Let It Be . . .

I'm not a tattoo person.  I don't like the look of dark ink on light skin, don't like large images covering arms and legs, don't like the snap judgements that, unfortunately, pop into my head when I see a heavily-tattooed person. I know, I know . . . this is one of those prejudices I need to work on.  Two of my daughters have tattoos -- mostly tasteful -- and I wouldn't want someone making snap judgements about them, so I'm working on that. I'm working toward an attitude of acceptance of other people's choices regarding their own bodies; but still, this probably won't be a choice I'll make for myself.


The other day, however, I was in the grocery store checkout line, and noticed that my cashier had a tattoo on her inner wrist.  In beautiful calligraphy, it read, "Grace."  My oldest daughter also has an inner-wrist tattoo: hers reads "Anima Bella."


And I've decided that I like the placement of these tattoos as much as what they say.  Semi-private, they aren't as obvious as large tattoo "sleeves," but they aren't hidden away for only a lover's eyes, either. They seem very personal to me, more meant for the bearer's eyes than for the observer's. One could quietly flip her wrist to read what's written there, then flip it back to be concealed.


Although I won't be visiting the tattoo parlor anytime soon - or ever - I know what I'd like my wrist tattoo to be.  One simple line, from the Bible -- or the Beatles, depending on your perspective:  "Let It Be."  Though I know that the reference to "Mother Mary" in the Beatles' song could have another meaning, I prefer to think of it as the real Mother Mary, the one who's been my guide since my horse wreck when I was fourteen years old.  Her response to Gabriel's message regarding the birth of Jesus models the kind of courage and faith I can only hope to emulate at some point in my journey through life:  "Let it be done to me according to His will."

"Let it be done to me."  Not -- "let me do this."  Not -- "let me tell you how this should go."  Not -- "let me alone to live my own life."

Right now, it's August - prime time for me to practice this philosophy, which happens to be the most difficult one of my life.  For the last eight months, I've been struggling with "let it be" through a year of disappointment and heartbreak, but also great opportunity and achievement. Now, in August, as our drought progresses, our summer busy-ness continues, and our fears are high and hopes even higher, I need most to remember to trust and "let it be." 

Through my life, this has been the idea that I fight the most strongly against, resist with the most tenacity, accept the most sorrowfully.  In younger years, I thought "let it be" meant to give up, to become apathetic, to quit caring so much. A control freak -- out of both intense love and extreme ego -- the idea of letting go and letting life take its natural course was anathema.  A little older now, I realize "let it be" means one can still care a lot, but one has to let go of the outcome. It means to give everything you have, then trust that there's a better plan than the one in your head.

Those words are relatively easy to write, and next to impossible, for me at least, to live. So perhaps a tattoo of those words on my wrist, where I can look quickly as I take a deep breath, would help me remember that I don't have to control everything . . . that I couldn't, anyway.

I can almost hear Mary gently reminding me:

Your ideal job has turned out to be a lot of drudgery? Take a deep breath, look at the rewards, and let it be. Do your work well, until another opportunity comes along.

The manuscript you've worked on so long comes back returned?  Breathe, cry, let it be -- and then send it out again.
 
The money you hoped to earn turns out to be far less than expected? Let it be; there's no changing the situation now. Look to the future, peer closely at your spending, and change what you can.
 
The relationship breaks, and nothing you do can fix it? Honor your pain. Mourning takes time.  Once you've done that, let it be -- and let it go. Something else will come along, though there is no guarantee of when. You deserve happiness, even if you need to find it alone first.

The project you've spend months on, the one you've poured your soul into, flops?  Cry, mourn, grieve . . . and then let it be.  Trust that the lessons you've learned will serve you in the future; trust that no creative effort happens in vain.

Your adult child makes choices that go against your values? Your heart breaks every time you think of her, every time you miss him? If you raised him well, gave her love and attention and support, then take a deep breath and let it be; pray for acceptance, peace and love. Pray mostly that you will be able to hold him again, that you will rejoice at their happiness one day.


There is a flower bed outside my bedroom window shows that it's August, the month of full-bloom summer and the beginning of dying-back autumn.  In one small bed, I see all stages of the life cycle: the flower buds of new galliardia, the smiling yellow blooms of black-eyed Susan, the dying-away seed heads of echinachea.  Because of both the drought and my extended absence a week ago, one of the echinachea looks to be completely dead. In my efforts to have nice-looking flower beds, I'm tempted to pull them all up, or at least to dead-head it to remove the faded blooms. But I know that if I pull up the brown stalks, I'll dislodge the living plant. If I deadhead the wilted flowers, the seeds will not drop and spread.  I'd like the plant, and the entire stand of echinachea to become fuller next year, so I let it be.  The seeds will be scattered on the soil as the wind lifts them from the flower heads, as the bees brush by them in their pollen-gathering.  And next year, there will be more purple flowers, more blooms, more foliage.  I'll put up with the ugliness in faith that beauty will come with another season.

One of the best books I've read this year has been Cheryl Strayed's Wild. In her memoir of her trek along the Pacific Crest trail, she speaks of the awful life choices that brought her to the point of making that solo journey. And as she reaches the end, she realizes:  all the choices of her life -- the good and the bad, the mistakes and the triumphs, the sin and the salvation -- all brought her to the point of success, of healing, of completion. The thought gives me hope when the dead flowers outnumber the growing, when the failures outweigh the successes, when the fears pile up and the hopes dwindle.


Sometimes life holds the soft promises of new buds; sometimes it blazes bright with  accomplishment, the gift of full flower.  And sometimes, life dies back, stands somberly as the dying echinchea; soon, all my beds will hold mostly brown stalks, dried seed heads, decomposing petals.  Try as I might to water and feed, I can't hold back the dying.  And so I don't.  I let it be, take a deep breath, and try to remember that everything in life cycles, even success, even happiness.  To live in the oasis, we must also cross the desert.

Did you just see me look at my wrist to remind myself of that?

Late Blooming . . . .

Pink rose buds unfurl against the creamy stucco wall of the garden shed, soaking in the powerful July sun. They are late -- June-pink blossoms incongruous next to the hotter reds, oranges and fuchsias of July.  The bush blossoms anyway; where yesterday one lone flower hid amongst the branches, today dozens bejewel the green leaves.

Clichés abound about late-blooming; usually, the term is spoken disparagingly, used to insinuate that its subject lacks ambition and direction. To be a late-bloomer is to miss the achievement-runged ladder that society uses to measure success. And in our society, one's visible success equates dangerously with one's worth.

I wonder how much damage this perception does in our society. Working with youth, I know already the intense pressure put on teens to decide a life path early, so as to get a jump on the prerequisite classes and activities designed to lead to the greatest success. Teens as young as 16 "stress out" because they don't yet know what they want to do with their lives. At 16, I was lucky to know what I wanted to do on Saturday night!  Worse is the shame felt by college-age young adults who remain unsure of a career path; still worse, the desperation felt by adults locked in a career they no longer, or never did, enjoy. In a society marked by achievement, acquisition, and ambition, those who require time to determine their life path, or who explore various directions, earn ridicule at best, contempt at worst.

I'm a late bloomer. In my mid-40s, I'm in my second career. Both careers have been rewarding, and I've enjoyed moderate success in them, but a mover and shaker I am not. Last fall, I published by first book, the product of ten years of work -- not quite the best example of a well-articulated 5-year plan. My book has earned its own treasures -- respect of colleagues, conversations with readers, opportunities to shed light on a lifestyle -- but its monetary rewards will hardly justify the years spend writing it.

And that's OK. Being a late bloomer has gifted be with time to live and to lose, time to get clear about my own definition of success.

Success for a rose bush manifests in blossoms, whether one or many, early or late. We humans arbitrarily decide that a successful rose bush produces profuse blooms at its designated time, but the bush has its own wisdom. My bush blossomed two weeks late because conditions in mid-June -- cool, drenching rains, battering wind and hail, cold nighttime temperatures --  simply weren't right. To have blossomed on schedule would have meant losing those blossoms to hail or cold.

Like the rosebush, I simply wasn't ready to bloom early in my writing career. My own conditions weren't right: I lacked the humility, the courage, and the purpose I'd need to have a book "out there" for others to read. My frame of reference is writing, of course, but I think that presenting any creative endeavor to the public eye requires a degree of maturity.

Also like the rosebush, I've had to trust my own wisdom regarding what success looks like. When I started writing nearly 20 years ago, success looked like the bestseller list and a six-digit bank account balance. Today, success wears a different face: the hours spend digging in to research and chasing a thought from start to finish, attempting to string words and phrases into a delicate net that capture the thought without obscuring its beauty. Success looks like meeting the eyes of a stranger during a presentation and immediately feeling the spark of shared understanding. Success looks liks signing the title page of my book to a dear old friend, one who encouraged me when I could no longer encourage myself. Success looks like spending an afternoon sitting on my deck, jotting notes for a new essay while my kids play and the late-blooming roses nod in the July breeze.

But don't misunderstand. I still dream of a writing career more solid than the few hours a week I carve from an already-packed schedule. I still yearn for a time when "going to work" means going into the office down the hall, not driving 40 miles. I still hope to travel and speak, bringing the lessons and wisdom of this agricultural lifestyle to groups of people who I believe will benefit from remembering their connections to the land, to fellow creatures, and to themselves.

But that is my dream, not necessarily my goal for today. I don't know exactly how that dream will manifest. Conventional life-coaching wisdom would tell me to break that dream apart, divide it into attainable steps, give myself a deadline for reaching each. But what if, in focusing on the small pieces of the dream, I lose sight of the magic of the whole? If I miss a step, or a deadline, will that mean I've lost the dream? In a way, this path to success is like focusing on the stray blades of grass growing up through the rosebush's branches instead of seeing the pink and green glory of the bush. 

And so, I work.  I write and water, wait and weed.  I give the rosebush what I think it needs, knowing that the perfect conditions are only supplied by God. I give my writing what I think it needs, as well -- or at least, I do so to the best of my ability.  The rest of the dream -- the measurable successes, the publications, the rose blossoms -- will come, in time.

Sometimes, the blooms that come late are the ones that smell the sweetest.

Christmas, 2013

For those of you who won't receive a letter in the mail -- our Christmas wishes for you . . 

Merry Christmas!  May this letter find you enjoying the blessings of the holiday season, and looking forward to a new year! We say goodbye to 2013 with full hearts, for it has been a year of both great joys and huge challenges. In retrospect, we are starting to see that all these events – both the happy and the sad – were gifts, because they changed us for the better. We’d like to tell you about the gifts 2013 brought, and to wish you the same in the new year:

The Gift of Health – Many of you know that Shawn was bucked off a horse while gathering pairs in early June (two days before branding), and fractured a vertebra in his neck. As a result, he wore a cervical collar for a month, and had to learn to manage the ranch from the sidelines. He’s back to doing most of his normal activities now, though he still has some stiffness and weakness from the accident.  He could have been paralyzed, or worse, but, thank God, he wasn’t.  We know how lucky we were; several acquaintances were not as lucky this year. We learned quickly what a blessing it is to have health, and the ability to move and live independently.  Almost all of us have had health challenges this year; as I write, Shawn is also recovering from sinus surgery.  But, none of us has a terminal illness or a debilitating disability, so for that, we are grateful.

The Gift of Family Time - Carmen graduated from high school last spring and is now attending the University of Wyoming in Laramie, where Laura also goes.  We’ve taken the extra leaves out of the dining room table, and are adjusting to having only six people in the house. The older girls have been able to come home for branding, holidays, and hunting season; we take those times as blessings. Laura and Carmen spend a lot of time together in Laramie as well; I think Carmen sleeps in Laura’s apartment as often as she does in her dorm room! It’s nice to see that they, too, appreciate family time.

The Gift of Dreams Realized - One of my personal highlights in 2013 was the publication of my first book, Circling Back Home: A Plainswoman’s Journey. After a ten-year process,  it’s been wonderful to have an actual book to hold!  I’ve been able to do readings in Deadwood, Timber Lake, and Gillette, and have been humbled with the feedback from people who have read the book.  Others in the Acord family achieved dreams this year:  Carmen received her state FFA degree, bought her first car, and, of course, graduated; Laura was promoted to assistant manager at the Subway store in Laramie and declared her major for college; Maria had her best horse show yet at county fair, was elected junior advisor for the local FFA chapter, and got her drivers’ license; Cody won grand champion with the pony he trained for fair; Emily won reserve champion with her photography exhibit; and Katie received purple ribbons on two baking entries, and a Young Author award last spring. One accomplishment I’m very proud of is that, despite being injured in June, Shawn was still able to train a mustang and compete again at the Mustang Million in Fort Worth in September.  

The Gift of Dreams Postponed - It’s good to still have dreams to pursue, and we have plenty of those!  Although Shawn was able to compete again in Fort Worth, he didn’t place as high in the rankings as he’d hoped, so he is still planning on some type of horse competition – mustang or other – in 2014.  The accident also waylaid some of the horse sale plans we had for last year, so we’ll try again with those. Maria had to sell her barrel horse, Elvis, in August, so she still hasn’t been able to find the right replacement and compete as much as she would like. We hope to find the right horse for her, and for Cody, who has outgrown ponies!  And we’d hoped to do a family vacation in 2013, but life got in the way – so maybe this summer.

The Gift of Work - Shawn still manages the Allison branch of the Faddis-Kennedy Cattle Company; we’ve been here eight years and counting now.  He has implemented major changes in herd management; completely rebuilt the old set of corrals; and made numerous other improvements on the place. There is, always, more to do, but we are blessed to be able to live this lifestyle. I continue to coordinate services for the Young Adult department of the public library, and so far have been able to keep my four-day/week schedule. I will be able to travel to Biloxi, MS and Estes Park, CO next spring for work – a definite perk.  As I mentioned, Laura was able to find a job in Laramie at a local Subway last winter, and within a few months was promoted to assistant manager. I think she works too much for a college student, but it’s good to know she can handle that level of responsibility at her age. Carmen also had a job for several months at the local Taco John’s/Good Times restaurant, and did well at it.  She quit when she moved, and will need to look for a job in Laramie soon. Maria is also job-hunting, but in the meantime can do day work for the ranch, so she is lucky there.

The Gift of Old & New Friends - One of the neatest benefits of publishing my book has been the opportunity to re-connect with friends and relatives with whom I’d lost touch, so 2013 has been very special for me in that way.  It amazes me how, with some people, the connections might be faded but are still there, despite the years that have disappeared. We’ve all met our share of new friends, as well – particularly the older three girls, who are busy with college, high school and FFA activities.  I hope those new connections will become the old friends they still have twenty and thirty years from now!  With a graduation party, our branding, various birthday celebrations, and, of course, hunting season, we have been able to see many of our family and friends this year. It was particularly humbling to see how many neighbors and friends showed up to help us brand when they heard about Shawn’s accident.

The Gift of a New Year – and a new opportunity to make memories with the people we love. We hope to see many of you in 2014; may your lives be as blessed as ours.

Love,

Darcy, Shawn, Laura, Carmen, Maria, Cody, Emily & Katie

 

  

 

 

South Dakota Blizzard

It's been a week since Winter Storm Atlas hit, and today I finally found a story on a national news site about the devastation in South Dakota.  I feel like we -- and by "we" I mean any of us living in sparsely-populated parts of our country -- have just fallen off the national radar.

These ranchers need national attention!! First of all, they need financial assistance.  For the amount of devastation they are facing, private donations are probably not going to be enough . . . unless we can get the attention and concern of some very wealthy donors.  In this situation, Congress does need to pass a Farm Bill; and we all know that in order to do that, Congress is going to need to re-open the federal government.

These ranchers also need to know that this issue matters.  In addition to the extreme loss they are facing . .  consider facing something like this and knowing that most of your country has  no idea what's happening.

All I can think to do is keep making our voices heard.  These are just a few ideas for doing that -- some of mine, and some that I've gleaned from other people.

1.  Write your Congressman and Congresswoman!!  If you're not sure how to go about doing that, use this site: http://capwiz.com/nra/dbq/officials/.  You can send a message electronically to all of your elected officials, and it takes only a few minutes.  Just be sure to click the "compose your own message" radio button, and then to unclick the "send a copy to the NRA" option.

If you'd like, you can even just copy and paste my letter (below), and sign your own name.  I'm not all that concerned about copyright here!

2.  If you are a Facebook fan of any celebrity or national figure, visit their page to see if you can send them a personal message.  If so, send one!! Who knows?  You might get the attention of someone who will take a personal interest.

3. "Blow up" Facebook and Twitter with messages about the South Dakota blizzard and its after-effects.  If you are on Twitter, use the hashtag #ranchersrelief.  You can "like" the Rancher's Relief Fund on FB; the SD Stockgrowers Association and the SD Woolgrowers Assn. also have pages that will provide information. 

4. Resist the temptation to play politics; nobody needs that right now.

5.  Pray.  Because even if these ranchers, by some miracle, are totally compensated for their losses, nothing will replace the generations' of work building these herds, or salve the loss of the animals they cared for.  They need emotional and spiritual support as well as financial.


Please help!  My letter is below .. . . .
-- Darcy

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

October 11, 2013

Dear (Senator/Congressman/Congresswoman)

As you know, a week ago, Winter Storm Atlas hit the Rocky Mountain and Great Plains region. The loss this monumental storm left behind is staggering.  In my opinion, the most devastating loss is that of at least 20,000 cattle in western South Dakota.

South Dakota’s agriculture industry is the backbone of the state, and because of the topography and vegetation west of the Missouri River, that region is most suited to raising cattle. The cattle consume the abundant grass and convert that resource into food to feed millions.

Last week, South Dakota’s ranchers were not prepared for a storm of that magnitude this early in the year. South Dakota’s blizzards are famous for their severity, and it is not uncommon to lose cattle to the extreme cold, intense wind, and deep drifts of snow. Those types of storms, however, tend to happen in mid-winter or early spring, when calves have been weaned and healthy cattle have grown a protective winter coat. Therefore, while losses do happen, they do not happen in these numbers.

Winter Storm Atlas combined freezing rain, gale-force winds, and, in some places, over three feet of snow to wreak havoc on that part of the state. The devastation to cattle herds came mostly because of the timing of the storm: this early in the year, cattle had not yet grown heavy, protective winter coats; most ranchers still had their cattle out on the vast, open pastures where they grazed all summer; and those who had gathered their herds had weaned the young calves from their mothers, a common fall job.  Freezing rain followed by snow and wind caused many cattle to simply freeze to death. Calves recently weaned from their mothers had little endurance to survive. Cow/calf pairs still out on summer pastures wandered ahead of the storm, dying in fences, along roadsides, or even out in the middle of hay ground.

At this writing, the state veterinarian estimates that 20,000 cattle died, although he also warns that a final tally will not be available for weeks.  At an average value of $1000 for a weaned calf, and $1200 to $1500 for an adult cow, the financial loss those ranchers have suffered will be a huge blow to their families, their businesses, and the economy of western South Dakota. In addition to that immediate loss, ranchers are now faced with the expensive task of disposing of all the carcasses, and locating lost cattle.

Long term, the losses will continue: besides the death loss of pregnant cattle, those that survived the storm may not have spontaneously aborted due to the stress, so next year’s calf crop will be much smaller.  Many ranches will not survive this loss.

There are emotional costs as well: ranchers feel responsible for their livestock and pride themselves on taking good care of their animals. To lose so many this way will devastate them, and there may be repercussions on emotional health. In South Dakota, most ranches are family-run: the genetics lost by the death of 20% to 50% of a ranch’s herd destroys generations of work.

Probably the heaviest emotional toll, however, is that the national news has given little coverage to this disaster, and that our government has not stepped in to offer assistance.

Please, please – do whatever compromising is necessary to end this government shut-down. Then, as soon as the government re-opens, please turn your attention to passing the Farm Bill so that these ranchers can get financial assistance. Although no amount of money will compensate for the emotional losses, money is desperately needed. Please help.

And please know that, by giving your attention to this issue, you will be letting a decent, hardworking part of our country’s population know that they matter, and that our nation supports them.

Sincerely,

Darcy Lipp-Acord

Weston, WY

Of Old Men and Dogs

Darcy's Note:  Today is September 25, and would have been my Grandpa Quinn's birthday.  He actually passed away on September 19, 2002.  Additionally, I lost Sis -- the dog in this essay -- on September 14, 2006.  So, in both of their memory, I am posting here an excerpt from an essay in my book, Circling Back Home: A Plainswoman's Journey.  The book is available from the South Dakota State Historical Society Press, at www.sdshspress.org, if you are interested.

Of Old Men and Dogs

            “C’mon, Sis,” I call, following the trail around a bend in the timber. She’s off nosing under some deadfall for rabbits and squirrels, so I call again, a bit louder. This time she hears me, picks up her head, and trots back over to the trail. “Good girl,” I coo, putting my hand down by my side so she can nose my palm, a habit we’ve had since she was old enough to reach. Sis has never been the type of dog to jump up to greet me, but she and I do share a language, a bond born of years of walks and hikes like this one. Her ebony coat, normally full and wavy but now shaved for the summer, reveals even more gray hair than last year, and she tends to chase rabbits even less. Then again, I’m sure my head shows a few more gray hairs, also, and I find myself resting more on the rocks around me than I used to.

            After one particularly steep climb, I stop again to sit on a boulder and catch my breath. The late-July afternoon sun beats down on the open sections of the trail, so I perch on the edge of the timber, just inside the shade line. As my eyes adjust to the change in light, I notice specks of red in the vegetation around the sun-warmed boulders in front of me. Clearly, Sis, who snoozes with her head on her forepaws beside me, could care less, but curiosity tugs at me. Crouching down, I’m amazed to see dozens of red raspberries! I stand and look more closely; there seem to be bushes everywhere on this hillside, and most all of them are loaded with the red fruit.  Although I’ve hunted berries in these mountains for several summers now, never have I encountered more than a few raspberry bushes at a time, and then with only enough fruit for a taste.  Usually my family and I pick chokecherries or gooseberries, both more abundant here.

            Stooping down again, I pick a few; the ripe ones seem to fall off their core at the slightest pressure, just the way I remember picking them back in South Dakota as a girl.  Their sweet-tart goodness bursts in my mouth – better than candy. By now Sis has noticed that I’m eating -- her radar for that particular action is as sharp as ever -- and she comes over, tail wagging.  “No, girl, these aren’t for you; let’s see if I can find something else.”  I rummage in my fanny pack for a snack, and finally come up with a package of slightly crushed crackers. I’m not as prepared for our hikes these days as I used to be. This afternoon, I only decided to go after Shawn came in from the field early, unexpectedly, and offered to watch the kids so I could get away by myself for a while. So I grabbed a water bottle, my fanny pack with its notebook and pens, and my sunglasses, and loaded Sis in the back of the truck. It was only on the way up the mountain that I realized I’d forgotten something to eat. Now, Sis is satisfied with the broken crackers, and I’ve got all these berries around me to snack on – sometimes God comes through in the best ways.

“Hey, girl, let’s walk a little farther and see what we find.” The raspberries have given me a new drive to explore more, hunt farther on up the trail. I don’t feel the strain in my legs as much now; the pleasure of spotting another bush outweighs the heat and fatigue of this afternoon.

            The entire area seems to be covered in thickets; I’ve heard of places like this, but have never seen one. The thrill of finding the fruit takes me back years, to my grandpa’s garden, where picking raspberries was one of the chores that fell to my sisters and me.  Grandpa’s bushes were domestic, and so thick and tangled that only skinny kids could fit in some places to pick the sweet red jewels.

 

            Grandpa’s garden was a wondrous place by South Dakota standards. Of course, the usual practical crops of carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, and other vegetables grew there. But around the edges of the garden were plants you didn’t usually find in a place where rainfall was erratic and land was apportioned to more  sure, safe plants. In early summer, we girls crawled through the dense mat of strawberries, picking gallons for Mom and Grandma to put up as jam. In the fall, if we’d had a wet summer, we sometimes had enough luck to pick a crop of apples from the trees planted on the west end of the garden. And always in July, there were the raspberries from the thicket that covered nearly a quarter of the plot.

            This garden, however, was Grandpa’s retirement project. When he and Grandma had lived at their first Dakota farm,  just a mile down the road, she’d tended to the gardening herself, and had grown the crops there that were the most practical and economical. Grandpa had been too busy milking cows and raising field crops to fuss with such work. But when he turned over management of the dairy to my mom’s oldest brother, and he and Grandma moved down the road, the planting and tending became one of Grandpa’s favorite pastimes. Though he still fed out calves, drove the tractor, and helped with whatever farm work was needed, he’d find time to lean over the garden fence at the end of the day.

            Sometimes a relative or neighbor would drive into his yard to find him in the garden, flat on his belly. “Dad, what are you doing?” my mom would always ask, slightly alarmed.

            “Oh, this darn jenny,” he’d spit, pointing to a skinny vine that curled around the tops of the carrots. Besides farming, Grandpa had worked for years for the Soil Conservation Service, and bore an extreme dislike for weeds of any kind. One in particular, creeping jenny, became enemy number one. Rather than spray with herbicide, he would patiently, painstakingly dig away at the ground with a long screwdriver, careful not to chop the roots, until he could tug the entire plant from the ground. These he piled up, then carried out of the garden to the burning barrel. Despite his valiant battles, the jenny seemed to be winning the war, coming back each year without fail.

 

It is probably Grandpa Quinn, of all my ancestors, who endowed me with a storyteller’s voice. Grandpa was famous in three counties for his stories, and his travels for work or pleasure always took him to homes where he would love to visit for hours.

He would preface a story by saying, “Maybe I’ve told you this before, but. . .”, and the listener became a captive audience. Yes, we kids did hear many of those stories over and over again; yes, perhaps we could have been using our time more productively than listening to those words we already knew. But in truth, I remember the hours I spent listening to Grandpa’s stories as some of the most precious of my childhood, and I wish I could give my own kids that same kind of privilege. There was always plenty of work to do around the farm and garden, but Grandpa must have believed that the stories he told were important for people to hear. He gave time to storytelling, the same way he gave time to digging weeds and planting impractical plants. Grandpa knew how to give time to life.

 

Mountain Time

            July 2013, Big Horn Mountains. Shawn and the kids spread out with their poles along the stream, hoping their casts lead to catches. I sit, notebook open, pen poised, attempting to conjure poetry that captures the magnificence of these mountains.

            Around me, flashes of color become touchstones of memory. Paintbrush orange and fireweed violet blaze from emerald grass.  Up the bank, forest-green raspberry bushes crop from a tumble of mottled boulder. At once, I am both in this place and on every other July camping trip we’ve taken. The creek winks in the sun, playing hide and seek with its treasure, and in the blur between vision and memory, my two little girls become two others, this mountain becomes every mountain.

            Here, on mountain time, I become closest to who I really am, who I want to be. Here in these mountains, I am once again 20, sitting on a sun-warmed boulder beside a mountain lake with a beer, a fishing pole, and the most exquisite peach I’d ever eaten. I smile back at a cowboy, my T-shirt, blue jeans and boots the only uniform I need. I am that girl, who had no schedule, no deadline, no agenda  -- who needed only sunshine, simple food, and somebody wonderful to love.

            Does Shawn still see that girl when he looks at me? Or does his vision stop at the 40ish wrinkles, the librarian outfit?  Can he see that same glow of pure joy on my face – ever? Or is the glow clouded out by frowns of worry, tears of loneliness? Does that girl still live in his heart – or has she faded to the woman who shares his closet and his checkbook, who frets over the children, the parents, the job?

            Would my children even believe that girl was me? My daughters – much closer to 20 now than I am – would they believe their always-on-task mother would sit for hours by a lake, catching nothing and caring less? Can they see past the practical haircut and sunscreened complexion to the long brown braid down my back and sunburn across my nose? Would they believe their ever-organized, ever-responsible mother would have been so in love with a place and a cowboy that she simply disappeared for a couple days, telling nobody where she was going?

            I know that the girl by the lake – the one awed by beauty, satisfied with earth’s simple gifts, in love with the people lin her life – remains. But does anyone else see her these days?

            Katie and Emily need help with their poles now, so I go. In twenty years of parenting, this response has been my grounding point – what my children need, if at all possible, I provide.  The girl who sat by that lake then untangles fishing line now. And realizes how fleeting this moment is – how twenty years disappears as quickly as summer in the mountains.

            This has been a summer of sudden endings: one friend’s brother killed in an airplane accident, another friend’s of a sudden heart attack. Just days ago, 18 firefighters on an Arizona mountain. My own cowboy had a brush with death a month ago, fracturing a vertebrae in a horse wreck.

            The lesson of that brevity, that fragility, should center me, make me grateful for just this moment, the way that girl at Sheep Lake was. Yet this camping trip has been clouded by a muddle of negativity – worry about my left-out youngest, loneliness for my absent oldest, frustration with the elders living down the creek. My mind rarely stills, rarely lands in one precious moment. It flits instead like a butterfly on fireweed, darting from one problem to another.

            Ironically, it is that same brevity and fragility that unravels my calm. Just as the face of this mountain is ever-changing, so too my life. I want to hit pause, to get a do-over, to try once more to get it right.

            I recently saw a workshop advertised as an opportunity to learn how to “re-invent” oneself. I see no need to reinvent: life does enough re-tooling for me. Gone now is that young, flushed bride with the long dark curls: now graying hair greets me as I pull on my mom jeans in front of the mirror. Gone too is the young, idealistic mom who read eight stories a day and folded cloth diapers at night – now there is an errand-running, appointment-making mom who’s sometimes too busy to talk. Almost gone is the mom who helped with school projects – replaced by the mom who does financial aid forms. Gone is the lullaby-singing, rocking chair-snuggling Mommy – now I’m the mom who can’t always fix things or kiss away the hurt.

            The rest of the family joins Katie and Emily now; the fish just aren’t biting today, so we decide to return to camp. Emily wants to take some pictures before we leave, however. We find a stand of paintbrush framed behind a piece of deadfall, and the vibrant orange contrasts beautifully with the weathered gray. I give her some advice about paying attention to the background and foreground, and about getting on the same level as the image she wants to capture. With her blond braid and faded jeans, Emily looks so much like her oldest sister, Laura, just as Katie looks like Carmen. Soon a day will come when Emily won’t want to take my advice, and that day will mark the beginning of an end: the end of the time when I have the answers to all her questions, the end of our simple, sweet relationship. One day she’ll have to discover her own answers. One day she’ll see me not as Mommy, but as a sometimes fierce, sometimes fearful, always fallible woman. One day she might even see me as the girl at the lake.

            As we finally drive away, I look back down the draw. I know enough about mountain ecology to know that the unstoppable progression of drought, infestation, fire and mud slides may – and most likely will – change the face of these mountains. I know enough about mountain economy to know the human impacts of grazing, logging, mining, and even recreating will eventually alter what I see.

            But despite all those changes, the mountain – its essence, what it truest about its nature – will remain. I can only hope the same for me.

 

 

 

For Carmen

Today my daughter Carmen turns eighteen; tonight she will attend a concert in a nearby city with her best friend. Tomorrow, she heads to Laramie, WY, to attend orientation at the university there and, perhaps more important to her, to visit her older sister, Laura. Although they have all kinds of plans for tattoos and 18-and-over activities, I know that just the prospect of spending the two days after her birthday with Laura makes Carmen’s celebration last longer.  Laura has lived at least four hours away for the past ten months, and  when you've grown up practically connected, only eighteen short months apart, such a separation feels unnatural.  It will be good for both of them to spend these next two days together.

Thankfully, next fall they will once again have the opportunity to see each other more, as Carmen joins Laura in Laramie.  After only just going through Laura's graduation and move to college, I am having trouble believing that Carmen has now graduated and will move from home in just over three months.

I've fallen into the habit these last few weeks of thinking of the two of them, Laura and Carmen, as a pair once again, the way I did when they were little girls.  Back then, their natures balanced between opposites: Laura's blond to Carmen's brunette; Carmen's rowdiness to Laura's bookishness; Laura's obedience to Carmen's . . ahem . . not obedience. As they grew older, still the differences surfaced: Laura's cats to Carmen's horses; Carmen's outside to Laura's inside; Laura's procrastination to Carmen's organization; Laura’s math and writing skills to Carmen’s agriculture and speaking talents. But rather than divide them, the differences made them a stronger pair. Certainly they fought through the normal sibling disagreements that all sisters have, particularly during their junior high years; but as they've grown older, the fights have gradually lessened.  I consider it a gift that these two sisters make the choice to spend time together whenever they can. 

And their choice reminds me of two sisters I used to know: my Grandma Quinn and her sister, Marcella.  We kids knew Marcella as Sister Margaret Francis, for she was a Franciscan nun. Sister would willingly spend each of her summer vacations at Grandma and Grandpa Quinn's farm, just to be close to Grandma and their other sister, Aileen. Just as with my girls, the differences among these three women created an energy that was stronger than its individual pieces.

As I did a year ago, I am writing this blog for my now-graduated daughter -- this year for Carmen. But instead of writing about the lessons her Papa Lipp would have taught her -- lessons that Carmen internalized years ago -- I will write instead of the wisdom of Sister Margaret Francis, a great-aunt about whom Carmen knows very little. The rest of this post, then, is for Carmen:


Look for the little surprises, the small beauties in life.

Sister Margaret Francis had, through her teaching and missionary work, many opportunities to travel. In fact, the wood carving that hangs on our dining room wall -- the one that portrays the Last Supper -- came from her, from her work in Chile.  Had you known her, Carmen, you would have enjoyed her stories, as you share her love of travel.  Still, Sister chose to return to South Dakota every summer, rather than visiting new places. This decision was, of course, based on her camaraderie with her sisters, but she never seemed to feel bored by the plains. Rather, she delighted in the small, tucked-away beauties of the prairie -- the birds, wildflowers, fields.  On her daily walks, she found something interesting, pretty, or rewarding to focus on each day, and she talked of being grateful for those small surprises.   Life won't always offer you big, exciting events: sometimes, Carmen, you will have look carefully to find your own reasons for joy.


Rather than complaining about things you can't have, appreciate those things you do.

Finding those small reasons for joy will give you something to hold on to when disappointments hit.  Sister Margaret Francis battled Type I diabetes since girlhood; it was eventually the reason for her death in 1993. She loved to bake, however, and would prepare cakes and cookies for others to eat; I don't remember ever hearing her complain that she couldn't indulge in the sugary treats. When I was a girl, I didn't realize how much her health conditions hampered her enjoyment of pleasures I took for granted; now that I'm older, I am amazed at the courage it took, not to live resignedly with her condition, but to accept it and find other joys. You, my beautiful daughter, will certainly face disappoinments, times when you feel that pleasures you deserve to experience are taken from you -- by health conditions, by financial circumstances, by other people's choices.  My hope is that, once you move through the initial anger and sadness that these times will bring, you will face your life with brave acceptance, and make the most of what you do have.


The world is not black and white: be true to your ideals, but be careful about judging others. 

 Lest I make it seem that Sister was a saint, I should also tell you that she sometimes made comments that were hurtful or unkind -- particularly when she felt others' behavior fell below her ideology. Great-nieces and nephews who made choices of which she didn't approve, or the farmers in our family whose business decisions she didn't understand often heard judgement, not acceptance, in her well-intentioned words of advice. While it is one thing to have morals, it is another to impose them on others. Carmen, you, too, can speak judgementally about the behavior of people around you; while you should not hide your truth, be careful about speaking it in a way that is not helpful or kind. Realize that not everyone's standards are the same as yours, and let compassion, not ideology, be your guiding philosophy.


Let your differences -- with friends, with colleagues, with sisters -- be a source of strength and learning. 

Sister Margaret Francis obviously did not have children, but she learned much about motherhood and the joyful chaos of family life from her own sisters; likewise, those sisters did not travel much beyond South Dakota, but they learned about the world from listening to Sister's stories. The differences among them became a source of growth.  During your childhood and adolescence, you at times felt very removed from your own sisters because of different interests, different personalities. You were never much for playing dolls and dressing up; you always preferred outside activities, and the muddier, the better. You love country music and horses; Laura loves all music but country, and rarely rides.  Your natural tendency is to be friendly and extroverted -- sometimes even a little loud -- and so Maria's quiet introversion often confuses you. Yet through travel, through band and FFA activities, through living in a large family, you have learned that it takes all kinds of people to make the world interesting.   You've had to adapt your own behavior to create comfortable relationships with the two sisters closest to you; and you've grown as a person because of that.

Trust that separation is not permanent.

Unfortunately, Carmen, since early childhood, your life has been marked by the loss of friends and classmates – sometimes to long-distance moves, but also to death. Some of those deaths were suicides; others, unfortunate accidents. Likewise, people who are close to you have “gone away” in another sense: by changing in such a way that they became strangers. Somehow, Carmen, you keep smiling, and your attitude is marked by hope, rather than resignation or gloom. Perhaps in this way more than any other, you remind me of Sister Margaret Francis.  Deep inside you lies an abiding faith, a faith that is truly a grace of God. Hold on to that faith, Carmen. Those you have loved who are no longer visible to you are still somehow connected. I know you know this, given how often you visit Brandon’s grave. Those friends who move away, or who never lived close to you in the first place, will remain friends despite physical distance. Those who have made choices that make them seem far away will someday come back to you.  

It's always seemed appropriate to me, Carmen, that your birthday happens just after the summer solstice: the world-wide celebration of light. You bring joy and light to our corner of the world, and I know you will bring that same light with you as you move on to bigger places. Like Sister, be light and joy and simplicity whenever you can; and when you can't, trust that the darkness never lasts forever.

 
Happy Birthday, dear Carmen.