Where I Am Real

Lest you should think Pollyanna lives here, I do read the news. And hear the news - local news, national news, global news on the TV and radio, on the phone with my mother, at work, in the checkout line, in Christmas cards for pete's sake. I hear the news until I think I will run mad, screaming that I must bathe, must soak in Listerine and floss between my ears 'til the news is scrubbed from my thoughts, scoured from my soul .....AAAAARGH!

Then I go milk the cow. And breathe. And flex. And breathe. Until finally I feel safe enough to open my ears again. Ahhh. The dulcet symphony of my daughters arguing over who washed dishes last. Back to normal.

Sometimes making sense of the world feels like wrestling a Hollywood-size boa constrictor. In trying to make the best decisions, from the clearest motivation and most honest evaluation, nothing seems to be a simple choice. And yet, ironically, once I am able to identify that true place in myself, everything becomes straightforward. Not easy, for sure, but solidly trustworthy. You see, I do not live in the real world. The Real World lives in me.

I am the star in my story, the anchor, the creek bed through which all of the events as they occur to me must flow. The real impact of the stock market's rise or fall is not the same for me as for someone else because it occurs within my set of house, home, income, family (etc.) circumstances. The exact same market conditions will look very different for someone living in a New York high rise than it does for a farmer in the middle of the boondocks. Same reality, different real world. Further, these same circumstances will look very different for an old, alone, ill farmer living in the middle of the boondocks than for a young family with a fine flock of chickens and a sweet old milk cow. And different yet again for the young family who hoped to work their way out of the boondocks to the totally awesome high rise in New York City from the couple who spent every last dime making the transition from city life to homestead.

Ultimately, the Real World must be found within each person, within the culture of each small family unit. This is why identifying your story is so critical, so urgent. Reality is pretty much a mess at the moment. If you are relying on some outside source to update you on the condition of your world, you will be tossed about mercilessly. I'd like to share with you my memory of being little. These are the memories that shape those million surface decisions every day. When all the adult posturing is over, this is who is making the calls. This is where I am real.

For Christmas this year, I hope you find the memories from when you lived in your Real World. I'll bet you were awesome. I'll bet you will be again.

GROWING UP WILD

Too small to be a valley, my own Wonderland was just a bend in the land where a cold river tumbled by blue and clear. The heavily timbered mountains towered over our little house. A few other houses kept us company but mostly, our neighbors were the elk and deer and cougar. There were no sirens, no trains, no busy crowds; just a calm, cool, damp quiet.

If a bird flying high above looked down, he would believe my world to be smooth and soft and very green. But truly close-up, as only a child can get, the textures were grand. I could see the beauty and strength of the trees even with my eyes closed. Enchanted, I would wrap my little girl arms around their solid trunks, laying my cheek against their furrowed skin.

The air forever smelled as if it were about to snow. Short springy grass worked valiantly to soak up the springtime warmth. And in the summer, tiny flowers burst forth to decorate the green carpet as a reward for the yummy sunshine.

Unless you were sweaty hot, the beautiful river was uninviting; pretty to watch but cold enough to make your teeth ache. Sometimes we played in a hot spring which was enclosed by rough wooden walls. Although it smelled like jumping into a bowl of rotten eggs, I learned a pretty mean dog-paddle in that warm cocoon.

Most days I spent outside. I would pull the crust from the soft white bread of my peanut butter sandwich, squish it into a delicious sticky ball, and set out exploring. Being the only kid around for miles, I was
the undisputed Queen of Wonderland. My favorite quest took me in search of the fuzzy caterpillar. Around boulders and under branches, over a little wooden bridge and through bushes as tall as my Dad, I would seek the wee prize. Their tiny bodies seemed so fragile in the great wilderness, their soft fur so luxurious. Carefully, I would fill the pockets of my warm coat with the precious orange and black creatures. Subjects for the Queen.

We saved Fourth of July sparklers until winter. Somehow, in the black, icy nights you could write your whole name in the air with a sparkler and it would stay for long moments. Diamonds and jewels and magic dust would appear when I flashed the light quickly over the snow. I remember seeing my breath and feeling my nose straightening slowly when I scrunched it up. But I don't remember being cold. My feet encased in cozy warm boots, I twirled and danced. I waved my bright wand and wished it could last forever. And of course, that I'd always be Queen.