In Defense of Story

In Defense of Story

I have seen a lot of discussion about the detrimental effect of "story" on our lives; the stories we tell ourselves. These discussions talk about how we tell ourselves stories about how we are and what the world is rather than seeing what's actually there; that we surround ourselves in words of our making to the point we can't see the world as it is.  Now. This IS a valid point; we make assumptions of what somebody is going to do or say, sometimes almost forcing that belief into existence. But that is a different narrative.

Story--true story--is magical. I know it's not cool to say it, but we ARE our stories. When a people are truly conquered is when their stories are erased. There's a reason that invading armies destroy the cultural artifacts of a nation; why colonial powers restrict native languages and denigrate native customs in favor of their own. When archaeologist look at a prehistoric site, they get excited to see art; to see something done in a way to reflect an aesthetic or idea and not just practicality. We look to art, not science or engineering to first define culture. Art is story; story is art. When our stories are lost, our memories are erased.

I read "Weave a Circle Round" at the end of February. I read some reviews of it saying it was confusing, too unfocused, unreliable characters---but i really enjoyed it. I loved the authors take on story; the importance of story. How the story we tell ourselves can trap us or empower us. And the incredible importance of choosing story; and what power we give to others and what power we retain.

I haven't experienced the Pandemic as so many have; I'm considered an "essential worker", but i'm not a front-line worker. My work takes me into more remote areas, working outside, away from interactions with the general public.  So i HAVEN'T been stuck at home, nor have i been exposing myself to potential infection. Work has been busy, I've traveled within safe guidelines and seen the seasons change; watched the trees wake up and burst into full leaf and flower.  I've heard the dawn chorus day after day, seen moon rises and moon sets, sun rises and sun sets, listened to peepers and leopard frogs, fumbled with equipment in the snow and rain, and felt the burn of the sun when i forgot sunscreen. When i come home, it's a rest and retreat. I enjoy not feeling a need to check on events that might be happening. I miss some of the events that mark the season; the music and laughter, but i appreciate the quiet. This time, when honored, allows us to reflect, to take stock of what IS and what could be.

We tell ourselves stories about how the world works, we listen to stories about how it works; this time, when the plot has changed, this time gives us room to change the stories we want to tell. I was listening to Ideas (CBC Podcast) and never realized how close we came to NOT having the racial divide. That after the civil war, black men were elected to positions of power all over the place; and people accepted it. That, were it not for the complacency, we might have had a completely different world. Imagine, if the USA had stricken the racial divide from politics and general society? Imagine if we just celebrated the amazing bouquet that we had become; if we all gathered together to work out differences, accept that crap happened and convened to create a new future. Men, who were enslaved, who could name wealthy plantation owners and stolen children from Africa among their ancestors decided that this country, that had whipped their backsides raw, was worth investing in and making a better place. That's pretty awesome. I wonder if the story that was being told to those folks who rebelled against this, was fueled by guilt; the feeling that if you accept that these men and women belonged at the seat beside you, that meant the world you'd lived in before was in fact NOT okay, but you'd been okay with it. That's hard to swallow. I've talked with men about the Me Too movement, and the introspection in required. We have our dark sides and our mistakes; it's when we don't dare look at them that we can refuse to change them. When we're afraid of those stories, that we refuse to author our lives and let ourselves drift on the story that does not call out our name but lets us pretend we're part of a tide that we cannot change.

I love stories. I have a bookshelf full of them, full of illustrated magic, snippets of lives recorded on paper, words that have been read by grandmothers and toddlers, with the jam and tea stains adding another story to the written word. I remembered bee balm's power with burns because of a story told by an herbalist; i remember potassium and sodium react with water because of a story about an outhouse and a river told to my chemistry class; i remember the days the months because of a rhyme involving peanut butter and a little red wagon. I remember walking down the streets of Washington D.C. in April and the juxtaposition of cherry blossoms and sun-baked garbage in the relative innocence of a 20-something in the decade leading up to WWII; because my grandmother put it into story; in the letters she wrote home and reminiscing with her grandkids. Story is powerful; that doesn't make it bad. It's something to know, to know and understand, and shape the plot or dance in its rhythm.

7/6/2020

Who's there?

We grow up with generally accepted ideas of success: living independently; providing for a family; having healthy, happy kids...

There's the more specific idealized material success: being wealthy; top in your profession; high-ranking professional; receiving awards...

I remember, when i was thinking of college, i kinda just wanted to do art.  But it seemed like that wouldn't be accepted and that i needed a science degree.  I remember telling my mom this, either after a few years of college-- maybe after graduating--and she looked at me with a bit of regret, saying that they would have been happy with whatever degree i chose, and would have supported me in whatever path i decided to follow.

It's interesting, these preconceived ideas we get of expectations that we feel stifle our development, and then realize that it's not somebody else's notion, it's us projecting what we THINK they think we should do.  Communication.  So dang critical.

I was terribly shy growing up.  I was always uncomfortable at parties and events, when all these random strangers would come up to me and ask how i was doing and what my dad was up to and how they'd heard i'd been doing this or that.  I always assumed it was because my dad was well known in the community and they knew OF me through him.  It wasn't until i was in college, and a former classmate and friend whom i hadn't seen in a while, came up to me and asked how i was doing.  He didn't look familiar to me at all, and after about 15 minutes of chatting, i finally got up the nerve to as "Who are you?" and he told me his name, which i recognize but still couldn't place with the face.  He had a beard, which he hadn't had the last time we met, and finally he smiled and i recognized him.  But it was interesting, this total lack of recognition, and got me thinking.  I was always amazed at how teachers could keep track of 30 kids' faces and names and know who each person was; thought it was a special skill.  Going to conferences, where networking is key, always proved stressful.  I'd meet somebody interesting, whom i was supposed to connect with the next day, but they'd be wearing a different shirt the next day and i'd have no idea who they were.  I remember thinking that if some famous celebrity were to be walking down the street and ask me for directions, i wouldn't recognise them.  And then thinking that might be refreshing for some people. And then, in art, drawing people, i was never comfortable with faces, i'd draw people looking away...or just unfinished sketches with blanks where the face should be. It finally dawned on me, that unless i make a concerted effort, i don't recognize faces.  And i think that was part of my shyness. It's hard to feel at ease with people when you realize you're supposed to know that you know them....

I've since learned some tricks, to consciously make the measurements that most people do automatically.  But i have to remember; i don't even bother with trying to add names into the mix, it's enough just to put the pieces together.  And it's better, much better--as long as i remember.

I now know that "face-blindness", or prosopagnosia, is a thing.  Though i don't know if i really have it, when i read the official diagnosis requirements. I recognize my face in the mirror; can pick out "me" in baby pictures, and my brothers and friends, to a limited extent, in old photographs. And i can call up familiar faces in my memory...though when i do, there are key features i latch onto, that i then build the face around.

Enchanted?

27 miles of river-bottom.

Hiked into Enchanted Valley last weekend.  Everyone was saying it was the wrong time of year; it's wet, the days are short, it's wet....and so on and why on earth would i choose now to do it?

Well, I've wanted to go for years and years and decided that it was silly not to do it and while feeling such, figured I better do it.  There is an old chalet built in 1930 on the Quinault River.  Enchanted Valley, in which the chalet sits, is a glacial valley with waterfalls tumbling down the mountainsides.  The 13.5 miles of trail are pretty dang flat and fairly maneuverable day or night (with proper preparations and precautions for a night jaunt).  That being said, at this time of year, the trees are getting a bit lazy and sprawling about on the trail.  For the most part, it's easy to walk around them - like exhausted teenagers crashed out in the livingroom - though a few places took a little more consideration (especially in the dark).  At one point, some big ol' giants lost their footing and crashed along the trail, removing all trace when viewing the path through the myopic view of a headlamp.  But---trust the elk to lead you back, and there it is; in all its muddy glory.

And that's the other bit; the trail and stream channels are vying for space in areas.  Water takes the easiest path, and well, footpaths make for easy travel.  Again, however, the elk have been fairly courteous in providing trampled paths through the underbrush and dead giants.  It's a good thing elk dropping aren't marbles though; they're to thick to avoid on the trail, and on those hardpacked sections it'd be like those loony-toons; arms and legs flailing wildly down the path.  And one last thing about the elk; they're unnerving to come across at night - hearing the hoofbeats clattering very close by...

All the bridges are in place for the major crossings, save Pyrite Creek.

But then, it's in an alluvial van and significant debris chute, so i imagine the creek has fun playing with the log bridges.  Perhaps moving it up a quarter mile or so...as long as that doesn't anger the creek by taking its toy away...?  Luckily, even this time of year, it wasn't a bad crossing; not even up to my knees; though cold (except forgetting my gater on the rock on the other side while crossing on the way back--going across three times had a bit of a numbing effect).  The camp just looked wet on the far side of the stream, so i continued on to Enchanted Valley.

The trail to the southern end of the valley is pretty eroded after the bridge crossing.  The river's really cutting into it.  At night, this is confusing; by day it makes much more sense.  First thing i saw was the tie-ups (I'm sure they have a snazzier name) for the pack animals and figured i was close; swept the flashlight (switched from the headlamp to the brighter flashlight for the ford at Pyrite Creek) and...Whoa! there it is.  Big ol' three storey wooden building about to topple into the river.

Dripping as it was, i was sorely tempted to just camp out on the porch.  Instead, i used it as basecamp to keep stuff dry as i set up the little pup-tent.  then crawled inside, read a little wordsworth and called it a night...and proceeded to wonder why my bag was so cold....and waited for it to get light...then woke up to see it a tad better in the wee light hours of the early morning.

hunkered in my tent a bit longer as the sky let a bit more light (and rain) through and then got up to explore a bit and grab my food from the bear wire before packing up and heading back.

The chalet is really on the brink.  I don't even know it it will handle the natural erosion rate of the river at base flow, let alone a winter storm event.  it's maybe three feet from the bank now on the back, downstream corner.

Only one blister from the whole 27 miles; outside of the small toe on the left foot.  big ol' blood blister.  However, I will chalk that up to wearing dress shoes all day the day before and then not double-socking for the hike in.  And it didn't really hurt much.  Nor did it need popping.  Granted, it looked like a leach attached to my foot, and now it looks like a flattened leach absorbed itself into my toe..but...ehrm....adds character; right?

2.5 months---no word...

Last meal posted was, well, not a meal. so how about dinner on the floor! with coffee...yeah that was a stupid idea, but it was good coffee--which worries me as it was instant...i dislike instant coffee even more than i dislike regular coffee---i am beginning to be concerned for my tastebuds

Right. All that prep...and still no official word on the results. I think this calls for some nagging. I mean, i figure if they're going to pluck bits of my gut from me and put it into those little plastic containers, i at least desearve to have them back. I mean, if they're not going to look at them, maybe I could. I have doctor friends. I could learn how to mount and (do they stain them?) prepare tissue samples for analysis. I identify nearly microscopic invertebrates for a living; i'm sure i could figure out the cells...just after somebody informs me the difference between them...and--okay, so it may take a few months...then again, it's taken them more than a few, so maybe i'd have time to get some training in histology........

really not worried about it though as the visual inspection sounds like it looks like it's in complete remission; just a bit annoyed. i know august was a busy change-over month at the hospitals and all and my cute little gut bits are probably just sitting patiently in a "to-do" pile somewhere,but still...

yuck!

Lunch and dinner. Four of those lovely packets dissolved into a litre of water. I have only a 500ml container so have been mixing it in that and then filling the glass half-full with water and the rest with the vile liquid. only 1.5 sachets to go. It's interesting doing this when i feel fine. So much easier to tollerate. I don't feel week or dehydrated or tired. Just really really really reluctant to consume something that mind and body think is not fit for consumption. Trick may be not eating until 5pm or so tomorrow.

Right. so the key is to not mix it with anything. just take it straight, but slightly more diluted than the instructions...and maybe...just maybe, you can choke it all down....but why the vanilla?

more wrapping madness

Okay, so they're not nearly as pretty as the ones you get at stores...but i don't know where you can get them around here, and they didn't rip, so for me they are a rather large success. bigger wrappers than the ones used for the bananas. i now have at least 100 rice paper wraps and will have to perhaps make some up for a dinner party if i am to use them up in the next six months. fun to make though. I think i may be on a wrapping kick. ever since the grape leaf experience a week ago. which reminds me, i have grape leaves to stuff. maybe i'll make up the stuffing mix tonight.....though i think i only have sushi rice...hmmmmm

playing with food

Seeing if i can make it a week with minimal wheat products. I like bread though, so it could be a challenge. Thought up this little dish while analyzing water samples. Rice paper wraps, bananas, cocoa powder and agave syrup. would be fantastic if you used coconut butter to fry. actually only used maybe half a teaspoon of oil, just enough to darken the pan (which really ought to be re-seasoned). The mint wraps didn't taste good when cooked but were fine raw. think i might go for some savoury summer rolls tonight. and maybe play with what happens to rice paper wraps when heated in different forms.