, that webinar speaker who made those claims does not know what he’s talking about, and in my grandfather’s words, “Never judge a man before you’ve walked a moon in his moccasins.”

Life is Really a Slinky

The idea of the great hoop circle of life that some Lower 48 tribes refer to is echoed in the description that tribal systems “recognize multiplicity at every single level.” That circular concept is something that

I’ve always embraced. I teach it in my writing classes when I tell students that writing is recursive. We first write in a big circle and then, with repetitive rewrites, the circle becomes smaller and smaller, paying attention to minute details. However, the recursive process is never complete; the continuum is infinite. There is a point where we must stop and turn the writing in, but it is never complete - thus, the many editions of the same textbook. All writers know this. All parts of the writing process are interactive and overlap and circle back around. It only makes sense that all things in life are like this. Familial relationships - parents raise children who then come back around to take care

of the parents. Work life - we start out with a part-time job and eventually move on to a full-fledged career, only to ease off toward retirement, maybe even down to part-time before staying home altogether. My husband, 65, is now semi-retired, working only in the summers for Fish & Game, much like he only worked summers when he was a teenager. Also, a friend of his from childhood, Steve (who he has known since they were 4 years old), is also now retired and they often go fishing in the middle of the week, always planning where they’re going to go next, just like they did when they were kids, always fishing together. Adulthood came and took away the time for that, but now the time is back again.

In my head, I envision familial ties as a sort of slinky that goes round and round, never intersecting, but always connected, almost circling back on itself. My grandparents raised my father who circled back around to take care of them while raising me and then as I grew up, my respect for them increased and I wanted to learn more. As they faded into the next world, my dad was growing older and I was learning from him as I was raising my children, alone. He was a stand

in dad and the circle kept spiraling. Just as he passed on, my children started having children and now I am trying to share my wisdom with my children and grandchildren. As I walk through the garden, hand in hand with my grandson, I see the spiral continuing as he learns what flowers are edible and goes home with that knowledge to work in the garden with his mother, my daughter.

This brings me to the idea that “gynocracy is more about grandmothers’ femininity than about mothers’ femininity.” It was truly about the time my first grandson was born, 4 years ago today, that I first started understanding and practicing mindfulness. I was living offgrid on the Unalakleet River with my husband. I didn’t use one drop of water without thinking about it. Sunlight was precious. The river was our lifeblood. It all interconnected and we took care of our environment and it took care of us. Today, now having lived on the road system

for not quite 18 months, I still never brush my teeth without being thankful for the running water. I’m especially thankful for the warm running water to wash my hands. I’m a conservationist, taking short showers and not flushing the toilet every time. My husband thinks I’m a little crazy, telling me that we have a large septic tank and there is no need to conserve. I tell him that it’s not just about our septic tank; it’s about the environment as a whole. He just shakes his head and laughs. His ancestry is Viking - did they not conserve? Oh well, I will never let another food scrap go to waste or wander off the trail with my 4-wheeler or snowmachine. I will never leave trash on the tundra, and I will always recycle and reuse whatever I can. I will always garden organically; pulling weeds is a wonderful time for mindful thinking.

The understanding that “you can’t address health without providing water; you can’t address the need for water without protecting the environment” was so on track with my own understanding. It’s all a package deal. Actually, it’s more than that. It’s bigger than a package. It’s recursive. It’s circular. It’s a slinky. Economy, ecology, social constructs, and political systems are all interconnected. None can stand alone.

As I move forward with designing indigenous curriculum, this will be in the forefront of my mind. Even the idea of grade levels (first grade, second grade, third grade, etc.) doesn’t make sense to me. When I first started Kindergarten, we lived in St. Louis and there was a new elementary school using the “open concept.” My father, an educator, and my mother, Native American, chose to send me to that new school. It took the idea of the one-room schoolhouse and expanded it to a school population of approximately 200 K-6th grade students. The Kindergarten classes were the only classes held in a separate room. The rest of the school was designed as a big circle with a library in the middle. There were no walls, only 6-foot high partial dividers between classes, and all classes were open in the back to the library in the middle. There were no grade levels; instead, there were six teams. A student may be in Team 3 for Math and Team 5 for Reading. It all depended on each individual student’s needs. Each class could contain students with 2-3
years of difference in their ages. I went to that school until the third grade, when my parents divorced my mother and I moved to Wisconsin. It was quite a shock to my system when I went to a normal

Hoop Dance

school, but I eventually adjusted. I can remember Kellison Elementary School like I was just there yesterday. With all of the changes in education, the school has since been remodeled and reimagined into the same format as every other school.

My hope is that soon indigenous communities will be able to make their own decisions about what is best for their young people, instead of being governed by the state lawmakers. It is only when we return to this indigenous knowledge framework that we can truly begin to rethink education and what success looks like in those communities.

Wishbone Lake Observation Journal

For my class this semester (Traditional Ecological Knowledge), one of the assignements was to go to an outdoor place, away from people and civilization, and just spend time there, alone. No phone. No dog. Just be. This was my resulting essay: 

Everywhere you go, there you are. As I sat in my camp chair in the middle of frozen Wishbone Lake, I had time to reflect on the space and time of my visit. 

It was a 10-mile snowmachine ride into the backcountry of the Talkeetna Mountains right behind our house. My husband and I took separate machines and he led the way, having explored that area a couple of weeks prior to my starting these observations. Even on Saturday afternoons, we seldom saw another soul on the well-worn trail through the trees, across creeks, and past ragged cliff faces. Recovering from achilles surgery, the vibration of the motor had a healing sensation on my foot, and I enjoyed the rides immensely. 

Once out on the lake, I set up my chair on the trail behind my machine and settled in to enjoy the peace and quiet that is so much a part of the last frontier while my husband continued on down the trail to give me some alone time for the next hour. 

As the silence closed in around me, my tinnitus heightened, and I found myself wishing for wind. On one occasion, the wind answered, bringing snow along for the ride. As I sat there, in the middle of the lake, I tried to see how much snow would pile up on me before the torn discs in my lower back begged me to move. The flakes were small, but my dark jacket and snow pants allowed for close examination of the hexagon shapes, each different and unique. I love the wind. I love the feel of it. I love the sound of it. I loved watching it roll through the trees and across the snowblown lake, creating drifts and shallows as it went. 

In all my time there, I never saw an animal, not a bird, not a sound. There were tracks, moose and rabbit, maybe a fox here or there. We saw wolf tracks on the trail on the way in, which made me feel the need to look behind me now and again as I sat there. I wondered if there was some being just inside the treeline, hunkered down, watching me and wondering what I was doing. Was a crossfox curiously scurrying from tree to tree? If he was there, I did not see him or hear him. Perhaps it was a she, fattened with kits, heading back to her den with a mouse or a vole who had met his demise. 

I couldn’t have been more than 5 miles from a blacktop road, just a couple of miles from a gravel road neighborhood and a lake, 17-mile Lake, filled with ice fishermen, women, and children. It was because of this that the complete silence took me by surprise. I noticed that I couldn’t even hear Gregg coming back until he had come over the top of ridge. 

I’ve only been to Wishbone Lake in the winter, this winter. I look forward to driving the 4-wheeler into it this summer, though, from the look of it, there may be some wet crossings that will add to the adventure. I wonder… will there be birds chirping in the trees in the summer? Will there be fish jumping in the lake? Will an occasional moose dare to show its face at the water’s edge? For now, the lake is sleeping. It’s tucked in under a thick blanket of snow, silently sleeping. 

The lake sits in a sort of hollow, surrounded by mountain peaks, and makes me grateful that this is in my backyard; we had driven the snowmachines straight from our house to this wild place. The hills that rise up from the edge of the lake are tree covered, but the craggy mountaintops are just beyond. I would say that I’m lucky, but really, luck had nothing to do with it. A lot of hard work and dream chasing brought me to that very spot on Wishbone Lake. There, I was. Everywhere I go, there I am.