Yes.
“’—Night is drawing nigh—‘
For all that has been—Thanks!
To all that shall be—Yes!”
“To say Yes to life is at one and the same time to say Yes to oneself.
Yes—even to that element in one which is most unwilling to let itself be transformed from a temptation into a strength.” 1953 entries, Dag Hammarskjold, Markings
Dear Friends:
In June, in Portland, out on urban interstates alone for the first time in 30 years, I reached my southbound exit off I 84 W–in the correct inner left lane; humming to an Ian Tyson CD; anxious, excited, and modestly confident. But my talking GPS failed to mention that the transition involved a short, sharp left down into a tunnel followed by a quick right up into daylight. I stomped on the brakes, left my slowly contracting pupils somewhere on I 84, and, to a chorus of car horns, arrived safely on the next roadway only because a dozen forbearing Portland drivers gave me a little leeway.
In the smallest of increments I tried harder this year to say yes to the vicissitudes of real life–to move a little further beyond grief’s protective cover. Predictably, thankfully, wonderfully, the horns honked and kind folks afforded me some latitude!
Perry and Audrey Schrock’s 50th anniversary celebration brought me to that outdated Portland cloverleaf. Almost 15 years ago, Perry and Audrey welcomed Dave and me to a reunion of the Civilian Public Service men, the conscientious objectors, who maintained Glacier National Park during World War II. We were graciously invited to conduct oral history interviews among the predominantly Mennonite crowd, eat like royalty, and visit with people whose friendship has sustained me since. The Schrock anniversary in Albany, OR, allowed me not only to celebrate with Perry and Audrey, but to visit several CPS families and try on my traveling wings again. For all that heart-stopping traffic moment, I wouldn’t trade the experiences—of quiet renewing conversations; of spiraling through the dense green Lochsa-Clearwater corridor; of gaping at the Columbia River’s broad shoulders; of standing timidly in the roaring Pacific.
In the course of the year, yes brought
- an escape to Arizona on Christmas Day—when winter already seemed to have locked us down;
- a bumbling try at beginning Spanish (doing homework helps, huh); a return to the Montana Historical Society’s annual history conference; a reworking of Dave’s CPS article—jury still out on whether it will be useful to anyone;
- gorgeous day trips to the Rocky Mountain Front and odd afternoon meanders along Little Prickly Pear Creek or Spring Meadow Lake;
- my first glimpses ever of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone and of the Beartooth Highway with its deceptively simple defiance of wind and gravity;
- a neighborhood mountain ash tree so splendidly dressed in every possible summer and fall color that it deserved a morning’s attention;
- incredible live music: gravelly-voiced Ian Tyson; improbably powerful North Dakota farmer Chuck Suchy; sweet summer band concerts; a dozen shy teenage Hutterite girls serenading our busload of seniors ; all the Schrocks—a blended family of 10 plus grandchildren and great grandchildren—singing acapella blessings; and from stages hung a mile high over the Butte mines, a final National Folk Festival feast of blues and tango and zydeco and joyful French Canadian story music defined and driven by the fiddler’s tapping feet.
Amanda said yes to Matt Cornelius this year in a rollicking, focused-on-what-matters Flathead Lake wedding ceremony. Matt and Amanda are teaching in Lingle, Wyoming, science and art respectively. In Boise, Emily’s working full-time as Memo embraces kindergarten and Mattie begins Spanish immersion preschool. Heather thrives at St. Louis Community College helping boomers refit their lives for these economic times.
This year I did NOT change jobs at Rocky Mountain Development Council! I continue to have the privilege of saying yes to tasks that teach and tickle me: web work; newspaper inserts; capturing Head Start kids on camera; trying (never well enough) to listen to seniors for whom there are so few other ears.
I come home from work to the restorative power of a caring cat and the absorbing glory of great words. For sure I keep munching through mysteries (none better than Caroline Graham’s Chief Inspector Barnaby series) and found breath and perspective when I read Pat Conroy (South of Broad), Roland Merullo (Breakfast with Buddha), Ivan Doig (Work Song, Mountain Time, and more) Abraham Verghese (Cutting for Stone), Sarah Blake (The Postmistress), and all of Pema Chodron’s writing.
Yes to a life that keeps providing opportunities to craft new friendships, treasure longstanding ones, and try to learn how to do both better. When I address envelopes to you this season, I will be remembering our lives from high school and college; Gettysburg and D.C.; historic preservation and heritage education; and now RMDC’s human service world—from my life before Dave and with him and now without him. I treasure the examples you set and the opportunities you create to remember, celebrate, play, and commiserate. Tonight I recall enlivening conversations on the porch in summer’s long light; on the roads to Maudlow and Augusta and Columbus; over cups of tea, 1950s pancakes, and pasties; in quiet living rooms and noisy ballparks; through the Internet’s ether and on Postal Service paper. Thank you.
After the Montana dark roared back in November with its cousins cold and snow, there was an evening when the setting sun stretched through the clouds. It threw 30 miles of the Big Belts into full-throated color. Ridge after eastern ridge shimmered in light and detail—gulches I’d never seen before, rooftops, sweeps of meadow. Canyon Ferry Lake, laced along the edge of the Belts, glittered silver. And the sky overhead remained grim and low.
In this season of dark and throughout the year when you need it most, I wish you light—enduring, unexpected, delivered by the universe or generated by the yeses you are living.
