Gathering Scents

To get from the truck to the door of our friend’s apartment building, we have to walk beneath a mammoth pine tree. Even though I’m a bit loaded down with our overnight bags, a soft sided cooler from Wegman’s, my purse and a fistful of car keys, I must stop below this conifer’s fragrant branches and inhale deeply, taking in as much of that sharp piney smell as my nose and lungs can possibly hold. Turning slightly, I look over my shoulder at the northernmost ridge of the Black Hills, and finally exhale. Slowly. This moment must not be rushed.

Two hours later, the apartment is filled with the aroma of a full Kentucky Fried Chicken dinner, complete with biscuits, coleslaw, and gravy for the mashed potatoes. I’m immediately flashing back to a childhood memory of us in the car with dad on the way back from our neighborhood KFC, the cardboard bucket of chicken with us in the back seat and dad telling us sternly not to take all the smell out of it. In our tender youth, we believed such a thing was possible (yet suspected he might be teasing) and played along, taking deep lungfuls of those secret seven herbs and spices.

On this weeklong-plus road trip west, our days have been filled with a diverse variety of aromas that our brains are tucking away in the part that links olfactory to memory, waiting patiently to be called forth again the next time someone burns a generous handful of dried cedar or sage, lights up an American Spirit, sautées onions in oil on a propane cook stove, or cuts fistfuls of sweet grass covered in dew. It’s also impossible to forget the lingering smell of a newly-fertilized cornfield as we drive past its vast acreage behind a rumbling diesel-y 18-wheeler on our way through Illinois. I wonder how the nose sorts this all out and make a promise to do the research when we get home.

If you’ve read the last two blog posts, you may recall mention of our initial destination where hand dug latrines we’re part of the camping experience. I won’t be too detailed here or indelicate, as some of you may be reading while eating. But I can say that this year, some genius put a bale of wood shavings in one of the outhouses for us to use after each visit, scooping a large cupful or two (sometimes three, depending on the outcome of that particular visit) into the dark pit to keep the inevitable lingering smells at bay, and darn it if it didn’t work beautifully. As primitive toileting experiences go, I have to say this was the most pleasant one so far. Another flashback: I’m in northern Nicaragua near the Honduran border with my 21 fellow delegates and half a dozen young militia men on the porch of an abandoned schoolhouse. There’s one pit toilet in a small shack and we’ve done it justice for nearly six days. On our last night there, we’ve taken to wearing our bandannas around our faces like bandits just long enough to get in there, get the job done, and hurry out into the fresher evening jungle air. No one thought to bring wood shavings, though our delegation’s nurse did make a valiant attempt to soften the blow with her spray bottle of perfume. Rather futile, like tossing bricks into the Grand Canyon, but we appreciated the effort, and enjoyed the hilarious visual of her rapid masked exit from the toilet shack, pumping that little spritzer bottle for all it was worth. It’s fun when the senses work together like that on a memory.

Add to this list of smells the delicate scent of a steeping mug of green tea, my husband’s spicy shaving cream, the minty blast of that recommended pea-sized dollop of toothpaste first thing in the morning, and the faint drift of someone’s well-traveled socks that need to go to the trash bag holding the rest of our dirty laundry (like, now), and I’d say we’ve done an excellent job noting and tracking this trip’s aromatic buffet.

Its hard to find a postcard to commemorate that part of a summer road trip (which wouldn’t work anyway, unless it’s a scratch-n-sniff), but we’re fine with that. We’ve got all the right memory triggers waiting for us when we get home—dried cedar and sage, diesel-y farm tractors, a KFC in town and a towering blue spruce right next to where we park the garbage bin at the end of the driveway.

Take a deep breath. Aaaaand…exhale.

Ahhh…

First One Awake

Hospitality is a simple and deeply guided art, an expression of a value that says “there is room for you here in our routines. Come eat with us. You need not ask before you open the fridge, or the cabinet above the stove for a mug for coffee. The towels you see hanging on the racks by the tub are yours to use. If you need something, don’t apologize when you ask. You are never bothering us. Not ever. We’re so glad you’re staying with us.” I’ve written about this before, and there’s still more to say.

Our friends Mac and Audrey practice this art. Indeed, they arrange their lives around it.

When we arrived at their home after dinner on Saturday, we were expected to walk right in, not timidly knock for permission to enter. We are family, they say, not guests. And it’s family in the best interpretation—an easy meshing of lives and habits and morning routines and who needs the shower next. For the five or so days we spend together, there is ample picking up where we left off, laughing, shaking our heads at the world’s sorrows, and eating whatever is here whenever the mood strikes you. The coffee pot is never empty.

We make this journey every June, to gather with family and dear friends and the most pleasant of acquaintances on the Cheyenne River reservation to pray for everything and everyone. It really isn’t more complicated than that, and if I waxed on in an attempt to paint you a more detailed picture, it would become more complicated than it needs to be, and more importantly, I’d be handing over stories that aren’t mine to tell. Let’s leave it here for now: we drive 1300 miles to pray our brains out, and leave after ten days, filled with lessons we can’t learn anywhere else on the planet.

Mac and Audrey teach us about authentic openheartedness; we pay close attention and bring it all back home to unpack over the next eleven months. I had no sooner put two of my duffel bags on her living room floor than she came toward me with a Wal-Mart freezer bag filled with items she’d collected at various rummage sales in the past year (she sure knows me, doesn’t she??). And I handed over a similar bag of carefully selected treasures from the Midwest (in a Granville, Ohio Ross Market IGA paper sack), which she immediately unloaded, smiling. I now have more fabric to use for the next quilt idea that hits me, and she has the beginnings of a great dinner—Carfagna’s classic pasta sauce and a pull-apart garlic-parmesan ring of bread that, as of yesterday morning, already had two pieces missing (when something smells that good, there’s no point waiting, and no harm done helping yourself). Sunday morning, we woke up to her signature breakfast—eggs Benedict, served on familiar Corelle plates with purple irises on them.

We spent most of the day sitting at the kitchen table or stretched out like royalty on the couch and recliner in the living room, Gilligan’s Island reruns on the TV. Patrick even nodded off here and there in the conversation, and we only noticed it in the kindest of ways. Let him be; Sundays back home rarely see such inertia. We’ll enjoy it while it’s available to us. Regular chores will overtake us again soon enough.

For now, I’m the first one awake, and moving about the kitchen with extreme slowness as I fill the hotpot with water for tea and oatmeal, trying to keep the fridge door openings and closings to a minimum. Audrey is asleep on the couch and there’s no wall between the kitchen and the living room to absorb the clanking of silverware (try scraping the last bits of oats and strawberries from the bowl in complete silence. I can show you how to do that now).

This soundless space of morning is the perfect time to reflect on what a privilege it is to know and love these two people, and share their way of life for a short five days each June. We’re surrounded by vast horizon-hugging cattle pastures and South Dakota prairies, and can see the weather change in the west while the clouds in the east move across their part of the sky unaware. The spindly-legged but stalwart Dupree water tower stands at the edge of town behind the elementary school’s parking lot, and I ask Audrey how it has managed to survive the brutal winds of winter. Everywhere we look is evidence of survival, of continuing on in a harsh and beautiful landscape. Mac and Audrey have made a good life together in this place, adding their own triumphs and heartaches with grace and generosity of spirit. If we talked less, or cut our stay short, we’d still have an avalanche of wisdom to pick through on our long ride home. It’s that fertile, that rich.

Audrey stirs on the couch, and the fridge hums to life for another cycle. I think it’s safe to move around less silently, to find my bag of sewing projects and heat up more water for tea.

I wonder what she’ll teach me today.

Passengering

The Corn Crib restaurant/gas station in Shelby, Iowa is in the rear view mirror and we’re facing north now, heading toward Eagle Butte, South Dakota. The new year is almost upon us (seasonally, that is), and we’ll soon trade flushing toilets for hand-dug latrines where I’ve been told the rattlesnakes curl up at night. The beam of a good flashlight is worth its weight in the D batteries that power it up.

From the tip of our front porch to the grassy patch on Sundance grounds where we park the truck that will be “home” to us for seven days, we travel 1300 miles and Patrick does most of the driving. I’m in the privileged shotgun seat with the following duties: looking about at the flat fields that become gradually more hilly and rolling as we enter Illinois, passing the driver a peeled banana and taking the lid off of his gas station coffee so it can cool off a bit, tossing out clever comments when I see any of those road trip oddities (heading for Corn Palace territory as we glide into Mitchell, SD), and reaching over uncountable times to rub his shoulders and scratch the part of his back I can reach without disturbing his steering control. The silence that passes easily between us is graced with many “I love you”s and warm hand squeezes. We’re quite the pair of compatible road trip buddies.

As a self-described fidgeter, I’m grateful for all the responsibilities that go with my passenger role. And it starts when we’re packing the night before. What supplies and provisions need to be within arm’s reach once we’ve hit 70mph? Do we have enough water and are we saving one cup holder for the inevitable latte purchase that makes the trip feel that much more special? Where did we put the __________? (it could be anything on this trip, truly, with latrines in our immediate future). I also swap our phones on the charger when one of us is low on juice. Being in the right front seat isn’t license to fall asleep, I can assure you. I welcome the chance to be useful, as I know the stress of driving well enough. That Patrick can so masterfully shoulder this task for us, and for the lion’s share of those 1300 miles is the most gracious of selfless acts. I’m happy to switch places with him for those 100+ miles that stretch out in front of us in rhythmic droning tire tones and shave off a couple three hours for him. But he’s the mostly captain of this four-wheeled ship, and when it looks like he’s getting bored, I remember where I put the bag of white cheddar popcorn.

We stopped last night to lay down our bones in Adair, Iowa, our best estimate at the halfway point in our journey. It didn’t matter that the water in our humble motel room came out slightly brownish at first, instead of clear. I let it run a bit longer, filled my cup, closed my eyes and swigged down my last pill of the day. I was too tired to imagine what the bacteria in my gut had to contend with from those couple of tablespoons of Adair’s finest. A delicious sleep awaited me, and the prospect of being gloriously horizontal and not moving filled each and every one of my senses. I would not leave those pillows waiting a moment longer—a good passenger is well-rested for the next day’s to-do-while-sitting list.

So this morning, full of the Crib’s “Wrangler” breakfast special (two eggs over easy, marble rye toast, hash browns, and three bacon strips) and a creamy cup of decaf, we’re each in our respective traveling seats, doing our jobs the best way we know how. We’ll land at our friend’s place in Dupree around 10:30 tonight. For the next nine hours, I know where the bananas are, how much cash we have, and where our next latte is coming from.

On The Edge

A loved one is missing.

Someone’s integrity is questioned in a soul-shaking way.

A news story triggers memories of abuse and assault.

Passing a beloved co-worker in the hall on our way to somewhere else, I catch her eyes, seeing only fatigued desperation. We both smile weakly and keep going.

These didn’t all happen to me this past week (some are mine, the rest belong to others), but they happened around me and in the vicinity of my love for the people they affected. I mentioned to a senior manager that there was a feeling in the office, a thick presence of the world being unsettled, but no singular incident or source to which we could assign cause or blame. What could we do? Impulsively, I wanted to gather us all in a room large enough to hold us and the dissonance that wrapped ‘round us, and perform some ritual that would give us—each and all—blessed release. It wasn’t to be, of course. We’re all so busy.

To balance on such a ledge emotionally takes its eventual toll. What was hard this past week was the collective impact of not just one or two, but several deeply carved dramas that knew no easy resolution, were all unleashed in the cramped confines of the workplace we shared, and touched the hearts that we regularly give over to someone else’s more urgent need. That’s fine and works well in the moments we do it, but our own untended and unfinished business still raps its ragged bloody knuckles on the door of our own routines, insistent that we pay some attention to the headache strapped around our temples, the grumble of hunger that will most certainly go unfed for yet another hour (that Hershey’s miniature we plucked out of the manager’s candy dish on our way out to the next meeting has no protein to help us think clearly), the bones and muscles that need to just be still for heaven’s sake: just give me five minutes. Ok, I’ll take three, but you’ve got to sit down.

The elusive and hyphenated edict of “self-care” conjures images of birdsong-infused hilltops where good people sit in a lotus position and exhale it all to the blue and cloudless skies above. In the traffic of my after-work commute, I’m content to press “play” on Sting’s “Ten Summoner’s Tales” and let that do the trick until I get home (see any of my previous posts for descriptions of the paradise that rescues me daily). I don’t know what varieties of hilltop paradise are available to the one whose integrity was questioned (I know and love her. It was a deep cut), or the friend whose loved one is still missing (I can’t begin to imagine how they are managing their lives around this unrelenting helplessness); I hope and pray, fiercely, that they have at minimum an entry-level understanding of deep breathing, and allow themselves the luxury of at least five deep inhales followed by five equally deep exhales. It won’t fix what’s wrong, but it may just settle the soul long enough to let in a few sane options for moving forward and past the struggle that holds them fast.

Any time I’ve been on the edge of anything—Niagra Falls, the south rim of the Grand Canyon, the steps on our front porch, a decision that would ripple out and impact several people—I've noticed that I’m more alert, more awake to the “what ifs” that make their home right on that precipice with me. The trick, and it is indeed a trick, is not letting their chorus become louder than my own good sense and intuition. I’ve failed spectacularly at this on more than one occasion, letting my darkest apprehensions take the lead (which I dumbly followed with spectacularly predictable outcomes) and distort my outlook for days or years. I’ve also shut down the “what if” chatter with a single well-executed blow of reason and confidence, and am still riding the wave of that glory, feeling both reckless and masterfully guided. I can live on the thin strand that connects “both” with “and”, and tread water when I need to.

But this past week, that strand was too stretched, the dramas too complex and close together, and I absorbed it all without any time to set each one down, look at it closely, and consider myriad options to give my help. The pain, the anxiety, the unsettled-ness just kept coming, a river of tears and fears into which I stepped and was carried away. There were still meetings to attend, drafts to review and revise, copies to be made, and phone calls to return. I did my best, and will repair whatever wasn’t done to standard. But…I wanted to help. And couldn’t.

It’s the end of a new week now, and there’s been some breathing room. Time for well-chosen words and simple loving gestures of presence. A loved one is still missing, someone was still assaulted and is now unpacking the next layer of that healing process. I’m alert, on the edge of things, as life moves forward.

Sometimes, that’s all I can do. I hope it is enough.