The last time I went and sat by the lake it felt so reverential. The water was so still, the air was so quiet. I felt like I should’ve brought an offering, but what? So I just said a weak THANK YOU. I feel so sad to have such a dearth of rituals around the land (love that quote from Priscilla) and next time I will go better prepared!
Love that thought, Lindsey! I say thank you, too, and am trying to learn how in some of the local languages. I used to bring dried herbs from my garden. Now I bring similar, but of local plants. It feels like a constant evolution of understanding and relationship, ...
I keep meaning to email you! My spouse can be very difficult to get to commit to things. I kept mentioning the idea of going down your direction to see the cranes before they leave, and come visit, but next year I'll work on actually making it happen. I do need a desert fix! And a visit with old family friends!
As ever, so much resonance -- thank you for sharing this! Aren't sandhill cranes the most surreal sounding birds? I feel like they're winking at us from another geological age. Or maybe humouring us. Anyway, thank you!
Thank you! And yes, SO MUCH. Last year I was up at my stepdad's cabin way, way off-grid, and there was a mating pair who seem to return every year. They flew right in front of my car on my way out and I stopped and got out and watched them trotting around making their incredible, surreal sound until I spotted a baby a little ways off in the grass. Unreal.
Smothered in starlight--lately I have been thinking more about this too, that the majority of the world has only had access to electricity for maybe 100 years--and yet we have no understanding of what the dark really looks like without lights in the distance--and not the stars. The designation of dark sky reserves...kind of incredible to think of what we miss in common with all other generations of humans on this earth--a deep knowledge of starlight. I always think--similar to what you wrote--about a line I think William Maxwell wrote to Sylvia Townsend Warner about Ireland, that people said the fairies left when electricity came. They needed the darkness, starlight to exist. And this time of year up here, I begin to try to notice the stars whenever I can as the darkness retreats and we have to say goodbye to darkness, Moon, stars until August. 🌃
Oh, that is so sad and yet feels so true, that the fairies left when electricity came. How much magic have we lost with the loss of true dark? And how recently it's all happened, it's mind-boggling. Sometimes when I'm out there and the starscape is clear, the sense of belonging I have is so immense I have no words for it. And how few humans have any opportunity to sense the same?
I used to tell my ex - who thought I courted precarity (and sometimes I have) - that if things ever got bad, we'd just go camping. It isn't the same kind of freedom as the Indigenous have (I once read a piece by an old anthropologist, possibly Julian Steward, about a Native man gambling away even his clothing, but walking off into the sagebrush as if everything would be fine, which with just a bit of luck, I suspect it was), but it is a realistic and sometimes satisfactory substitute. When the marriage ended, I lived homeless for a few months, camping and crashing, and I confess to a sinful delight in how much that aggravated her.
Ha! That is probably what I would do. My spouse has maybe a similar dynamic, and I'm always, well, we can figure it out. Much of the things we might "lose" are things we don't strictly need anyway. (I used to say we could live in a yurt but yurts are pricey these days. Still.)
I really, really want to read this story about the camping and aggravation. It sounds like one that would almost be equally satisfying to write down. ;)
I would rather sit down beside that lovely river accompanying you in procrastinating on both of our deadlines than do any work in the world. What a beautiful location, I can feel the chills from halfway across the world. To the darkness and the calm of a passing winter 💜
I am over here, welcoming the spring, watching over the harvested paddy farms being burned down for cultivation, listening to the foxes and the Jackals yelp and howl as they hunt when the dusk arrives, fireflies are taking over the bamboo patches again. It’s about to rain.
Listening to jackals and foxes yelp! And the fireflies! I would like to be there so, so, so much. I can smell the burning fields (one of my secret favorite smells -- we call it "burning slash" here, and it has an acrid smell that I'm weirdly fond of).
Please, please, let's not do anything, together, by the water, watching the lights flicker. Bring our worlds together with tea and fireflies and rain. 🧚🕯️💦
I will share a picture in my next post if I get some clear snaps and probably a recording of the jackals howling through the eerie evenings.
I know what you mean about the smell, it has these earthy, almost musk like richness to it. You would probably love the smell of coconut husk burned with camphor too, that is generally used in my part of the country to drive away mosquitos and other pests and flies. Works like magic and smells delicious too.
I am dreaming of a better world on a quiet evening where there’s nothing to do and we are sitting together our worlds merged by conversations, campfire, and tea. ☕️
I cannot wait to hear the jackals! It probably sounds silly but also probably similar to how people respond to my proximity to grizzly bears -- it just sounds magical to me to have that in one's daily life.
I would love that smell. Does it really work, too? I have never found anything that worked well. A friend of mine recommended some intense oil that she used to use when she lived in China, but it did not keep mosquitoes away.
So, campfire, tea, river, fireflies, and ... camphor burning in a coconut husk. 🔥
Omg yes the grizzly, I remember when you wrote about the camp sign that says ‘when the bear starts to eat you’ or something similar. I laughed so hard with your perfect punchlines in that post. I hope the jackals come back soon. I can listen to them for hours. 💜
I can assure you it works but the coconut husk needs to be very dry for it to burn well with camphor and produce that insanely rich earthy burning smell, it can truly bring tears to your eyes , its that intense but will do no harm, will just cleanse. That’s why it work truly well here in tropical places because we have coconuts all year round so we have plenty husk in store that is fully dried and gives off good amount of smoke to drive out mosquitoes and other insects.
All that you said in the list and the moon. ⛺️🍵🏞️🧚🏽♀️🔥🌙
Coconuts are harder to come by here but we do get them in the stores on occasion. This is going to be a project for me and I'm excited to smell what comes of it!
Moon! I am for a few days by the ocean, visiting my older sister, and She was shining full on the waves last night, so glorious. 🌕
Beautiful, Antonia. Thank you. Your mention of place-time and space-time reminded me instantly of my long walks in Antarctica, where there is little more than space and time. If you're paying attention to the utter wildness there, it enters you and never leaves. After a while of walking across the margin of ice and sky, both space and time start to feel like different forms of imagination. But as you show here, we don't need to go so far to find the old ways breathing through water and forest and field.
As an odd cross-thought, I'm a renter and often find myself craving the "freedom" of owning a place and some land. That's one of the primary tensions of dividing the commons, I guess. Once it starts to go, you want your piece. Like musical chairs but with the fate of the Earth at stake.
Glad you had your river time. We've been fortunate to have yearly island time here in coastal Maine, but we miss the mtns. Someday we'll head upcountry again.
I don't remember if I've told you this before, but it was a lifelong dream to see Antarctica. I've always wanted to spend time on that ice, in those kinds of thing places where I imagined space and time being like you describe. (Probably too many books in my head defining what I imagine it to be like! Like "The Worst Journey in the World.") I let that go years ago but still dream of ice. A lot.
Yeah, I think that's exactly right. When you see the commons going, the only answer seems to be to get your own piece while you can. And it's not like I'm immune.
On a practical note, I get in a lot of conversations with people wanting to build intentional communities or go off-grid. My first question is always about water. Is there access and even more important, can someone upstream or drawing from the aquifer pollute it or over-allocate to the point where you no longer have water? When I want to run away -- which I often do -- I remind myself that the problems of private property will stalk us anywhere we go.
The ice is still there. If you ever find yourself free to go south, there's always the path of applying to work in the US Antarctic Program. That's another topic, though. And if you're still interested after reading Worst Journey, then you're right for the job...
Reliable water, yes, and protection from nearby development. You see how quickly we have to draw lines when the world is made up of lines? You'll like that I just read in the intro to a great Maine book, Kerry Hardy's Notes on a Lost Flute: A Field Guide to the Wabanaki:
"...I hope that these resurrected glimpses of an original American landscape and its people do justice to both. // Notice the order in that last phrase - the landscape owned the people, not the other way around. We Euro-Americans have worked hard for four centuries to invert this relationship, to our collective shame and loss, as more species and ecosystems slide toward oblivion."
Worst Journey is such a tremendous book. We read it in grad school in a travel writing class! Not the kind of travel most people were thinking of ... I loved it.
That is a fantastic thing to read. I'm curious about that book now, especially if you write something about it. It's so, so true. And when you look at the deeper history of people all over the world, it becomes apparent how much has been lost. In his book "Enlivenment," German philosopher Andreas Weber wrote about how enclosure of the commons not only stole the means of physical survival from people, it also cut them off friend their ancient relationship with the land.
Notes on a Lost Flute is a really wonderful book. Very specific to this region, though. And Cherry-Garrard's Worst Journey is one of the best-written Antarctic books by far. If you ever want to follow that rabbit down into Antarctic literature, let me know.
I know you know this, but I think it's not just that privatization killed the old relationships with the land, but increasingly the entire idea of having any conscious relationship with the land. And how do you rewild that relationship on a planet of 8 (to 10) billion which by necessity needs to densely urbanize and create sustainable but still industrial agriculture to feed ourselves? I'd like to think that those utopian sci-fi images of bubble cities surrounded by deep green forests are possible, but there are days... We could use some of those Star Trek replicators right about now.
Yes! People forgot they ever *had* a relationship with land. It can happen to anyone, I think, but it says something that even centuries after losing it we're still leaning toward something we know we need. One of the subscribers here recommended the book "Soil and Soul," by Alastair McCleod, and it resonated with me hugely, especially on that point. The author helped the people of the Isle of Eigg buy back the island from the wealthy absentee landlord, but most of the book is about his childhood on the Isle of Lewis in Scotland's Outer Hebrides and much about land relationship and how centuries of wealthy absentee landowning elites controlling the land have affected Scotland.
It's such a question. Becky Chambers's Monk and Robot series paints a beautiful picture of what is possible, but it hardly seems probable. When I get stuck on this, I remind myself it took millennia to get here and will likely take generations to even begin to get back. It's a massive ship, but every push we can give it to change direction now helps. It's what I hang onto, anyway.
I'd probably have to create an entirely new TBR section on my shelves for Antarctic literature! I love ice.
I go out in the Pines to get grounded. but seeing water helps. I wish I could see the Milky Way. I've seen the Northern Lights, but I haven't seen the Milky Way. I hope to on my road trip this fall.
Well, I'd love to take you when you're out here, except that it would probably involve sleeping in a tent! But there are some places that aren't rustic but set themselves up as dark sky cabins and such to stay. I bet there are some all over the west.
There's a company called Clear Sky Resorts that has them in Utah and Arizona. I know there's one that's located near-ish where I live. That's farther north than where you'll be going, but if you can find them in other places it's probably a great way to see the sky. First time I was ever conscious of the full impact was camping in the southwestern part of New Mexico in a wildlife refuge. Incredible.
The last few years have been a journey in place, discovery, home, and ownership. I so enjoyed reading your meditations on this (from a corner of the world I also dearly love). ✨
"...if every human could see the sky like this every night, smothered in starlight, we could all remember what it is like to walk among a living spirit world."
What a beautiful description of what John O'Donohue called a Thin Place. They are magical. Most of mine seem to involve the water's edge, river or ocean. I'm overdue a personal retreat. The last was during Covid, a cabin at Cannon Beach. I was supposed to be in an online workshop, but kept sneaking off to watch waves and sunsets instead. Thank you for sharing this. 🙏
Thin places! That came up in the last comments section, too. They really are magical. Some of the places I've been, which you might know, where I felt the fabric of that thinness so clearly, were on Outer Hebridean Scottish islands. It's just so ... there. This-worldness feels like it moves in the air in that part of the world.
I have a photo tag for thin places. They all have water, although in the case of a glacier, it's frozen, and many are islands. I'm lucky to pretty much live in a thin place.
I have not yet made it to the outer isles. The closest was a time on a high school trip, anchored off Holy Isle, the one near Arran in the Clyde estuary https://www.holyisle.org/. I felt something there, but I had words for it at the time. A thin place for sure.
I never thought of a photo tag for them. What a wonderful idea. And very interesting about water being involved -- I hadn't noticed that, but when I think of places I've been that feel like that, they are all near water.
Holy Isle looks beautiful. Everywhere there is so beautiful, and it's all so different. I love Lewis, and my spouse and I went to Barra for a few days many years ago. And took his parents to Isla ... really, I can't get enough of these places. (Did I recommend the book "Soil and Soul" to you? I feel like I did, but if I haven't I should.)
No, you hadn't, but adding to the pile! I should keep a list of who recommended what so I remember who to thank. You'd be the default entry! Thank you!
Oh the ignored work we bring on these adventures! I took things with me to Paris last week that I really wanted to read and write and think about -- and while it wasn't a river, it was Paris, and I gave myself over to just *being there* (also, massive distracting foot pain, but that's another topic). I just walked around and looked at things and sat at cafes and had a coffee or a beer and watched people go by. I went and hung out with the Rothko paintings -- I could live in that one big room with the giant red and black paintings -- or alternatively in the room with the grey/black series. I met Robert Ryman's work for the first time.
It was all lovely, but I didn't "get any work done" and that too felt like an accomplishment. Sometimes we need to just go be with the places/rivers/art that feeds us.
I am so glad you had that time! Something amazing about travel that's kind of like flowing water, isn't there? You step into that flow of experience, saturating yourself in everything that feels unfamiliar or enchanting.
I told my dad about the Rothko and he was indeed a little envious and wishing he could go there!
I recently found out that I have to move (I rent) and it has put me on a tailspin of moderate existential crisis about all the various choices I have made it my life and how I haven't made "responsible" choices that would have put me in a scenario in which I could own a house. All to say: thinking about private land ownership and all that's wrapped up in it has VERY much been on my mind recently, so of course I appreciated these thoughts. And the idea of grounding in flow. Thank you as always!
I'm so sorry, Anna. I hope it's not too much to say I hate that for you. We moved so, so, so much when I was growing up, half the time for jobs and half the time because we could only get a year's rental or the house we were renting got sold. It's not a great feeling and has NOTHING to do with the kinds of choices we make. It frustrates me to no end that we're all pushed to feel like our lives have to be structured in particular ways that for many of us means we have the choice of living too much on the edge, or carving away at our souls.
(Not to mention that owning a home is kind of a mirage. How many people will ever pay off a mortgage? And there's the ongoing maintenance costs and property taxes ... We "bought" a house, but will be in old age if or when we ever pay off the mortgage. The slightest life change in jobs, health, or pretty much anything else would make it clear how insecure that supposed security is.)
I really hope you find somewhere that feels wonderful and is long-lasting. 💚
I think we've got it sorted, and with a sweet little house that's meant to have artists living in it to boot. How any of us make any kind of decisions with the systemic precarity and insecurity that we have in this country is beyond me, but I guess, we simply do. I am officially filing a request for systemic change, please and thank you. ;)
That sounds so lovely, and I'm glad it's meant to be for artists.
And yes please. One of the screenshotted tweets I hang onto says something like, "I don't need a workshop on work-life balance; I need the downfall of empire." Joining you in that request filing.
I can empathize, Anna. We rent too, and there's so much creative tension when you want a better, deeper relation to place. We want the "freedom" of owning a place and some land. But as Antonia articulates here, these are choices that make little sense outside of the false premise that underlies a property-driven society.
Heather and I have lived creative lives and avoided/neglected making the usual responsible financial choices. Working to live, not living to work, etc. But it came to a head when we found out that we had to move in the midst of the pandemic. It was a ten-month nightmare of trying to find the right place in the right town. We got very lucky, eventually, but it can be hard. Good luck with your search and your move.
I meant to say to Anna, too, there's that whole issue of our systems of ownership and capital translating into it being a risk for people without certain kinds of wealth to live a creative life. And that is something I find tremendously unjust. I know someone locally who's talked to me about their and their spouse's choice to fully devote themselves to a creative life. But I also happen to know that there's family wealth to cushion them if things get difficult. Why should people without that wealth be considered any less responsible than people with it? We all have a right to creativity, too, and shouldn't have to choose between that and survival.
When I was 18 I got a CNA job at a nursing home, which I worked on and off for 9 years. It was unionized, so better paying than most traditionally female working class jobs, but very high physical and psychosocial stress. The job was paying my way through college and for travel, but for most of my coworkers—many piling a fulltime caregiving job on top of motherhood—it was survival. The way a mortgage trapped women into a life they didn’t want—eliminating the dreams I was at the time pursuing—made such a deep impression on me. Kid + home ownership has never stopped feeling like a trap. Now I’m 41, in many ways flourishing in motherhood (although this flourishing feels very tied to the fact that I chose to stop at 1 child. 1 child’s needs can actually fit into a persons capacity to meet them most of the time); but still view home ownership as more of a trap than a freedom.
We are privileged to rent the upper part of a duplex from my husband’s parents, which feels like the ideal situation in the current system. We are at least the mercy of people who actually care about us. It had its drawbacks though. They value security above almost anything, certainly above the stars—and on every side of the house they’ve installed floodlights so bright I can’t take two steps by out of any door at night without eliminating the few stars that do twinkle through the smog and light of Salt Lake City.
That said, my daughter and I found a spot on our front porch where we can throw down a beanbag and tell our bedtime stories without triggering the floodlights. We always count the stars—and she always counts a few more than i do, because she has sharper eyes, or perhaps the just likes the story of seeing what I cannot see. If it’s late enough, lately, the moon might be setting right in front of us, and weave her way into our stories. We typically count 5-15 stars depending on the night. It’s not the swirl of the Milky Way, but it feels like a meaningful way of bearing witness.
Honestly, envisioning you and your daughter snuggling on the porch, finding the spot that won't trigger the lights, and counting stars together, is one of the most beautiful and hopeful things I've read in a long time. We find a way to beauty and connection, don't we? I can just imagine the memories your daughter will have of this time, of those nights together and Moon's waxing and waning in your stories.
My kid used to tell the most magic stories on our walks to and from the elementary school about unicorn eggs they were planting in the snow. I'm slightly sad they don't really remember them anymore, but I love having that memory.
The combination of caregiving being so undervalued, and the traps women find themselves in, is something frequently on my mind. A lot of people's minds, I guess, for many years. I think a lot about Camille Dungy's book "Soil," which I read last summer, and whether caregiving might be humanity's oldest marginalized group.
(And you're right--even two kids stretches my capacities far too often. Everyone needs all of me, and it can be hard to prioritize everyday needs, much less in times of crisis.)
There’s something magical about this period of parenting, when they are still very young, and you know they won’t recollect any of the shared moments, but their bodies will remember.
Also, I love that you mentioned “Soil.” I added it to my Libby holds a couple weeks ago, but haven’t heard anything about it. I just came across it while searching for another book, and it looked good.
It's so true. There's something delightful about those certain stages of total openness to exploration and discovery and imagination.
I'd love to know what you think of "Soil"! I really liked it but haven't talked with many other people who have read it. I've always enjoyed Camille's poetry. I first started reading her about 10 years ago when she was teacher at an environmental writing residency I was at. I was doing nonfiction, so wasn't in her poetry group, but it wasn't a huge conference and she was so generous with her time and conversation in the evenings.
I'm currently listening to the audio version of your book, and I'm telling everyone around me they should read it, too! I feel so lucky to have found your writing, and so appreciate how you are giving me a different way to see so many things.
For a long time, I lived a short walk from the Sandy River, near the base of Oregon's Mt. Hood. During a very challenging time, I regularly went to the river to ask it questions, and the answers came when I put my feet into it. I moved away from it because I felt I could no longer afford the luxury of living so far from where I worked. I miss that grounding. It was good to be reminded of it through your words and to have a chance to reconsider my earlier thinking.
Oh, thank you! I'm so glad the book is bringing something to you. That's what I always hope for it. 🧡
One of my best friends lives in Hood River, and I still haven't visited. I need to, especially since it's right on a kind of migration path between Portland and Montana. Your description of asking the river questions and receiving answers is so moving. I can feel that, like little electric sparks from the soles of my feet. I hear about grounding so much, but found it difficult to reach until I realized what running water did for me. It feels like good fortune now, to know what it feels like. 💦
I have been recommending the book to everyone! And seeing my neighborhood through new eyes. (I live in the east part of Portland, called "the numbers." https://www.oregonhumanities.org/this-land/stories/the-numbers/) There have been efforts in the past few years to put in more sidewalks and crosswalks, but there is a long way to go.
Highly recommend Hood River! The drive from Hood River to Portland along the Gorge is just so beautiful. I once made the drive from Portland to Missoula, and it was a great experience. (It was more than 30 years ago, though, so I guess I can't really speak to how it is now.)
Thank you! 🙏 My publisher's PR people had been talking with Powell's about a book talk when the paperback came out, but that was exactly when Covid lockdowns were happening. It's been a long road since then, for everyone.
I'm so glad to hear that about sidewalks in Portland. I have a lot of friends in that city, and my sister was living there with her family until they just couldn't afford it anymore (she and her spouse work in restaurants). So many wonderful things, and so many things missing ... I have an essay about sidewalks that I need to get on writing here, and it includes my son and I walk and taking buses all over Portland last summer. And the one spot where we'd missed our stop, got off at the next one, and found ourselves basically in a median in a highway with no sidewalk or crosswalk. It was wild. Glad I didn't have a smaller child on me.
It's still beautiful! My son and I took the train last summer, but I used to drive when visiting my sister. Actually, reading your comments, it makes me think about how connected these lands have always been through trade and rivers, and what we can do to keep reconnecting and healing them. I like thinking about that. 💖
Oh, Portland. I moved here from Seattle in 1990, because my husband and I could afford to buy a house here and not there. Now, my children are both planning lives elsewhere because they can't afford to live here. The conversation above about choices and home "ownership" resonate deeply. That I have a house at all is because I was lucky to have moved here when I did. I can no longer touch the one I first thought of as a starter home. I suppose I could have chosen to stay in a really unhealthy marriage...Brings to mind questions from you and others about what freedom really means.
I won't deny that was on my mind, too. I had no less than three conversations last week with people who find that their marriages aren't working but the financial (mostly, health insurance) considerations are a huge barrier. Your point about what freedom means is well taken.
I live in Whitefish, Montana, and the housing prices here are honestly obscene. There is no possible way we could afford to move there now. I can't even get my head around it. I work with people on housing locally (adjacent to being on the town's bike & pedestrian committee), but the disconnect between wealthy vacation homeowners and people who live and work here is too vast for small efforts. I think a lot about when I was growing up, when we moved frequently and always rented, and how impossible it would have been for us to find places to live each time. We managed, just, but I don't think we could now.
If I had been born later--maybe even 10 years, but surely 20--my life would be completely different from what it has been. I would not have had the freedom to leave that marriage, or to retire as I have. Housing and health care are so huge now. (Not to mention I was able to graduate from college without debt, my working class parents and I paying for it as I went. That's why I could buy that first house almost right out of college.) What do we do when the disconnect is too small for vast efforts? (I don't expect you to answer that question. I just needed to ask it.) I know how we got here. I just don't know how we get out.
I think I started reading you about a year ago when you went to the cabin. A full turning of the wheel later and I am still in awe of your prose.
The North Fork is my favorite river and is a place I go to let go of the burdens I carry that can't wait for my bi-annual trip to the Ocean. I love the moodiness of her. I love her most in the spring when her power is big and I feel humbled by it.
I love that river so ridiculously much. It feels absurd sometimes. Like she's a sister. The North Fork's a special place -- but then, all the places are special places if we could all just treat them as such!
And the moodiness! I love the sky going up there when it's all stormy or there's something coming over the peaks. That landscape once the valley opens up ...
You're so kind, Velvet, and I like the world according to you. 🧡
Yes all places are special and sacred. There are just some that really touch your soul. One guy in a sweat lodge called them Medicine Places and said we dont have to physically go to connect to them once we realize our connection to them and the way the energy of that particular place feeds us. Weirdly enough after a lifetime of living here I have never stayed in one of those cabins. Only in tents. So grateful for the way you share your sacred moments with us.
Well, there is the packrat at that one, and mice in most of the others. 🐁 I don't mind much but that's not true of everyone! I kind of prefer a tent but the cabins are nice when it's still cold. ;) Though the road was pretty messy coming out, half slush and ice, half mud.
And wow, yes. What an incredible way to put it, and to be reminded of. It's something else to know you can touch those places, even with your heart ...
I love that “grounding in flow” 💙
The last time I went and sat by the lake it felt so reverential. The water was so still, the air was so quiet. I felt like I should’ve brought an offering, but what? So I just said a weak THANK YOU. I feel so sad to have such a dearth of rituals around the land (love that quote from Priscilla) and next time I will go better prepared!
Love that thought, Lindsey! I say thank you, too, and am trying to learn how in some of the local languages. I used to bring dried herbs from my garden. Now I bring similar, but of local plants. It feels like a constant evolution of understanding and relationship, ...
beautiful writing, thank you.
Thank you. 🧡
A wellspring you are . Thanks
You might need a desert fix next winter!
I keep meaning to email you! My spouse can be very difficult to get to commit to things. I kept mentioning the idea of going down your direction to see the cranes before they leave, and come visit, but next year I'll work on actually making it happen. I do need a desert fix! And a visit with old family friends!
As ever, so much resonance -- thank you for sharing this! Aren't sandhill cranes the most surreal sounding birds? I feel like they're winking at us from another geological age. Or maybe humouring us. Anyway, thank you!
Thank you! And yes, SO MUCH. Last year I was up at my stepdad's cabin way, way off-grid, and there was a mating pair who seem to return every year. They flew right in front of my car on my way out and I stopped and got out and watched them trotting around making their incredible, surreal sound until I spotted a baby a little ways off in the grass. Unreal.
So gorgeous. All of it.
Smothered in starlight--lately I have been thinking more about this too, that the majority of the world has only had access to electricity for maybe 100 years--and yet we have no understanding of what the dark really looks like without lights in the distance--and not the stars. The designation of dark sky reserves...kind of incredible to think of what we miss in common with all other generations of humans on this earth--a deep knowledge of starlight. I always think--similar to what you wrote--about a line I think William Maxwell wrote to Sylvia Townsend Warner about Ireland, that people said the fairies left when electricity came. They needed the darkness, starlight to exist. And this time of year up here, I begin to try to notice the stars whenever I can as the darkness retreats and we have to say goodbye to darkness, Moon, stars until August. 🌃
Oh, that is so sad and yet feels so true, that the fairies left when electricity came. How much magic have we lost with the loss of true dark? And how recently it's all happened, it's mind-boggling. Sometimes when I'm out there and the starscape is clear, the sense of belonging I have is so immense I have no words for it. And how few humans have any opportunity to sense the same?
Wonderful!
I used to tell my ex - who thought I courted precarity (and sometimes I have) - that if things ever got bad, we'd just go camping. It isn't the same kind of freedom as the Indigenous have (I once read a piece by an old anthropologist, possibly Julian Steward, about a Native man gambling away even his clothing, but walking off into the sagebrush as if everything would be fine, which with just a bit of luck, I suspect it was), but it is a realistic and sometimes satisfactory substitute. When the marriage ended, I lived homeless for a few months, camping and crashing, and I confess to a sinful delight in how much that aggravated her.
Ha! That is probably what I would do. My spouse has maybe a similar dynamic, and I'm always, well, we can figure it out. Much of the things we might "lose" are things we don't strictly need anyway. (I used to say we could live in a yurt but yurts are pricey these days. Still.)
I really, really want to read this story about the camping and aggravation. It sounds like one that would almost be equally satisfying to write down. ;)
Yes. This. “It didn’t feel lazy. It felt necessary.” 🙏🏻❤️
💞💞💞
I would rather sit down beside that lovely river accompanying you in procrastinating on both of our deadlines than do any work in the world. What a beautiful location, I can feel the chills from halfway across the world. To the darkness and the calm of a passing winter 💜
I am over here, welcoming the spring, watching over the harvested paddy farms being burned down for cultivation, listening to the foxes and the Jackals yelp and howl as they hunt when the dusk arrives, fireflies are taking over the bamboo patches again. It’s about to rain.
Let’s not do anything - together 🌾🌴🌧️
Listening to jackals and foxes yelp! And the fireflies! I would like to be there so, so, so much. I can smell the burning fields (one of my secret favorite smells -- we call it "burning slash" here, and it has an acrid smell that I'm weirdly fond of).
Please, please, let's not do anything, together, by the water, watching the lights flicker. Bring our worlds together with tea and fireflies and rain. 🧚🕯️💦
I will share a picture in my next post if I get some clear snaps and probably a recording of the jackals howling through the eerie evenings.
I know what you mean about the smell, it has these earthy, almost musk like richness to it. You would probably love the smell of coconut husk burned with camphor too, that is generally used in my part of the country to drive away mosquitos and other pests and flies. Works like magic and smells delicious too.
I am dreaming of a better world on a quiet evening where there’s nothing to do and we are sitting together our worlds merged by conversations, campfire, and tea. ☕️
I cannot wait to hear the jackals! It probably sounds silly but also probably similar to how people respond to my proximity to grizzly bears -- it just sounds magical to me to have that in one's daily life.
I would love that smell. Does it really work, too? I have never found anything that worked well. A friend of mine recommended some intense oil that she used to use when she lived in China, but it did not keep mosquitoes away.
So, campfire, tea, river, fireflies, and ... camphor burning in a coconut husk. 🔥
Omg yes the grizzly, I remember when you wrote about the camp sign that says ‘when the bear starts to eat you’ or something similar. I laughed so hard with your perfect punchlines in that post. I hope the jackals come back soon. I can listen to them for hours. 💜
I can assure you it works but the coconut husk needs to be very dry for it to burn well with camphor and produce that insanely rich earthy burning smell, it can truly bring tears to your eyes , its that intense but will do no harm, will just cleanse. That’s why it work truly well here in tropical places because we have coconuts all year round so we have plenty husk in store that is fully dried and gives off good amount of smoke to drive out mosquitoes and other insects.
All that you said in the list and the moon. ⛺️🍵🏞️🧚🏽♀️🔥🌙
Coconuts are harder to come by here but we do get them in the stores on occasion. This is going to be a project for me and I'm excited to smell what comes of it!
Moon! I am for a few days by the ocean, visiting my older sister, and She was shining full on the waves last night, so glorious. 🌕
Let me know if it worked for you! Also add frankincense if you have it handy. It works wonders!
Full moon on beach walks - one of my most favourite places to be at! Look out for the occasional shells! I loved collecting them as a kid 💜
Beautiful, Antonia. Thank you. Your mention of place-time and space-time reminded me instantly of my long walks in Antarctica, where there is little more than space and time. If you're paying attention to the utter wildness there, it enters you and never leaves. After a while of walking across the margin of ice and sky, both space and time start to feel like different forms of imagination. But as you show here, we don't need to go so far to find the old ways breathing through water and forest and field.
As an odd cross-thought, I'm a renter and often find myself craving the "freedom" of owning a place and some land. That's one of the primary tensions of dividing the commons, I guess. Once it starts to go, you want your piece. Like musical chairs but with the fate of the Earth at stake.
Glad you had your river time. We've been fortunate to have yearly island time here in coastal Maine, but we miss the mtns. Someday we'll head upcountry again.
I don't remember if I've told you this before, but it was a lifelong dream to see Antarctica. I've always wanted to spend time on that ice, in those kinds of thing places where I imagined space and time being like you describe. (Probably too many books in my head defining what I imagine it to be like! Like "The Worst Journey in the World.") I let that go years ago but still dream of ice. A lot.
Yeah, I think that's exactly right. When you see the commons going, the only answer seems to be to get your own piece while you can. And it's not like I'm immune.
On a practical note, I get in a lot of conversations with people wanting to build intentional communities or go off-grid. My first question is always about water. Is there access and even more important, can someone upstream or drawing from the aquifer pollute it or over-allocate to the point where you no longer have water? When I want to run away -- which I often do -- I remind myself that the problems of private property will stalk us anywhere we go.
The ice is still there. If you ever find yourself free to go south, there's always the path of applying to work in the US Antarctic Program. That's another topic, though. And if you're still interested after reading Worst Journey, then you're right for the job...
Reliable water, yes, and protection from nearby development. You see how quickly we have to draw lines when the world is made up of lines? You'll like that I just read in the intro to a great Maine book, Kerry Hardy's Notes on a Lost Flute: A Field Guide to the Wabanaki:
"...I hope that these resurrected glimpses of an original American landscape and its people do justice to both. // Notice the order in that last phrase - the landscape owned the people, not the other way around. We Euro-Americans have worked hard for four centuries to invert this relationship, to our collective shame and loss, as more species and ecosystems slide toward oblivion."
Worst Journey is such a tremendous book. We read it in grad school in a travel writing class! Not the kind of travel most people were thinking of ... I loved it.
That is a fantastic thing to read. I'm curious about that book now, especially if you write something about it. It's so, so true. And when you look at the deeper history of people all over the world, it becomes apparent how much has been lost. In his book "Enlivenment," German philosopher Andreas Weber wrote about how enclosure of the commons not only stole the means of physical survival from people, it also cut them off friend their ancient relationship with the land.
Notes on a Lost Flute is a really wonderful book. Very specific to this region, though. And Cherry-Garrard's Worst Journey is one of the best-written Antarctic books by far. If you ever want to follow that rabbit down into Antarctic literature, let me know.
I know you know this, but I think it's not just that privatization killed the old relationships with the land, but increasingly the entire idea of having any conscious relationship with the land. And how do you rewild that relationship on a planet of 8 (to 10) billion which by necessity needs to densely urbanize and create sustainable but still industrial agriculture to feed ourselves? I'd like to think that those utopian sci-fi images of bubble cities surrounded by deep green forests are possible, but there are days... We could use some of those Star Trek replicators right about now.
Yes! People forgot they ever *had* a relationship with land. It can happen to anyone, I think, but it says something that even centuries after losing it we're still leaning toward something we know we need. One of the subscribers here recommended the book "Soil and Soul," by Alastair McCleod, and it resonated with me hugely, especially on that point. The author helped the people of the Isle of Eigg buy back the island from the wealthy absentee landlord, but most of the book is about his childhood on the Isle of Lewis in Scotland's Outer Hebrides and much about land relationship and how centuries of wealthy absentee landowning elites controlling the land have affected Scotland.
It's such a question. Becky Chambers's Monk and Robot series paints a beautiful picture of what is possible, but it hardly seems probable. When I get stuck on this, I remind myself it took millennia to get here and will likely take generations to even begin to get back. It's a massive ship, but every push we can give it to change direction now helps. It's what I hang onto, anyway.
I'd probably have to create an entirely new TBR section on my shelves for Antarctic literature! I love ice.
I go out in the Pines to get grounded. but seeing water helps. I wish I could see the Milky Way. I've seen the Northern Lights, but I haven't seen the Milky Way. I hope to on my road trip this fall.
Well, I'd love to take you when you're out here, except that it would probably involve sleeping in a tent! But there are some places that aren't rustic but set themselves up as dark sky cabins and such to stay. I bet there are some all over the west.
Thanks, I will look for one on my way. I didn't know they were advertised as such!
There's a company called Clear Sky Resorts that has them in Utah and Arizona. I know there's one that's located near-ish where I live. That's farther north than where you'll be going, but if you can find them in other places it's probably a great way to see the sky. First time I was ever conscious of the full impact was camping in the southwestern part of New Mexico in a wildlife refuge. Incredible.
Thank you so much for the information!
Grounding in flow. Yes.
The last few years have been a journey in place, discovery, home, and ownership. I so enjoyed reading your meditations on this (from a corner of the world I also dearly love). ✨
Thank you! It's so interesting seeing the paths we're all on with these things, like the braided currents of a riverbed. 💚
"...if every human could see the sky like this every night, smothered in starlight, we could all remember what it is like to walk among a living spirit world."
What a beautiful description of what John O'Donohue called a Thin Place. They are magical. Most of mine seem to involve the water's edge, river or ocean. I'm overdue a personal retreat. The last was during Covid, a cabin at Cannon Beach. I was supposed to be in an online workshop, but kept sneaking off to watch waves and sunsets instead. Thank you for sharing this. 🙏
Thin places! That came up in the last comments section, too. They really are magical. Some of the places I've been, which you might know, where I felt the fabric of that thinness so clearly, were on Outer Hebridean Scottish islands. It's just so ... there. This-worldness feels like it moves in the air in that part of the world.
I have a photo tag for thin places. They all have water, although in the case of a glacier, it's frozen, and many are islands. I'm lucky to pretty much live in a thin place.
I have not yet made it to the outer isles. The closest was a time on a high school trip, anchored off Holy Isle, the one near Arran in the Clyde estuary https://www.holyisle.org/. I felt something there, but I had words for it at the time. A thin place for sure.
I never thought of a photo tag for them. What a wonderful idea. And very interesting about water being involved -- I hadn't noticed that, but when I think of places I've been that feel like that, they are all near water.
Holy Isle looks beautiful. Everywhere there is so beautiful, and it's all so different. I love Lewis, and my spouse and I went to Barra for a few days many years ago. And took his parents to Isla ... really, I can't get enough of these places. (Did I recommend the book "Soil and Soul" to you? I feel like I did, but if I haven't I should.)
No, you hadn't, but adding to the pile! I should keep a list of who recommended what so I remember who to thank. You'd be the default entry! Thank you!
This week's workshop writing prompt just showed up.
"Write a scene where you experienced something powerful (fear, joy, apprehension, wonder) without saying, “I feel/felt.”"
Ha!
!!!
I wrote about Holy Isle. I might post it at some point.
Oh the ignored work we bring on these adventures! I took things with me to Paris last week that I really wanted to read and write and think about -- and while it wasn't a river, it was Paris, and I gave myself over to just *being there* (also, massive distracting foot pain, but that's another topic). I just walked around and looked at things and sat at cafes and had a coffee or a beer and watched people go by. I went and hung out with the Rothko paintings -- I could live in that one big room with the giant red and black paintings -- or alternatively in the room with the grey/black series. I met Robert Ryman's work for the first time.
It was all lovely, but I didn't "get any work done" and that too felt like an accomplishment. Sometimes we need to just go be with the places/rivers/art that feeds us.
I am so glad you had that time! Something amazing about travel that's kind of like flowing water, isn't there? You step into that flow of experience, saturating yourself in everything that feels unfamiliar or enchanting.
I told my dad about the Rothko and he was indeed a little envious and wishing he could go there!
I recently found out that I have to move (I rent) and it has put me on a tailspin of moderate existential crisis about all the various choices I have made it my life and how I haven't made "responsible" choices that would have put me in a scenario in which I could own a house. All to say: thinking about private land ownership and all that's wrapped up in it has VERY much been on my mind recently, so of course I appreciated these thoughts. And the idea of grounding in flow. Thank you as always!
I'm so sorry, Anna. I hope it's not too much to say I hate that for you. We moved so, so, so much when I was growing up, half the time for jobs and half the time because we could only get a year's rental or the house we were renting got sold. It's not a great feeling and has NOTHING to do with the kinds of choices we make. It frustrates me to no end that we're all pushed to feel like our lives have to be structured in particular ways that for many of us means we have the choice of living too much on the edge, or carving away at our souls.
(Not to mention that owning a home is kind of a mirage. How many people will ever pay off a mortgage? And there's the ongoing maintenance costs and property taxes ... We "bought" a house, but will be in old age if or when we ever pay off the mortgage. The slightest life change in jobs, health, or pretty much anything else would make it clear how insecure that supposed security is.)
I really hope you find somewhere that feels wonderful and is long-lasting. 💚
I think we've got it sorted, and with a sweet little house that's meant to have artists living in it to boot. How any of us make any kind of decisions with the systemic precarity and insecurity that we have in this country is beyond me, but I guess, we simply do. I am officially filing a request for systemic change, please and thank you. ;)
That sounds so lovely, and I'm glad it's meant to be for artists.
And yes please. One of the screenshotted tweets I hang onto says something like, "I don't need a workshop on work-life balance; I need the downfall of empire." Joining you in that request filing.
I can empathize, Anna. We rent too, and there's so much creative tension when you want a better, deeper relation to place. We want the "freedom" of owning a place and some land. But as Antonia articulates here, these are choices that make little sense outside of the false premise that underlies a property-driven society.
Heather and I have lived creative lives and avoided/neglected making the usual responsible financial choices. Working to live, not living to work, etc. But it came to a head when we found out that we had to move in the midst of the pandemic. It was a ten-month nightmare of trying to find the right place in the right town. We got very lucky, eventually, but it can be hard. Good luck with your search and your move.
I meant to say to Anna, too, there's that whole issue of our systems of ownership and capital translating into it being a risk for people without certain kinds of wealth to live a creative life. And that is something I find tremendously unjust. I know someone locally who's talked to me about their and their spouse's choice to fully devote themselves to a creative life. But I also happen to know that there's family wealth to cushion them if things get difficult. Why should people without that wealth be considered any less responsible than people with it? We all have a right to creativity, too, and shouldn't have to choose between that and survival.
When I was 18 I got a CNA job at a nursing home, which I worked on and off for 9 years. It was unionized, so better paying than most traditionally female working class jobs, but very high physical and psychosocial stress. The job was paying my way through college and for travel, but for most of my coworkers—many piling a fulltime caregiving job on top of motherhood—it was survival. The way a mortgage trapped women into a life they didn’t want—eliminating the dreams I was at the time pursuing—made such a deep impression on me. Kid + home ownership has never stopped feeling like a trap. Now I’m 41, in many ways flourishing in motherhood (although this flourishing feels very tied to the fact that I chose to stop at 1 child. 1 child’s needs can actually fit into a persons capacity to meet them most of the time); but still view home ownership as more of a trap than a freedom.
We are privileged to rent the upper part of a duplex from my husband’s parents, which feels like the ideal situation in the current system. We are at least the mercy of people who actually care about us. It had its drawbacks though. They value security above almost anything, certainly above the stars—and on every side of the house they’ve installed floodlights so bright I can’t take two steps by out of any door at night without eliminating the few stars that do twinkle through the smog and light of Salt Lake City.
That said, my daughter and I found a spot on our front porch where we can throw down a beanbag and tell our bedtime stories without triggering the floodlights. We always count the stars—and she always counts a few more than i do, because she has sharper eyes, or perhaps the just likes the story of seeing what I cannot see. If it’s late enough, lately, the moon might be setting right in front of us, and weave her way into our stories. We typically count 5-15 stars depending on the night. It’s not the swirl of the Milky Way, but it feels like a meaningful way of bearing witness.
Honestly, envisioning you and your daughter snuggling on the porch, finding the spot that won't trigger the lights, and counting stars together, is one of the most beautiful and hopeful things I've read in a long time. We find a way to beauty and connection, don't we? I can just imagine the memories your daughter will have of this time, of those nights together and Moon's waxing and waning in your stories.
My kid used to tell the most magic stories on our walks to and from the elementary school about unicorn eggs they were planting in the snow. I'm slightly sad they don't really remember them anymore, but I love having that memory.
The combination of caregiving being so undervalued, and the traps women find themselves in, is something frequently on my mind. A lot of people's minds, I guess, for many years. I think a lot about Camille Dungy's book "Soil," which I read last summer, and whether caregiving might be humanity's oldest marginalized group.
(And you're right--even two kids stretches my capacities far too often. Everyone needs all of me, and it can be hard to prioritize everyday needs, much less in times of crisis.)
There’s something magical about this period of parenting, when they are still very young, and you know they won’t recollect any of the shared moments, but their bodies will remember.
Also, I love that you mentioned “Soil.” I added it to my Libby holds a couple weeks ago, but haven’t heard anything about it. I just came across it while searching for another book, and it looked good.
It's so true. There's something delightful about those certain stages of total openness to exploration and discovery and imagination.
I'd love to know what you think of "Soil"! I really liked it but haven't talked with many other people who have read it. I've always enjoyed Camille's poetry. I first started reading her about 10 years ago when she was teacher at an environmental writing residency I was at. I was doing nonfiction, so wasn't in her poetry group, but it wasn't a huge conference and she was so generous with her time and conversation in the evenings.
Yes yes yes!
I'm currently listening to the audio version of your book, and I'm telling everyone around me they should read it, too! I feel so lucky to have found your writing, and so appreciate how you are giving me a different way to see so many things.
For a long time, I lived a short walk from the Sandy River, near the base of Oregon's Mt. Hood. During a very challenging time, I regularly went to the river to ask it questions, and the answers came when I put my feet into it. I moved away from it because I felt I could no longer afford the luxury of living so far from where I worked. I miss that grounding. It was good to be reminded of it through your words and to have a chance to reconsider my earlier thinking.
Oh, thank you! I'm so glad the book is bringing something to you. That's what I always hope for it. 🧡
One of my best friends lives in Hood River, and I still haven't visited. I need to, especially since it's right on a kind of migration path between Portland and Montana. Your description of asking the river questions and receiving answers is so moving. I can feel that, like little electric sparks from the soles of my feet. I hear about grounding so much, but found it difficult to reach until I realized what running water did for me. It feels like good fortune now, to know what it feels like. 💦
I have been recommending the book to everyone! And seeing my neighborhood through new eyes. (I live in the east part of Portland, called "the numbers." https://www.oregonhumanities.org/this-land/stories/the-numbers/) There have been efforts in the past few years to put in more sidewalks and crosswalks, but there is a long way to go.
Highly recommend Hood River! The drive from Hood River to Portland along the Gorge is just so beautiful. I once made the drive from Portland to Missoula, and it was a great experience. (It was more than 30 years ago, though, so I guess I can't really speak to how it is now.)
Thank you! 🙏 My publisher's PR people had been talking with Powell's about a book talk when the paperback came out, but that was exactly when Covid lockdowns were happening. It's been a long road since then, for everyone.
I'm so glad to hear that about sidewalks in Portland. I have a lot of friends in that city, and my sister was living there with her family until they just couldn't afford it anymore (she and her spouse work in restaurants). So many wonderful things, and so many things missing ... I have an essay about sidewalks that I need to get on writing here, and it includes my son and I walk and taking buses all over Portland last summer. And the one spot where we'd missed our stop, got off at the next one, and found ourselves basically in a median in a highway with no sidewalk or crosswalk. It was wild. Glad I didn't have a smaller child on me.
It's still beautiful! My son and I took the train last summer, but I used to drive when visiting my sister. Actually, reading your comments, it makes me think about how connected these lands have always been through trade and rivers, and what we can do to keep reconnecting and healing them. I like thinking about that. 💖
Oh, Portland. I moved here from Seattle in 1990, because my husband and I could afford to buy a house here and not there. Now, my children are both planning lives elsewhere because they can't afford to live here. The conversation above about choices and home "ownership" resonate deeply. That I have a house at all is because I was lucky to have moved here when I did. I can no longer touch the one I first thought of as a starter home. I suppose I could have chosen to stay in a really unhealthy marriage...Brings to mind questions from you and others about what freedom really means.
I won't deny that was on my mind, too. I had no less than three conversations last week with people who find that their marriages aren't working but the financial (mostly, health insurance) considerations are a huge barrier. Your point about what freedom means is well taken.
I live in Whitefish, Montana, and the housing prices here are honestly obscene. There is no possible way we could afford to move there now. I can't even get my head around it. I work with people on housing locally (adjacent to being on the town's bike & pedestrian committee), but the disconnect between wealthy vacation homeowners and people who live and work here is too vast for small efforts. I think a lot about when I was growing up, when we moved frequently and always rented, and how impossible it would have been for us to find places to live each time. We managed, just, but I don't think we could now.
If I had been born later--maybe even 10 years, but surely 20--my life would be completely different from what it has been. I would not have had the freedom to leave that marriage, or to retire as I have. Housing and health care are so huge now. (Not to mention I was able to graduate from college without debt, my working class parents and I paying for it as I went. That's why I could buy that first house almost right out of college.) What do we do when the disconnect is too small for vast efforts? (I don't expect you to answer that question. I just needed to ask it.) I know how we got here. I just don't know how we get out.
I think I started reading you about a year ago when you went to the cabin. A full turning of the wheel later and I am still in awe of your prose.
The North Fork is my favorite river and is a place I go to let go of the burdens I carry that can't wait for my bi-annual trip to the Ocean. I love the moodiness of her. I love her most in the spring when her power is big and I feel humbled by it.
I love that river so ridiculously much. It feels absurd sometimes. Like she's a sister. The North Fork's a special place -- but then, all the places are special places if we could all just treat them as such!
And the moodiness! I love the sky going up there when it's all stormy or there's something coming over the peaks. That landscape once the valley opens up ...
You're so kind, Velvet, and I like the world according to you. 🧡
Yes all places are special and sacred. There are just some that really touch your soul. One guy in a sweat lodge called them Medicine Places and said we dont have to physically go to connect to them once we realize our connection to them and the way the energy of that particular place feeds us. Weirdly enough after a lifetime of living here I have never stayed in one of those cabins. Only in tents. So grateful for the way you share your sacred moments with us.
Well, there is the packrat at that one, and mice in most of the others. 🐁 I don't mind much but that's not true of everyone! I kind of prefer a tent but the cabins are nice when it's still cold. ;) Though the road was pretty messy coming out, half slush and ice, half mud.
And wow, yes. What an incredible way to put it, and to be reminded of. It's something else to know you can touch those places, even with your heart ...