Solace

The solace of nature and especially the solace of trees, is a well described feeling. One of the few Christian bible verses that I know resonates for me because of that feeling. "I will lift mine eyes unto the hills whence cometh my help."

We lift our eyes to the hills, if they are within view; to the trees, if we have any, or to the sky, if we can see it. We lift our gaze above our surroundings, above that which troubles us. 

I found myself outside last night. It was cool and damp with a light misty rain falling. It was the golden hour, that time when the sun, an hour or so before sunset, gleams, slanting across the city, under the cloud cover. Last night, the very air was golden, the trees glowing. 

I don't understand the how and why of acts of terror. I truly believe that most people's wish is to live in peace, free to pursue their dreams. I can’t understand how blowing up innocent people furthers anyone’s aims. 

And, you know what?  I don’t want to understand that.  I don’t want that knowledge in my head.  I’m ok with remaining ignorant of the why and the how of acts of terror.  Some things are better not known.

I do know this.  When we are shocked or stunned or grieving for any reason, spending some time outside, breathing deeply of the evening air, meditating, watching the wind move the leaves of a beautiful tree, we begin to heal.

Thoughts about Wyoming

With the ten year anniversary of the hate crime that took Matthew Shepard’s life, I am thinking about Wyoming. As are so many us.

Have you been to Wyoming? Have you driven through the state or visited Yellowstone? I’ve done both in the last decade.

My daughter and I took a road trip through the upper Western states when she was transitioning from middle school to high school. She had gone to an “alternative” middle school, run by hippie-ish types that encouraged self expression, among other things. Part of her self expression was her pink, orange and purple hair. As we left Yellowstone, driving through western Wyoming, she got a scarf out of her bag to cover her hair. I asked her why and she said, “They kill people for being different here. I don’t want any of them to see my hair.” What’s a mother to say to that?

This spring my girlfriend and I flew out to Michigan to collect my daughter’s car and drive it back to Portland. On day two, as we approached the Wyoming state line, we got into an argument. We spent a couple of hours in stony silence. As we drove through Laramie we both started crying. “Why are we doing this to each other?” we cried. “We have to be strong together to fight against the assholes of this world.” We felt very strongly the sorrow, fear and shame that linger in Laramie; or at least linger in our minds when we think about Laramie. We couldn’t stop there, even though we needed gas. We couldn’t set foot on that ground, spend money in their town, even look away from the highway. Every fence reminded us. We pressed on through the town and filled the tank away to the west, in Rawlins. We were on edge through the whole state, and Utah wasn’t much better. We didn’t really breathe easily until we were cruising through the Gorge on the outskirts of Portland. So. Glad. To. Be. Home.

And, Wyoming? I don’t hate the place. I don’t hate the people. I don’t want to increase the balance of animosity in the world; I want to reduce it. I don’t feel safe in vast areas in the middle of the US, and I resent the fact that I feel I must be on guard when traveling in those places. But I am determined to give everyone a fair shake, an unbiased hearing before I make up my mind. There are probably wonderful things about Wyoming and I would be happy to hear about them. True, I’ll never live there, but I would like to travel through it or visit without fear.