Finding Clarity Along the Way

People have emailed me lately. They are asking if I am OK and why I have not been writing much for this blog.

I am fine, and all is well here in Yucatán.

Travel, unexpected events, lots to do and my changing interests all have contributed to the infrequent appearance of new posts on An Alaskan in Yucatan.

My recollections of the first half of 2013 are a fog. I am not sure where the time went, but I was busy. Too busy. I don't like the kind of "busyness" after which I can't seem to recall what I accomplished, but that's how I spent some months, dealing with details, riding on trains, buses and airplanes, putting out small fires, and waiting around for others to get things done.

I have had plenty of ideas for blog posts. Just now I looked at my drafts, and see that I have started seven different posts since I last actually published one. I keep being interrupted and distracted and can't seem to finish them.

I thought about this as I spent hours in the pueblo of Mucuyche a week and a half ago, waiting for help with my broken-down car, which with eleven years and 100,000 kilometers of use has begun to experience typical problems of age. It was very hot when the car stalled, but fortunately it died in the shade of a small tree near a friendly tienda which sells cold drinks and snacks.

The day started out with the good idea of visiting some friends in Abalá and having lunch with them on Fathers Day. It's a long story, but in a nutshell, we burned a couple of hours waiting for one mechanic who never showed up. Finally we reached the very agreeable and friendly llantero, tire repairman, from Abalá who drove over in his broken-down car with a bucket of tools to see what he could do. Appropriately named Santos (Saints), he was knowledgeable enough to help me figure out that the problem was an electrical short that could not easily be repaired alongside the road. Santos went back to the pueblo and borrowed a long rope (the tether for someone's cow), and very kindly pulled my car at slow speeds all the way to the house of my friends in Abalá. Although we were not able to fix the car, at least it was in a place where it would be secure until I could get someone to look at it the next day.

And that brings us to the young parrot pictured above, which greeted us when we arrived tardy at the house in Abalá. Actually the bird is one of a pair rescued after a nest was knocked down, either by winds or a predator, some weeks ago.

I spent the nicest time I had in several weeks simply observing and feeding this delightful bird, and then eating a home-cooked Fathers Day meal with my good friends in Abalá. Near sundown Santos gave us a lift the four kilometers out to the highway, where we caught a bus back to Mérida in the evening.

It was this day of forced down time spent alongside the road and tranquil hours with friends that helped clarify the facts. Some of my "busyness" is necessary and unavoidable and I'll just have to deal with it. But a fair portion of my cluttered lifestyle is of my own making. I moved to Yucatán in search of a simpler and more fulfilling life, and I have made long strides in that direction. But old tendencies are hard to change and after eight years of becoming very comfortble here I find myself falling into some of the old patterns.

I've been restless and pondering these things for some time, but during this Fathers Day interlude I realized that I am ready to work on changes. I have had in mind this quote from an unknown author:

"Sometimes in the winds of change we find our true direction"

Change is in the wind, and it's hurricane season in Yucatán.

Details to come.


Other related posts:

Contentment: Inspired by the Birds
Contentment: You Get What You Need

Contentment: You Get What You Need

No matter how you plan and try, life never works out the way you thought it would. And that's what makes it so fascinating.

Some time ago I was talking with my friend Hammockman on the topic of planning for security later in life. What he observed is that it doesn't pay to plan excessively because things will never work out the way we think. Security is all an illusion, he said. And I agree with him.

I don't make new year resolutions any longer, but I do find that the beginning of a new year is a good time to think about what I can focus on that will be meaningful to me in the year ahead. I have found that if I keep moving toward what gives a sense of purpose to my life and eliminate all that is unnecessary and distracting, although I may not get what I want (in the words of the Rolling Stones song), I get what I need.

For example, for decades I thought I would live out my life in Juneau, Alaska, living in the old wood-frame gold miner's house I owned on Starr Hill. I couldn't imagine spending my days anywhere else. However I pursued my interests, and eventually landed in Yucatán, a region that in important ways resembles the Alaska of my childhood, an Alaska that barely exists any more. I maintain strong ties with my roots, but am happy in this new place.

I never imagined that career ambition and "accomplishment" would seem so unimportant. In fact, I've come to view much of what I once would have considered constructive or successful as precisely the opposite.

I would not have guessed that I'd be interested in agriculture, but now find myself fascinated by planting and growing things (not to mention eating what I produce).

I find meaning in dealing well with the most difficult problems. I never imagined I would have the capacity to be so patient.

I love people and love life in ways and with an intensity I had never expected would be possible.

I believe my best years are ahead of me. That is because I accept that we can't know what to expect, and therefore I feel prepared for whatever happens. I feel a steady force pulling me towards a future that is satisfying and meaningful.

You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want

You can't always get what you want

But if you try sometimes you just might find

You just might find

You get what you need



If this topic interests you, I recommend this thought-provoking book.

Blogging: Favorite Posts of 2012

I enjoy reviewing a year's worth of posts and selecting a few to share once again with readers.

It was hard to choose my favorite posts this year in part because the blog's focus has evolved. I started writing here several years ago to share my experiences and observations about the life of an Alaskan living in the Mexican state of Yucatán. The emphasis was heavy on travel, nature, culture, and life in a foreign country.

This year was a challenging one personally and in my family, but surprisingly I found myself content -- not one hundred percent happy, of course, but optimistic and centered in my place in the world -- despite a lot of changes and stress around me. That's what I wrote about. An Alaskan in Yucatán became more personal and introspective in 2012.

One of my January posts amounted to a resolution for the new year which still looks good to me eleven months later. It was titled, Contentment: If I Had a Million Dollars.



A few months later, reflecting on many things that had quickly and irrevocably changed in my life, I found myself considering how much I'd learned about maintaining a perspective and finding meaning, even in times of change and stress. The result was a post called The Splendor of Each Day.

You can read more posts on the theme of contentment here.

In keeping with the theme of staying positive and feeling good, early in the year I posted about the fine art of napping, Mexican style (photo at top). The Art of the Siesta summarizes what I have learned about the techniques and benefits of taking an afternoon rest.



In 2012 I didn't abandon entirely the sorts of things I wrote about when I first started blogging. I continued writing occasionally on animals and our natural surroundings. My favorite on the topic this year was about the pair of tortoises I adopted several years ago and which live in my back yard.

I also continued writing the series of posts called Living Here, which focuses on everyday life and adapting to the culture of Mexico. Earlier this year I tried to help a Yucatecan friend resolve a difficult legal and personal situation, so I plugged into my network of friends and contacts in Mérida. I was gratified and humbled by the way Mexicans can come to the aid of a friend in need. I told about this experience in a post entitled The Power of Relationships.

Two thousand twelve was not among my best years, but nevertheless it was a year of great learning, and I had many things to be thankful for.

Best wishes for 2013.

Contentment: Inspired by the Birds

In a recent post I mentioned feeling restless.

It's not unusual that every so often we crave change, a new pace and new stimulation. I saw a study once that identified actual psychological reasons for the famous "seven year itch." I do not remember the specifics, but I know from experience that over time routines can stultify; stuck in a rut we live on automatic. But change stimulates. It keeps us moving and thinking, makes us more creative, and allows us to grow by looking at things in new ways.

In my life the "itch" has been a reality and the source of many of the good things I have experienced. Looking back at the big changes I made over the years, I can see a pattern of major transitions occurring roughly every five to ten years. The average of the intervals between major shifts is startlingly close to the storied seven years.

And here again I find myself, seven years after I moved to Mérida to live full time. It's been seven years and four months to be exact. For a while now I have been having recurring thoughts about making a change.

I am restless, but at the same time I really enjoy the life I've got: a pleasant, well-situated, comfortable house in a great town, close friends, low stress and freedom to do many of the things I want to do. As we age there is a lot to be said for this kind of stability. Although I feel the need to scratch the itch that calls for change, I really don't want to chuck everything and start with a blank slate, as I did on several occasions when I was younger.

So I was contemplating this problem yesterday as I cleaned out a storage area which, because it is partially open, attracts nesting doves, known here as tortolitas. Among the objects stored high on a shelf there is an old bird cage that has proven to be the platform of choice for their nests. After several years of hosting generations of these bird families, I'd decided to do something to encourage them to move elsewhere. I took the cage off the top shelf with the goal of removing the currently-vacant nest, and cleaning up the litter of twigs and grass, broken egg shells and the encrusted droppings that had built up there.

It was then I noticed off to one side the egg, apparently infertile or dead, which was left by the last pair to occupy the nest. I had noticed that instead of the normal two they raised only a single chick, which fledged last week. Apparently this egg was pushed aside when it didn't hatch. I placed the egg back in the nest and hung the cage on a hook outside while I cleaned up the area.

Instantly I noticed the possibilities of a good image, and as I arranged the scene and took photos, realized what an apt solution for my "itch" conundrum the picture suggests. It is natural for birds to escape from and to stay away from cages whenever possible. The tortolitas who built this nest purely by chance created a startling image, and gave me an idea: Instead of abandoning our "cages," we can look at them in new ways and use them for new purposes.

Although I will not leave Mérida, I have been thinking about selling my house and making some serious changes, much as I did in the past. Perhaps that's not the right tactic at this point in the game.

The challenge is to, as the timeworn saying goes, "think outside the box," or as the photo suggests, outside the cage; not to abandon it or toss "the old" out, but to find ways to utilize what we've already got to hatch new, creative perspectives. This is a concept worth consideration.

Contentment: "The Road...

...to enlightenment isn't paved."

My friend photographer Paul Brown of Seattle saw this quote printed on a poster aboard a British Columbia Ferry he was riding last year and posted an image of it on Facebook.

To this I commented, "None of the worthwhile roads are paved."

I've been feeling restless lately, and this phrase keeps coming to mind.

I think that is because of my life experience. In the past, when I have exited the easy and expected way, and turned onto rougher, rockier and sometimes harder tracks, the growth and success I achieve has been unexpectedly satisfying. The rewards of risk-taking can be much greater than those realized by staying on the more-traveled route.

As a teen for the first time I read Thoreau's Walden. It made an unmistakable impression on me and over the years I recalled this particular quote, which pretty much sums up the whole book:

"I learned this, at least, by my experiment; that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours."

This statement made sense to me when I first read and pondered it as a high school English assignment, but has gained real meaning as practical advice over the intervening years.

My first acquaintance with the less-traveled road was when as a youth I spent a couple of summers volunteering in Colombia and Nicaragua. When the opportunity first presented itself I wasn't too sure I wanted to go, but my parents pushed me a bit, and I have been grateful ever since that they did. Leaving my comfort zone was a life-changing experience that set the stage for many things I did later.

Three times over my career I quit good jobs without new employment in sight. In each instance I knew it was time to make a change, but wasn't sure what to do next. Rather than stay on when my heart was no longer in the work, at these transitions I took off to volunteer, travel and think. Each time, taking the plunge and following my interests led me to new, more fulfilling experiences. I look back at those times as some of the most fruitful of my life.

I've taken many other less dramatic turns off the easy road. A few of those were not completely successful on the surface, but were valuable because of what I learned from them. By and large, each time I have steered off the main trail and onto interesting side roads of life I have been very happy that I did so. I may not have become enlightened, as the saying says, but at least I have grown, succeeded and enjoyed in unanticipated ways.

The last time I took a big turn off the paved highway was when I moved to Mexico. I left the best job and best boss I'd ever had, sold almost everything I owned, and moved into a decrepit old house I'd bought in Mérida. And although I miss my deep roots in Alaska (and visit often), I've barely looked back.

That's because the life I have here now is something I starting imagining during that first eye-opening trip to Colombia thirty-nine years ago. Although I did it unconsciously for quite awhile and was sidetracked often, I've moved fairly consistently in the direction of that one dream all this time. Stepping off the paved roads made it possible.

Photo by Paul Brown

Photo at top: A country road in Yucatán

Contentment: The Splendor of Each Day

As I often do, today I got up when the sky began to brighten, and made fresh coffee. I then slipped into the pool just as the first orange rays of morning sun illuminated the upper branches of the trees.

The water was warm enough to be comfortable, but cool enough to refresh and finish the job of waking me up. I sipped steaming coffee and watched the morning light move down the tree trunks and the stones of the back wall. I felt the air stir and the temperature begin to rise.

A flurry of wing beats gently broke the silence and several doves settled near the pool. Startled to discover they were not alone, they eyed me warily for a moment or two before edging closer to sip deeply from the water. More flutters signaled the arrival of additional birds, who apparently taking comfort in numbers, joined their fellows at the water's edge.

I leaned back and watched the sunlight, now glancing off the water to cast rippling reflections into the shadows. Moments passed. When I looked once again for the birds they were gone. My attention had been so captivated by the light show that I didn't hear them take flight.

I savored the bitter richness of my hot drink as a pink dragonfly began to trace a rectangular pattern overhead. I put down my cup and floated on my back. With each pass the insect came lower, and then suddenly it began to dip into the water, making a small splashing sound with each contact.

"It's drinking," I thought. But the dragonfly continued to splash, time after time. I counted twenty, thirty, thirty-five impacts, often within an arm's length of my bobbing head. Sometimes when it rose it seemed to shake itself; fine droplets of spray flew in all directions. The tiny dragonfly certainly can't have needed that much water. Was it bathing? Does a dragonfly have the capacity to do something for the fun of it?

I am reminded of a passage I read several months ago that has stuck in my mind ever since:

"At such an instant, it seems as though no other day will ever attain the impossible splendor of this one. Already, I feel a nostalgia for today even as I live it."

The passage was written by Dr. Sherwin B. Nuland in his book, How We Die. He was writing about noticing the incredible beauty around him one morning as he drove to visit a patient who was about to die.

The morning earlier this month that my mother died, I took just a moment away from our vigil and went outside. I noticed the blue sky and white clouds, and the way the leaves of the live oaks shimmered silver-green in the breeze. I took some deep breaths and realized that it was a marvelous day. I went back to Mom's side and about half an hour later she was gone. It was a very difficult and sad day, but I always will have that memory of it also being a very beautiful one.

I think one of the most important lessons I've been learning recently is that if we consider death our ally, it teaches us how to live. If we acknowledge that there is a definite number to our days, we make each day count to the greatest extent we can.

Each individual finds his or her own way to do that. We each find our own meaning. It's up to us.

Contentment: Surprises and Small Pleasures

Photo by Eric Chaffee

Thursday my friends Eric, Paul and I decided to take a drive out to the coast and visit a favorite beach area not far from Mérida.

It was an uneventful but, as always, interesting drive. As we meandered through small pueblos where motorcycles, bicycles and pedestrians vastly outnumber the cars, we slowed to eyeball roadside fruit stands, searching for hard-to-find tropical varieties that are uncommon and costlier in the city. Passing through stretches of countryside between pueblos we watched the changing scenery and identified a couple of rustic side roads that looked interesting enough to draw us back on some future exploration.

Soon we sensed the rich, organic aroma of the sticky black mud in the brackish lagoon. Suddenly on both sides of the road there was water, shallow, dark and dotted with clumps of mangroves, snags and the forms of various wading birds.

We were nearing the coast but still surrounded by the lagoon when we saw it: a scattering of dark specks against the blue sky, as if a giant had hurled a huge handful of black pepper into the blue. Eric stopped the car in the road and we jumped out to look.

The specks took shape, forming into straggling, irregular lines as they neared us. As they grew in size, the dots suddenly transformed into silhouettes revealing shades of hot pink in the morning sun.

We were watching a flock of flamingos, which had been flying along the coast and suddenly veered inland above us, making toward the lagoon we had just crossed.

Photo by Eric Chaffee

This flock passed over, and as it did so, another appeared in the distance, rising over the palms. This wave, too, took form and color and passed gracefully overhead. While it was still in view, yet another appeared. Then another, and another, each cluster connected to the preceding by a thin single file of birds. From looking at some of Eric's photos afterward I estimated that each wave consisted of between one hundred and two hundred birds. We saw at least seven or eight separate groups, which leads me to conclude that over a period of perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, we saw probably between one and two thousand flamingos.



The high point of the day had come early, but the rest of it was not a letdown. After spending an hour or two wandering and observing in a nearby nature reserve, a virgin coastal strip which includes beach and lagoon (and according to warning signs, is home to crocodiles), we came back to the pueblo to wander through the centro and go to a favorite seafood restaurant.

The waiter always remembers us and greets us with a smile and a handshake. As usual, the ceviche and fish filets were superb.

The sound system played Louis Armstrong singing, "On the Sunny Side of the Street." Palms and flowering trees swayed in the gentle, mild breeze. I savored my coffee as we sat under the palapa and talked the afternoon away.

Finally, we walked a meandering route back to the car, through a neighborhood inhabited by fishermen, along the beach, and out onto the pier, where we proceeded hats-in-hand, due to the strong breeze. We talked with two boys selling jewelry and utensils made of shells.

As frequently occurs around here, a day begun without a specific goal turned out to be one of surprises and small pleasures. A day of good moments. One of the best kinds of days.

Contentment: If I had a Million Dollars

I told a friend in Mérida recently that if suddenly I came into a million dollars I would not change a thing about my life here.

If I received a windfall, I would not get a different house. My house is a wonderful place and it's just right for me. It sits in the heart of the city, but walk inside and close the front door, and it is a refuge. It feels like another world. The thick walls keep out most of the street noise. The quiet, tall trees and birdsong of the back yard make it feel more like the countryside than the inner city. I like my neighborhood. I know of no other place like this and suspect I will live here for a good long time.

If I received a windfall, I would not splurge on new appliances, gadgets or furniture. I have all I need, and that's not much. I don't watch TV, so I'm not craving a bigger flatscreen. Every five or six years I buy a new laptop computer, usually only when the old one has begun to show signs of imminent demise. My budget cell phone allows me to make calls and send text messages and that's it. I am happier and have more money because I don't "need" the latest or fastest, so I'm in good shape there.

I eat well, wear decent clothing, have good health insurance, receive excellent medical care, and can afford an occasional splurge. I can do that because I've learned to concentrate my spending in just the few categories of items that provide the most satisfaction, and I live in a place where the cost of living is modest.

Not that I wouldn't spend some of the million.

If I had that money, I might visit Alaska more often, and travel to spend more time with far-away friends and relatives. I like being at home in Yucatán and really don't enjoy air travel much anymore, but I do miss Alaska and my longtime relationships. These are the main thing I find travel worthwhile for now.

My ten-year-old, high-mileage car, which I use mainly for trips and exploring, has become less reliable. It hasn't left me stranded yet, but I've had a couple of scares. If I had all that money, I might upgrade to a newer and more dependable vehicle so I could continue to explore remote areas of Yucatán without worrying about getting stuck on the side of the road.

Then, if I had that chunk of money, I'd give more to a few good causes I already support having to do with providing better educational opportunities for children.

I would also devote funds to planting trees on damaged and deforested land.

So, although I wouldn't move or go on a big spending spree, perhaps all that money would change my life a bit.

I'd spend on experiences and on making the most of my time.

And I'd invest in the future.

Kindness For Strangers -- Pass It On

Fort Lauderdale, Florida -- A Mérida friend recently benefited from an act of kindness on the part of a complete stranger. This got me thinking about the value of kindness and other unselfish traits as we celebrated American Thanksgiving last week.

When we celebrate Thanksgiving a lot of what we are thankful for, beyond perhaps good health and the presence of loved ones, comes to us because of the unselfish actions of others. Most of these are people whom we do not know or who passed away long before our time.

I'll backtrack for a moment. When we consider the damaged economy and environment, the numerous conflicts and most of the other negative stuff that is going on around the world, it is evident that these problems exist to a great degree due to the selfish actions of a certain percentage of people. This blot stains societies, business, organizations and governments.

It all comes down to individual responsibility. Most of the good that we have is the legacy of people who have thought of the whole rather than always "looking out for number one." If the vast majority of individuals always practiced kindness, thoughtfulness, compassion and consideration in their dealings with others, many of our problems would diminish as quickly a cloud of dust whipped up by a brief windstorm.



I've thought about many kind acts I benefited from last week as I prepared for a Thanksgiving trip to see my parents in Florida, including:

My neighbor Ingrid asked about my parents' frail health. Ingrid also gave me a rosary, which had been blessed in her church, to carry on my trip. She said that even though I am not Catholic and may not share her beliefs, it would be a source of comfort and a reminder that she is thinking about and praying for us. Ingrid and her late husband Alejandro were among my first friends in my Mérida neighborhood, and used to bring me plates of food when my house didn't have a working kitchen.

Victor, the most unselfish person I know, ran my errands and brought me take-out food when I got overwhelmed with "to-dos" as I prepared to leave town.

Tony took me out to breakfast and wished me well the day before my departure.

Doña Tere, owner of the cocina economica where I often eat told me with a smile, "Don't worry, pay me next time," when I realized, after eating, that I had walked out of the house without a peso in my pocket.

Margarita woke up and drove me in the early-morning darkness to the bus terminal to catch my ride to the Cancún airport.

This is the sort of kind and thoughtful behavior that enriches the texture of my everyday life in Mérida. A part of the regular interaction between friends and neighbors who appreciate and help each other, it is something I am thankful for. However the act of kindness I mentioned at the beginning of this post, the one that my friend Debbie wrote about recently was more significant, and I think more important, because in that case someone took time to help out a complete stranger.

Most of us can learn a lesson from the anonymous man who helped Debbie. The challenge is to enlarge our circle: to treat people we do not know with the same consideration, compassion, thoughtfulness and kindness we habitually reserve for family and friends. I think that receiving this expression of respect and love from strangers prompts people to return the favor. It builds upon itself.

At the very least, these acts make us, and hopefully someone else, feel good. The truth is that in helping others, we also help and fulfill ourselves. In a world where many things are not well and the problems make us feel ineffectual, this is something positive and concrete that we actually can do every single day. Like the beads on Ingrid's rosary, one following the other in an unending loop, the acts of human kindness passed on from stranger to stranger will make a difference.

Contentment: The Pool at Night

An outdoor pool in the dark is one of my favorite things. I float on my back, ears under the surface to drown out sound, and watch the night sky.

On warm Yucatán nights, when the water temperature feels neither hot nor cold, after a few moments I cease to notice any separation between my skin and the liquid that cradles me. I float effortlessly and lose sense of the water. I bend my knees. Sometimes, arms extended, I bend my elbows and entwine the fingers of both hands across the back of my head. My respiration falls into a rhythm at which, although the buoyancy of my body drops and rises slightly as I breathe in and out, my face never dips below the surface.

Having reached this equilibrium, I drowsily observe the scene; moon, stars, clouds. These objects all have their own motions, but I add to the dynamic once in awhile by moving hands or feet, which sets the upward view slowly whirling and shifting.

Sometimes during this quiet repose I witness a lot of action. High winds aloft set clouds scurrying across the sky. The overhanging branches and fronds of the garden fidget in response to the breeze. Or bolts of lightning from a distant storm create a strobe-light show as they reflect off the thick atmosphere. I always hope to see falling stars. I see satellites.

But this isn't all.

Here in Mérida, owls come out at night. Often they announce themselves with a loud screech. Then a white silhouette glides against the black sky like a paper cutout suspended on a wire in a grade-school play. The bird of prey is patiently searching for its supper, maybe a careless opossum, rat or other small animal.

There are other flying night visitors that actually interest me more than the owls. These are the bats.

Certain bat species eerily pollinate the banana and pitahaya flowers when they are in bloom.  It seems strange because although with their broad, quickly-beating wings they appear to be sizable, active creatures, they make no appreciable noise as they flutter around and back again to visit different blooms.

The bats drink in mid-flight by swooping low enough to skim the water's surface with their mouths as they quickly pass by. For me, floating as I do, this is interesting to witness, especially when a bat takes this flying sip only a foot or two away from my face. Bats make a slight, wet, swooshing sound as they touch the surface, and leave a tiny wake. I have felt the breeze of their wingbeats on my cheek.

When not engaged in observing the nighttime environment around me as I float, I simply relax and let my thoughts drift along with by body. Sometimes I make decisions, solve problems or come up with ideas for blog posts. Other times I lock my gaze on the stars and attempt to quiet my mind and have no thoughts at all.

I suppose there are people who think it all a little odd, or maybe something to try once, but for me frequent sojourns in the pool at night are another of the little pleasures that make life here fascinating.



The idea for this post germinated after I read and commented on a post by my friend Lynette, The Big Ass Belle.

Contentment: Fishing Days

When my longtime friend and fishing buddy Brian invited me to go wet a line during my recent visit to Juneau, I expected to write about it. Of all the activities that engaged me during a lifetime in Alaska, a day of fishing is one that bears closest resemblance to the kind of day I work toward having more and more of now in Yucatán.

Why? Fresh salmon is soul food to me, but the experience is more about having a day than getting a fish. In fact, Brian and I have a way of talking about going out fishing. We don't say we're going to go out and catch a bunch of fish. We just casually say that we ought to go and "have a look around."

Years ago I heard various Alaska Native elders talk about going out hunting. In some cultures tradition says that the hunter needs to be humble, because the animals sense human arrogance and will not give themselves to someone who is not respectful, not "right" in heart and mind. The hunter who says something like, "I'm going out to have a look around," or, "I'll just take a walk down river," might come back with meat for his family. Someone who offends nature -- "let's kill us some fish" -- will come back empty handed.

So we have a routine: I bring all the food, Brian gasses up his boat, and we head out for the day and start "looking around," with carefully-prepared bait trailing in the depths behind us, of course. 

And there is always plenty to look at: varieties of birds, fish, innumerable eagles, seals, sea lions, and often lots of whales. Interesting things float by. It is a day in which moment succeeds moment. 

The wind shifts, and we're in a chilly mist. I am sipping coffee as the tide ebbs. The sky changes and the day evolves. Clouds thicken and briefly a shower drenches us; the sun finds an opening and highlights the snow-capped Chilkat mountains and a distant glacier.

As the overcast dissipates, I warm up and begin to shed layers: raincoat, halibut jacket, wool shirt. I trail my hand in the water, and taste it as it drips from my fingers.

The peace and calm of observing nature and weather is punctuated occasionally by the quiver of a fishing pole, and sometimes that leads to the capture of a nice salmon or halibut. But more often than not, bait is snatched away and something down there has got a free meal on us, or we carefully release an undersized or unwanted fish. 

Or nothing at all happens.

Although not always a lot of it, there's talk. After about twenty-five years of fishing together we've shared a lot of experiences, so at times we retell old fishing stories: long hauls in his small skiff before Brian got the bigger boat; getting caught in bad weather; monster fish that got away; the time we hooked halibut and several species of salmon all in one day. We laugh about the time I got seasick on the brand-new boat and my trip to the ER with a hook in my thumb. The conversations range through many other subjects. Talk flows easily.

There's also the music, always jazz or rock oldies. And food. I habitually bring fat prepared sandwiches from the deli counter of a local store, apples, other snacks, drinks and Snickers bars. It's become a tradition. I only eat them when fishing, but for fishing you've gotta have Snickers. 

Breaking out the food used to be a good luck charm. It seemed that for years, no sooner would we have all the lunch goodies spread out than we would hook something. Inevitably some of the food would end up dropped and trampled on the deck, a casualty of the action. We've continued to try the "get out the sandwiches" ploy when fish aren't biting, even though it hasn't worked in years. Fishermen, like baseball players, are superstitious. Speaking of superstitions, there's my fishing hat, but that's another story.

We don't always connect with fish, but as things went on this recent day, we were watching some "rock jockeys," beach fishermen on North Douglas Island, when suddenly one of the poles started vibrating. It wasn't long before we reeled in a magnificent gift from Mother Nature in the form of a medium-sized King. As I looked into its eye and felt its fat but sleek body I felt truly blessed to be who and where I was and in the company of a good friend. 

I could not have wished then to be any other place nor to be doing anything else on earth. What more could one possibly ask from a day than that?

Every fishing day is different, but each "look around" is also a nostalgic repetition of something that could not be improved upon and that I wouldn't change in any way. Catching fish is not the main point. For a whole list of other reasons, every fishing day is a perfect day.

Childhood Dreams

Not long ago, a reader of this blog told me, “I want to be you when I grow up.” This was in response to a post I wrote about an interesting experience I had exploring ruins in a less-visited corner of Yucatán.


My thought after reading this and some other similar remarks was,  "All I really am doing is the kind of stuff I dreamed about doing when I was a kid." I've realized it's not about "growing up." In fact, just the opposite. It's about throwing off the weight of inhibitions and expectations society places upon us as we mature. It's about going back to the sense of fun, discovery and adventure in daily living that we had as kids.


Children live in the moment. Relationships are incredibly important. They don't search fruitlessly for fulfillment in the accumulation of status or possessions. They give little thought to others' opinions about what they are doing. And primarily for these reasons, kids live more intensely and have a lot more fun than adults.


These thoughts returned to me recently. I sat, half dozing, aboard the Alaska State Ferry Fairweather, sailing from Sitka to Juneau, when suddenly the vessel’s horn blew. The weather was calm and the trip uneventful. Thinking that there must be another vessel or an obstacle ahead made me curious, so I got up and walked to a forward window to see what was happening. Another passenger, who’d moved to the window at the same moment, stood briefly by my side. We gazed together into the distance. There was nothing visible. We looked at each other, both shrugged, and went back to our seats.

A few minutes later the other passenger came up to me, smiling. He’d talked to a crew member. “A little girl wanted to blow the ship’s horn, so the captain let her do it,” he explained.

Immediately I remembered an occasion some years back when I was in Skagway, Alaska, shooting footage for a video production aboard a working steam locomotive of the White Pass and Yukon Railroad. After I had finished, impulsively I asked the engineer if I could toot the whistle. He laughed, gestured to the handle, and said, "be my guest." For a moment I again was a kid of five scooting along the floor in a cardboard-box locomotive, wearing a blue-and-white-pinstripe "engineer" hat and hollering "Woooo-oo-WOOOOOOO."

It was a childhood fantasy fulfilled, and probably the experience that first prompted me to think about the virtues of acting less like an adult and more like a kid.

Looking back at the most engaging activities I have been involved with in my life, it occurs to me that many of these are exactly the things I most wanted to do at the age of eight or ten. Unfortunately when we hit our teen years we often get distracted from these childhood passions as social pressure and then school, family responsibilities and having a job further distance us from the things that really toot our horn, so to speak.

I think that we can enjoy life more and find more meaning when we decide stop acting so grown up, and feel freer to live out our dreams. I guess I will never be an astronaut, but I have managed to incorporate several of my other childhood passions into my life. And equally important, I think that the process has helped me recover a little of the childish sense of wonder and adventure that makes even the mundane and everyday seem worthwhile.

Contentment: A Do-Nothing Day

Yesterday was a Do-Nothing Day. That does not mean it was unimportant, uneventful or worthless. I didn't spend hours numbing my brain by staring at a TV or computer display. I actually accomplished a lot yesterday.

Here I often spend those days

Do-Nothing simply means that I do not start with an agenda. There are no concrete goals. I just concentrate on the moment and find out what the day will bring. Do-Nothing Days are luxurious. Usually a Do-Nothing Day is the best kind of day.

Do-Nothing Days are not only a luxury, they are a great privilege, not to be wasted. With so many people around the world struggling every day of their lives with survival, or demanding jobs, social and family obligations, being able just to exist for a few hours or a day without worrying about food, shelter, health, safety, appointments, or taking into consideration others' opinions of what you are doing, is a blessing and a responsibility.

And others' opinions -- criticism -- is what you sometimes will hear if you tell people you are "doing nothing." You're a good-for-nothing, lazy, a bum, a slacker. In our culture, the standard wisdom is that you should always be doing something: you must accomplish. It's your social and patriotic duty to have a job and earn money so you can contribute to the economy by going shopping, and by doing so to create jobs and keep the whole, increasingly precarious house of cards that is the world economy standing. Idle hands are the devil's tools. You must be productive.

Frankly, I think one of the best things one can do for the planet is to have a Do-Nothing Day. It is peaceful; you are not destroying anything, polluting, contributing to global warming or wasting resources on superfluous and silly things. And if you like, it's free, without cost.

A Do-Nothing Day consists of simply appreciating the good there is in the world and enjoying without consuming, without wasting. How does one do that? Here are some things that I try to do:

Be in the moment, here and now. Be constantly aware of your surroundings and of what you are doing. Try to silence the inner critical voice, the internal dialog that goes on inside your head. If you just asked yourself "what internal dialog?" well, that's the voice I am talking about. Don't fret about problems or unfinished business. Do not plan or think about tomorrow. Do not criticize yourself. Just observe and be self-aware in the current moment.

Concentrate on the gifts nature has given us. Use your senses to appreciate what is around you: colors and textures; air movement and temperature changes; aromas and tastes, natural and human-created rhythms and sounds. This is easier to do at first if you concentrate on one sense at a time.

Breathe and smile. No further instruction needed. This makes you feel good.

Dedicate time to think about the good things, all of the positive things you have in your life.

If you talk with friends, really listen. Practice listening, making contact and focusing on that person.

Do-Nothing does not mean you have to stay home and sit in a chair, although for me spending some time alone in a pleasant place is important. These can be good days to work on creative projects, or mop the floors for that matter (but you shouldn't do those things unless you feel like it). Many of the things I list above can be done while you are involved in other activities.

Do-Nothing Days often turn out to be days of pleasure and accomplishment. They are days of full living, because to-do lists, obligations and "work" take a back seat to just enjoying being a sensitive, thinking animal alive on this planet.