Friday, May 30, 2014
The horrific events at Isla Vista hit me particularly hard, albeit probably not for the reasons they should have. My brief visits to that college community left me with an idyllic sense of peacefulness and joy. The time, on my first visit, spent with my best, lifelong friend and his lady. The relaxed pace of the town (at least in the early ‘70s). The sense of freedom on another visit as I scrambled down the paths to the water, pulling my clothes off as I ran, only to be joined by joyously friendly college students, who were thankfully unaware that I was a member of the reviled military. These were sweet memories, a detailed picture in my mind. But now, the images are bloodied. Isla Vista has, in my mind, become part of a brutal world, tainted by something that my nostalgic memories cannot abide.
Looking at my initial reaction, I have to recognize and admit how profoundly shallow it is, particularly in the face of the lives ended. But what of the collateral damage, the lives permanently scarred, in Isla Vista and beyond? Sadly, the scars aren’t merely the result of one brutal attack, an attack that is but a footnote on a tome beyond measure. The greater story is one that is lived out by every woman, yet denied, dismissed, or distracted by most males. It is the legacy of misogyny that pervades every culture, and that has done so for time beyond measure or memory.
Looking just a bit below the surface, I observe my own lifelong behavior and attitudes, and have to be honest with myself and admit that I have been and to an extent continue to be part of the problem. Through the course of my life, when I looked at a female, my immediate internal reaction has been to view her according to her value in my own life, not as an equal, but as an accessory, a possession. My initial evaluation had little to do with whether she might provide intellectual stimulation or challenge my emotional limitations. I’d look at her and immediately size her up as a potential sexual partner, as something to elevate my esteem in others’ eyes, or even as a vehicle to assist me in reaching some goal I had set for myself.
There have been women in my life who have transcended that evaluation, but even they had to pass a certain set of criteria in order to be considered worthy of the time it would take to discover their more esoteric qualities. And I am ashamed to say that there have been any number of remarkable women whom I’ve encountered and walked away from, simply because they weren’t pretty enough, were too fat, didn’t find me charming, or in some other way, didn’t “fit the part.”
Does that make me a misogynist? An abuser of women? I think it goes deeper than that. It makes me an abuser of not only women, but of my own humanity. In the course of my “disqualification process,” I have hurt some women, and left them feeling less interesting, less intelligent, less attractive, and ultimately, less worthy. That I felt – in varying degrees – a sense of guilt, of shame, and of unworthiness myself as a result of my behavior is ultimately my one saving grace. Had I not felt that guilt and shame, I would have been a sociopath, rather than just an asshole. Asshole, I can live with (under the right circumstances, anyway). Sociopath, I cannot. I have to believe that there is kindness in me, beyond any selfish motive. Missing that kindness, I would be less than human, the very thing I so despise.
Sure, I became incensed when I worked on a book that described firsthand the horrors that women in Muslim countries routinely experience – having acid thrown in their face by their own fathers for merely looking at a man, being set afire simply for speaking their mind, being killed for the crime of not accepting a marriage proposal. But these were a world away, and nothing like we have here in our “civilized” country. At least, not until we look at attractive women being shot because a man – to stretch the term – hadn’t been able to convince any other women to have sex with him. Or at the many comments posted in sympathy for his pain. It is here. Everywhere. And it always has been.
The dialog that has arisen from this latest tragedy has forced me to look honestly – perhaps for the first time – at how insidious the objectification of women really is. Perhaps the most powerful information I’ve gotten was from a blog post that told us men to just shut up and listen, something I’ve rarely been known to do. But when I did finally listen, I was literally pummeled by a truth that I had never heard, much less, considered. It was both the truth of what women – all women – experience, and the illusion with which we men respond to that truth.
#YesAllWomen versus #NotAllMen
Every woman, no matter where she lives, has felt objectified by men. And while I had known this intellectually for a long time, it never really sunk in until recently. Women, because of their own personal experiences, have to view men in the same way most people view snakes. Until they’ve seen enough to identify a specific one, they have to assume it is venomous. Why? Because they or someone they know has had an encounter with a guy who seems nice, interesting, and normal, but ultimately ends up being abusive, controlling, condescending, and possibly even violent. Statistics say that one in four women will be the victim of a sexual assault in their lives. One in four. How many men would rush to pick up a snake they didn’t recognize if they knew that one in four of them would get bitten?
Another analogy that’s been going around the last couple of days (probably much longer, but I’m new at looking at this, remember?) describes a bowl of M&Ms™, where ten percent of the candies are poisonous. How eager would you be, knowing this, to grab a handful and partake? The most frequent male response to the analogy has been to deny that the percentage of abusive men is much lower than ten percent, and that they (the responders) aren’t abusive in any way. Okay, let’s drop the percentage of poisoned M&Ms / abusive males to .1 percent – one in a thousand. Only one candy contains deadly poison, and one guy in a very crowded club is potentially abusive (and that is giving us guys a bigger benefit of the doubt than our behavior would warrant). Would it make sense to go ahead and grab a handful of M&Ms and chow down, or for a woman to take the guy who approaches her at face value? Think about it.
To make it as simple as possible, imagine as a man, walking alone at night, and seeing a group of women approaching. Our normal first response is to check the women out, see which of them we find most attractive, and perhaps consider what our chances are of having a relationship – even a brief sexual relationship – with the hottest one. Our very first reaction is to assess an opportunity. If it feels right, or if one of them acknowledges or smiles at us, we might make small talk – any overture to enhance that opportunity.
Now, imagine being a woman, also walking alone at night, and seeing a group of men approaching. The first response is to assess the group, but for a wholly different reason than opportunity. Do any of them look threatening, angry, or, for that matter, too interested? Will I be whistled and cat-called at? Will I be grabbed as I try to pass, raped and left for dead, or worse, murdered? Each reaction is very real, and each is justified by our own previous experience. There is very little chance that a group of women will attack – much less, rape and kill – a man, but in the women’s experience, there is a very real likelihood of her fears being realized. Women are aware of the reality, and we men need to be aware, as well.
Over the last couple of days, I’ve heard guys try to argue the statistics of misogynistic behavior, as if those statistics could somehow disprove what every woman on earth has experienced and continues to experience. They try to reassure women that they’re “different,” and that there is no reason to lump them in with “a few bad apples.” What they fail to realize is that by attempting to dismiss women’s experiences, they actually promote and protect those “bad apples,” and by extension, join forces with them. Perhaps the guys would do well to understand that a misogynist would not be likely to identify himself as one. He’d do his best to appear charming, endearing, and entertaining, at least until he had the woman in the position he desired, or realized she wasn’t going to go along with his idea of a “relationship.” And we saw, all to graphically, how the latter scenario can – and too often does – play out.
It’s not who we men are, it’s what we do.
The one, we can’t change. The other, we can and must.
And no excuses are acceptable.
I was raised primarily by my mother, who was by any measure a strong and independent woman. She demanded my respect, as well as that of everyone she encountered, and God help the person who failed to show her that respect. Looking back, however, I have to acknowledge that she was born into – and on some levels, accepted and unknowingly perpetuated – the age-old notion that a woman’s “place” was supposed to be subservient to a man’s, and I suspect that on some level, she resented the fact that she was required to be the dominant partner in her own marriage. Her (perhaps unconscious) acceptance of “a woman’s place” was manifest in many ways, some so subtle as to be easily overlooked, at least by myself, and I suspect by society at large.
For example, I lived under a very different set of rules than did my older sister. My mother accepted my smoking cigarettes for years before my sister was allowed to smoke. I cannot remember ever washing dishes after a meal, while my sister did so quite frequently. Neither can I remember my sister ever being expected to do yard work. It was a “man’s job.” Even in our schooling, my sister was pressured by expectations that I never really felt. As a result, she strove to do well, while I coasted all the way through high school, completely apathetic about my education.
I can remember going out to dinner with Mom, and her discretely passing money under the table, so I could be the one to pay. Her gesture meant a lot to me when I was young and poor, but I grew uncomfortable with it as I matured (if indeed I have ever done so). Looking back, I can’t help but wonder whether the gesture was as important to her as she felt it was to me; that she would have preferred to be in a more traditional “woman’s” position.
Just to be clear, I in no way blame my mother or any other woman for the misogyny that is so pervasive in this and so many other cultures. Only to acknowledge how, even with the best of intentions, she may have perpetuated a mindset that was fertile ground, and in which insecure and frightened little boys learn to embrace and twist “traditional” roles into justification for dismissal, objectification, and abuse of women.
But in the final analysis, I don’t give a damn how we men got to where we are, because that is not the issue. The issue is not what we are, what kind of environment we lived in, or any other factor that we might cling to in our attempt to explain, justify, or defend what we do or explain how “we’re different.” All that matters is what we are doing now, and what we choose to do in the future. And the best – no, the only – way we can make a good choice is to begin by shutting up and listening. Really listening to what women have known for thousands of years, but have been too frightened to discuss. If we’re trying to explain or defend our own behavior, or to insist that we be judged by who we are, independent of and vastly different from “those other guys,” we are missing the point altogether. We are denying a pervasive reality, simply because we haven’t experienced it ourselves. By doing that, we allow that ugly reality a safe place to continue. We are the problem, until we make and follow through on the decision, not to make some grand gesture, but simply to change how we look at women and how we behave toward them. And just as importantly, to clearly express our disapproval when we see others behaving badly, because a person who is weak enough to need to dominate women will always look to other males for support. Only when that support is denied, and the behavior clearly rejected, will there be any possibility that the abuser will look at and possibly try to change his behavior.
We are the problem, and always have been. Not the only problem, and not every problem, but we are this problem. And now, we have two very clear choices: we can either choose to continue to be part of the problem, or choose to be part of the solution. To shut up and listen. To empathize without trying to defend. To recognize the women we encounter as humans every bit as intelligent, complex, and worthy as we would like to think we are ourselves. And to recognize and acknowledge that what they have experienced is every bit as real and valid as our own experiences. If we can manage to do these simple things, we will discover a richness in our relationships that soars beyond our wildest imaginings. If we don’t, “the bitches” will just keep on “playing with our heads” and rejecting us. We get to choose. And we will make that choice, every day, every hour, and every moment of our lives. We’ll choose badly at times, but we will have the opportunity to choose well the next time. We have to try, for the women’s sake and for our own.
Tuesday, March 04, 2014
As I settle somewhat comfortably into my sixties, I find myself looking back at the course my life has taken, as we all do when approaching that “certain age,” when it occurs to us that our yesterdays far outnumber our tomorrows. Wondering at the choices we made during those decades that went by so quickly. Wondering whether ours has been a life worth living, and whether we left anything of value behind. And weighing the value of regret.
I have to recognize that I won’t be leaving much of intrinsic material value for my loved ones, and I suppose I do feel some pangs of remorse over that. But the people I love will do just fine without any windfall from me. My children are grown and, I hope, happy. They carry the weight of the same worries we’ve all had; will I earn enough to support the lifestyle I choose? Will the people I love stay with me, even when I make doing so difficult for them? Will my having lived really matter to anyone? Will anyone care about me after I’m gone?
The first question notwithstanding, I know that nothing I have done or could do is capable of providing answers to their questions, any more than anyone else could have provided the same answers to me. Truth is, we cannot really know the answers to any of those questions. Perhaps we aren’t supposed to know the answers after all. Perhaps the old monk who once taught me – saved me, actually – was right when he told me that knowing the answers wasn’t nearly as important as loving the questions. Because by loving the questions themselves, we move ourselves a bit closer to living the kind of life that brings about the answers for which we hope.
I look back at some of the decisions I’ve made, and realize that many of them were borne of a decision to “screw it,” and follow a course whose destination was a mystery to me, but which I truly believed would be the best for which I could hope.
Working to heal others until I realized that true healing is an inside job.
Donning the mantel of corporate uprightness and drive, then casting it aside.
Trying to give my kids the sense of acceptance I never had in my own childhood. And not always being successful (or even particularly intelligent) in my efforts.
Choosing, on several different occasions, to give away, sell, or discard the “things” I had accumulated, just to provide me with the opportunity to do something different.
Allowing myself a time or two to plunge so deeply into love that I ignored everything but that love, and ultimately finding myself more alone in another’s company than I had ever been in my times of solitude, I learned that the only thing that really mattered was the love itself. And that my biggest challenge was to hold to the sweetness of that love, while letting go of the creeping bitterness I felt at realizing that the other person might not have held the same dream as I. Or to recognize that love was there all along, and I was just too blind to see it.
I’ve succeeded in some ways, and failed miserably at others. I take real pride in having been “redirected” in my quest for the ministry because I was “too laid back” (the official determination of those charged with allowing me to proceed) for even the most laid back of religions. If ever there was a clear indication that my heart was in Zen, that redirection must surely have been it.
I’m glad I got the opportunity to write a bunch of books, even if they were for other people. It was a fun exercise, even if I did find myself cursing at times. Some of the other things I did – things that mattered greatly at the time – were probably most significant in having been done and gotten out of the way, so I could get a little closer to the path I really wanted and think I was supposed to follow. But perhaps that could be said about everything I’ve ever done. As to whether the "path" I chose at any given time was what I was "supposed" to do, I have no clue.
I didn’t get rich, but that was never my intent, anyway. An occasional fantasy, perhaps, but if I had achieved it, I suspect I would have screwed it up. Or gotten even further distracted from what was really important to me. If it happened today, who knows what I’d do with it. Buy a motorcycle, perhaps. Travel to the Greek Islands. If my pattern held true, I’d probably give a lot of it away, to people (many with four legs) for whom it was more important than it is to me. Either that, or blow it on the biggest “screw it” of my life. No way of telling, really. I recognize that there were times when I needed something I couldn't provide, and that there were kind people who came forward to fill that need. I hope that I have repaid their kindness once in awhile, albeit to occasionally lend a hand to others at need.
As it is, I don’t have the cushion of a savings account or investments that would allow me to simply coast through whatever years, months, or moments I might have left on this journey. But I don’t feel particularly concerned about that, because coasting would be, to me, a profound waste, a surrender to cynicism, and a fate far worse than death.
Actually, many things seem to be a fate worse than death. It’s just another step on my journey, after all. Nobody gets out alive. And it is really no greater mystery than any of the other steps I’ve taken. Just another “screw it” that gives rise to another part of the journey. No more significant than a single breath in the greater scheme of things (If there is, indeed, a greater scheme). And as I take that step, I suspect it won’t really matter to me how all those great questions are answered. Some folks will remember me with a smile, others with a scowl. Some will feel anger in their hearts for my having somehow failed them. But I will not feel that anger. Perhaps I’ll see it from wherever I go, and feel compassion for them. Perhaps I’ll laugh at the folly of blaming another for anything at all. Perhaps I’ll speak to them in their dreams, and attempt to comfort them in a way I could not do in life. Or maybe, just maybe, when I no longer drive this earthly vehicle, I simply won’t “be” any longer. If that’s the case, the only thing that will have mattered was what I held in my heart as I released my last breath. I think that if I’ve done things right, that last breath will come on the tail end of a laugh, and perhaps be followed by one last, resounding fart, so that the people around me will have reason to share that laugh with me.
If I’ve done everything right (which I will most certainly not have done), they will look at each other, say “screw it,” and go get a pizza. They can talk about my quirks, my failures, my triumphs, or about everything else in their lives but me. I’m good with any of these.
I do hope to carry with me the tenderness that a few people might have felt for me, despite my quirks. But even that won’t really matter that much. I’ll be somewhere else, likely saying “screw it,” and heading of in a wholly different direction than even I had considered. I have lots more mistakes to make, and far too many questions to love. And however much time I have left will not be spent preparing for something that is beyond my control, anyway. I’m just not there yet.
Sunday, July 07, 2013
I’ve been asked more than once how long I’ve been a Buddhist, and even more frequently, what is means to follow Zen Buddhism. The answers are at once simple and complex, much like Zen itself. So, for the benefit of anyone who cares to know the answers (good luck on the latter!), keep reading.
Looking back, I have to acknowledge that I was a follower of Zen long before I ever heard the word; probably all my life. I grew up in the Baptist church, and was regularly regaled with the story of a loving Creator’s promise of eternal torment if I failed to recognize and publicly acknowledge the singular divinity of the Father/Son/Holy Spirit trinity. This was enough of a paradox to raise questions in my mind; questions that were amplified by the pronouncements of people who implied that they had an intimate relationship with that Creator, and were therefore qualified to pronounce “His” judgment via proxy.
Like the deacon who caught me smoking a cigarette behind the church and pronounced that my descent into hell was inevitable. My expletive-enhanced response to him elicited a “visitation” with me and my parents in our home that very afternoon. Thankfully, my mother withheld the inevitable punishment long enough to ask me why I had said such a terrible thing… to a grownup, and a deacon, no less. When I told her, she not-so-politely challenged the deacon, and invited him and his fellow elders to leave her home. I got punished for my response, of course, but the greater lesson was learned from her defense of her child.
What really sealed the deal and convinced me that I did not belong in the church was when a Sunday School teacher informed me that only humans had souls, and therefore that my beloved dog would never be in heaven. Looking in my dog’s eyes, I could clearly see the falsehood in the teacher’s words. And though I was later to be baptized in the church, it was, to be honest, an attempt on my part to be thought of as something other than a wayward child who was beyond redemption, which was how most of the grownups saw me. But the baptism didn’t take. I was still the wayward child, and my sinful acts were still dutifully reported to my parents, most reports beginning with, “That Ronnie… Bless his heart…”
I never could accept that a creature as loving as my dog was soul-less, and I knew that no matter what he did, I could never intentionally inflict upon him even a moment’s anguish, much less, an eternity of it. And if there was a God, he would have to be nicer than I, or I (and a lot of other people) would have been smote with that fire and brimstone a long time ago. In truth, even as a small child, I couldn’t accept the assertion that a divine being was so emotionally needy that “he” required absolute agreement, much less universal adulation. And for a time, I guess I’d have called myself an atheist, had I been aware of the word. I just didn’t believe anything… except, of course, my own unworthiness. That lesson had been driven home quite effectively. Unfortunately, the belief that I did indeed deserve my forthcoming descent into hell lingered, unspoken, but ever-present. And with that knowledge, I figured that what I did no longer mattered. What was important was that I not get caught. Hell would come later, so I’d best enjoy whatever I could get away with now. The only inhibiting factor was my own aversion to hurting others… unless I believed that they deserved it. I became my own paradox – a sociopath in training, albeit with a vestige of a moral compass. The perfect perspective upon which to build a happy childhood.
And yet, there were moments when I felt a certainty – deep within me, and in spite of outward appearances – that there was more to existence than the cynical picture I could envision. Those moments, spent in solitude, listening to the whisper of a breeze through the branches of the trees, or gazing silently into the sky and turning the clouds into galleons or benevolent ghosts, were my transport from the bleak world I had come to know. It would be many years before I would learn that those moments, which I sought out with the ardor of a starving animal, were called Meditation.
~ To be continued (eventually) ~
Monday, June 24, 2013
It’s been nearly a week since I returned from my visit to Alaska, and my sleep patterns still haven’t returned to normal. For someone who awakens at first light every day of his life, an Alaskan summer can be a dramatic event, because it never gets even as dark as “first light.” One cannot grasp the significance of being in the Land of the Midnight Sun without actually having experienced it. I found myself, on numerous occasions, almost yielding to the temptation to call home and relay the experiences of my day, only to realize that while it looked like late afternoon in Homer, it was 3 AM back home, and that my call would likely startle my lady awake (There is no such thing as a good 3 AM call).
Circadian challenges out of the way, here is a brief recall of my time in Alaska, and – said challenges aside – it was a wondrous trip, only possible because of the prodding and insistence of my precious daughter and son-in-law. When I said, months ago, that I would come, she bought the airline tickets, thus racking up some additional airline miles, while simultaneously ensuring that I would indeed come (and reimburse her). She’s crafty that way.
The flight from Austin to Houston to Anchorage was relatively unremarkable, aside from the first hop, which found me seated next to a guy who weighed somewhere in the vicinity of 300+ pounds, and whose girth left roughly 2/3 of a seat for my comfort. No sweat… It was a short ride. The plane from Houston to Anchorage was delayed, allowing me to soak up an extra hour and a half of Texas heat while parked on the tarmac, and placing me in Anchorage with a mere 3 minutes to get to my connecting flight.
Here’s a shot of the Yukon Territory, taken from my plane. Phenomenally unspoilt and majestic.
Rapid response on my daughter’s part got me switched to another flight, this one to Kenai rather than Homer. She must have broken every speed limit en route, because she arrived to pick me up only about 20 minutes after I landed. All I could think of when I saw her was that I’d actually forgotten how beautiful she is. And she looked genuinely thrilled to see me, which wasn’t always the case when she was growing up under my Machiavellian thumb.
I won't go into the return flight, except to state that it never reached a level requiring intervention by Air Marshals. I must give credit for the "incident" to a remarkably rude fellow traveler who had made it a priority to crush my snacks, if not my knees, though the situation was diffused by the somewhat late-in-coming good judgment of an equally rude male flight attendant. And that's all I'll say about that.
Sharon and me at the airport in Kenai
I had expected to be alone at their house for a few of the days during my visit, as she and Corey both held positions of responsibility at their workplaces, and I didn’t want or expect to compromise their professional well-being. As it turned out, they took off the better part of the time I was there, and had plans for the majority of our time together.
Alaska is very much a study in contrasts. You might see a multi-million dollar cabin that looks like it came straight out of Architectural Digest, and an old school bus turned into a ramshackle cabin, mere yards away. Some of the friendliest and most attractive people you’d ever see, right next to someone who would look wholly familiar alongside Jethro Tull’s Aqualung.
On one day, we took a 2-1/2 hour boat ride across the Kachemak Bay to Seldovia, which has the feel of an artists’ colony that has recently found favor among the travel agents. The plan was for the 3 of us to take a hike on the wilderness trails, but the few miles we walked through the village let me know that I wasn’t up to it, so I suggested they go alone, and I would return to a delightful coffee shop / bookstore we had visited. We parted ways, and I ended up spending the next couple of hours chatting and making music with John, the owner (Well, in truth, he made the music, and I introduced him to John Prine’s genius, albeit with my less-than-remarkable voice.). With a clear stream flowing lazily below us, it was a perfect setting for coffee, cookies, and new friends. I will go back there someday, but in the meantime, I’m sending John a John Prine songbook. If you ever get to Seldovia, do yourself a favor and go visit John. You won't have to ask him twice to get his guitar out and play for you. And don't forget to sample his home-baked cookies. They're wonderful.
View of the Seldovia Slough and the deck of Warehouse Books & Coffee
On another day, Sharon and I took a mellow raft trip down the Kenai River from Cooper’s Landing, under the capable guidance of Alaska Wildland Adventures. Not a whitewater trip, per se, but remarkably relaxing… except, perhaps, that one moment when the oarsman asked us if we wanted to shoot a small rapid, and we all chimed in with an enthusiastic “Yes!” They weren’t kidding about the water temp being 40 degrees. So much for being lulled by the stream, but it was actually pretty warm outside, and the minor splashing was actually quite refreshing!
On the Kenai River
Interspersed between these day-long adventures were visits to all the touristy shops in town and on the Homer Spit ( A long peninsula that is home to myriad bars, restaurants, charter businesses, and fishing companies. Again, contrasts.). Topped an afternoon on the Spit with Corey with an essential requisite for all tourists, which entailed tossing down beers at a famous local watering hole.
Looking across the bay to the Homer Spit
The scenery and atmosphere of the Kenai Peninsula is compelling, to say the least (though I suspect it would lose a bit of its allure during winter). The most remarkable parts of the trip, however, had little to do with topography or Chamber of Commerce efforts. In my previous experiences, even when spending time with the closest of friends or relatives, there comes a point at which you begin to miss the relaxed comfort of being in your own space, and grow increasingly aware that you are a “guest” in another’s space. In the 8 days I was there, I never had such a feeling, and felt every bit as welcome on my last day as I did upon my arrival. There were no “issues” lingering beneath the surface, awaiting resolution, and no longings for solitude or more familiar environs. Sure, I missed my Connie, as well as our menagerie of animals. But the longing was to have them all brought to me, rather than a desire to escape to my more familiar world. And this comfortable feeling can only be attributed to Sharon and Corey. Whether they were truly enjoying my presence the whole time or are supremely gifted actors, the sense of being welcome was unshakable, and means more to me than I could ever describe. All the conflicts that inevitably arise between parent and child were long gone and all but forgotten (except as fodder for laughter). I know of few people who have experienced such true communion with kin. And aside from a slightly alcohol-infused (but amazingly animus-free) political discussion after a night at the bar, there was little in the way of “debate.” We were all just too busy having fun and enjoying each other. And in the end, I found it awkward to call Corey my son-in-law, which seemed to conjure the stereotypical “in-law” images. He’s my son. And a dear friend. And Sharon, who will always be my little girl, is someone I would definitely seek out as a friend in her own right, had we not already achieved that kind of comfortable relationship. The “kids’” politics, we’ll just have to work on. My adoration of them will remain intact.
Corey & Sharon on the trip to Seldovia
Coming home was bittersweet, with the sadness blunted somewhat by the awareness that Sharon will be here to visit in a few short months. I only hope Corey makes it down soon, as well. Otherwise, I’ll have to wait until they buy their house, which will give me an excuse to come up and help with the remodeling they want to do.
It’s been almost a week now since I got home. My sleep patterns are slowly returning to normal. As are my eating habits, which were drastically modified by Sharon’s incredible repast. From scrumptious, fried fresh-caught halibut to a breakfast devoted to exquisite gluttony (What else would you call a pound of bacon, a pound of sausage, biscuits, pancakes, and potato pancakes for only three people?), to treats from the killer Three Sisters Bakery and the Alaska Wild Berry store, I ate more rich and delicious food in a week than I normally ingest in a couple of months. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but I did notice that the planes had a bit more difficulty taking off on my return trip than they did on my arrival. Just saying…