You know that old saying, "absence makes the heart grow fonder?" Well, there's a related one: "familiarity breeds contempt."
(Don't worry, husband, I'm not writing about you.)
Perhaps in this case contempt is too strong a word, but ambivalence is certainly appropriate. Before I get too carried away here with verbal semantics, let me be clear in that I'm not talking about anything more serious than my surroundings: Alaska, The Great Land.
I realize every once in a while that I totally take this fabulous place where I live for granted. I don't give the mountains which surround me a second glance unless there's new snow to moan about. The fuchsia, indigo, yellow, and cream floral jewels go unnoticed as I zip by. Bald eagles are a dime a dozen. Even the bears and coyotes have to be moving to catch my attention.
Every once in a while, though, my blinders are removed and I see anew the world around me.
Several years ago, Barry Lopez and Debra Gwartney edited a book called Home Ground - Language for an American Landscape. They invited writers to craft "definitions" of geologic and geographic features based on their own experiences with those features. For example, read the first entry in the book:
A'a
While highly fluid pāhoehoe lava can flow like a river, with no more than a slight metallic hiss, rubblelike ‘a‘ā lava moves with a sound like crockery breaking. Much Hawaiian volcanic terrain is streaked with both kinds of congealed lava. It is hard to imagine that shiny, ropy pāhoehoe could come from the same source as the dull, jagged clinkers of an ‘a‘ā flow, but lava may emerge from a vent as ‘a‘ā rather than pāhoehoe if it has undergone a vigorous stirring during the eruption. The transformation can also occur on the surface as pāhoehoe plunges down a steep slope, becoming more viscous from loss of gas. Hawaiians have long summed up the unforgiving nature of ‘a‘ā in sayings such as He ‘a‘ā ko ka hale, which means “Only lava rocks [‘a‘ā] will be found in [that] house,” suggesting an incident of domestic calamity. And yet ‘a‘ā fields have traditionally been used to grow sweet potato: Hawaiian farmers constructed trails across them made of smooth stepping stones, piled compost in the rubble, and planted seeds. PAMELA FRIERSON
But how do we do this? As always, it's easy to point out the problem, not so easy to identify the answers. For me, I have to get my butt outdoors. I can't bear the thought of going to the gym when there's a whole big world out there to explore on my bike, skis, snowshoes, boat, or feet. It's not enough to just be outside, however. I have to be there mindfully, fully aware of my surroundings.
I've never been able to understand how people can stand to bike, run, whatever, while listening to music. First, I like to be fully aware of what's going on around me for safety's sake, if nothing else. Second, I'd end up being so focused on what I was listening to that I wouldn't be paying attention to anything else. When I mindfully spend time outdoors, I can feel my soul expand as it reaches to touch each living and nonliving thing. I become both grounded and groundless, and I find it much easier to believe in the interconnectedness of all life on Earth.
Another thing that helps me be mindful is this blog. I'm sure you've noticed that I frequently write about my day trips hiking or biking or snowshoeing. They're not grand adventures, but I enjoy sharing through words and photos what I've seen and experienced. Knowing that I'll likely be blogging about my day, I tend to pay more attention to the details of what's around me, as well as to my reactions to them. It's not uncommon for me to compose sentences as I pedal or walk to describe what I'm seeing. (I'm told this internal narration of my experience is a sign of being a writer.)
