Unapologetic Escapism

My yard has been showing signs of spring for weeks now, with early blossoms already littering the ground and the tree at the bottom of our stairs in full pink glory above the daffodils. Finally, the weather forecast for next week has decided to follow suit. Three days of blatant sunshine, temperatures reaching 70 degrees. Bliss!

My first winter in the Northwest has been lovely, all things considered. I have managed to run trails all winter long, often in my shirtsleeves, while snow shovels and bulky winter gear stayed tucked away in storage bins. At the same time, I regularly send grateful thoughts in the direction of my friend who suggested last fall that I purchase a shoe dryer, as that simple contraption has blessed my life immeasurably these past rainy months.

And yet, despite the temperate climate and the occasional sunny days, despite good friends and regular outdoor exercise, I have struggled with my usual winter blues. I find myself irritable and controlling (only partially a personality problem), wrestling a persistent feeling of uselessness and fretting about a host of potential ills that do not actually require my concern.

In my universe, blues necessitate an escape of some sort. Consequently, I return to my tried and true favorite escape and pick up book after book. Since the start of the new year, I have gobbled a host of literary offerings, from Pulitzer Prize winners to philosophy, Young Adult fantasy, biography and even formulaic mystery novels. My literary travels have taken me to Amsterdam, the Caribbean, India, Vermont, Seattle, the Deep South, the fantasy realms of the Six Duchies and the dusty corners of time twisted and turned upon itself. I alternate between feeling renewed by the varied mental landscape and feeling guilty at the idle hours spent.

I do have some favorites among the books that have crossed my path in recent weeks, along with other books that I would fail to recall if I had not dutifully recorded the reading of them in my Goodreads account. Robin Hobbs' Farseer Trilogy and a couple of Archer Mayor books proved great audiobook adventures, with Mayor offering a nostalgic reminder of my years living in Vermont and Hobbs' assassin jogging along beside me on my solitary runs through town.

Harry Belafonte's memoir, My Song, gave me a fascinating glimpse into the American Civil Rights movement and into the life of an entertainer/activist I have admired since childhood. In a similar vein of social consciousness, Jamie Ford's Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet illuminated World War II from the perspective of Asian Americans caught in the fear that gripped the country in the wake of Pearl Harbor. Woven through both books were the strains of music that floated out of clubs and across color barriers and carried the angst and dreams of a generation.

Two of my favorite reads of the year so far have been Audrey Niffeneggar's The Time Traveler's Wife and Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch. I hesitate to recommend them without knowing my audience, as they do offer at least their share of adult language and themes. However, the novels made me think about time and relationships, about fate and the power of art in our lives. I find that depth of thought energizing and a necessary component of my mental diet.

The sun will shine through the clouds soon, and perhaps my need for words from far away places and characters will abate somewhat. But once again, those words and the world they create have carried me through the shadow and lethargy of winter.

This I Believe

(I wrote this several years ago in an exercise responding to the call from the This I Believe project, but it still sounds true to me. I post it here mainly so that I won't lose it. )

I should state up front that I believe in God. Moreover, I’m a Christian. And I try to be a pretty obedient Christian. With a lot of commandments available for keeping or breaking, sometimes a person can get a little overwhelmed. When I need a dose of simplicity, I look to the first commandments from God and the ones He said He thought were the most important. I think of God telling Adam and Eve in the garden to raise children and take good care of the earth. It probably sounded easy then, with flowers all around and no crying children or rebellious teenagers. Later on, in the confusion of opinions in Jerusalem, the commandments to love God and love other people may have given folks a little more pause to reflect. I think those few guiding principles can lead to good life, and I try to follow them with more or less success from day to day. Do things that would please God. Love other people, without regard for their color or nationality, their economic status or philosophical preference, the style of their clothes or their ability to conform to social norms. Treat the environment with respect, and raise my children to seek beyond themselves and make the world a better place.

One hundred years ago, Raymond Macdonald Alden (most famously known for his story “Why the Chimes Rang”) wrote a story about a marvelous palace built by the combined music of an accidental orchestra of musicians. I believe in music and its power to create palaces in our souls and bridge the gaps that separate us from others. That music can take many forms and still reach the soul in vital ways—from professional chamber music, to the aching notes of soul or country, to an amateur musician with just the right inspiration or just the right occasion. The magic comes not only in listening to music but also in the performing of it, even by someone with little to no musical talent. I love the story of the palace built by music, and I love that the musicians had to combine their notes together for the creation to commence. It feels so true and so possible.

I believe that we cannot live life fully as hermits, that human relationships are an integral part of our development and the richness of our lives. I believe that serving others leads us to the discovery of ourselves and is essential if we want to explore the boundaries of our potential as individuals and as a society.

I believe that each of us is, at the core, essentially spiritual, and that our spiritual core at some point begins to yearn for its source of light. If we ignore that need, we risk destabilizing ourselves. The quest for the source of light and for an understanding of our relationship to that light can define our life in wonderful ways, even though at times the journey can prove unsettling. As a parent, I believe I have the responsibility to give my children the tools they need for their own spiritual quest: an understanding of the language of the spirit, a desire to seek, and a solid base from which to start. We need to believe. It gives us root.