“Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it – every, every minute?” –Thornton Wilder
The best thing, or one of the best things, about living at 59 degrees and 14 feet North and latitude 135 degrees 26 feet West longitude (and change) is that you can sleep in and see the sunrise and if you want to you can see the sunset after lunch. How many people see a beautiful sunrise and sunset a few hours apart? It makes me stop and stare. I’m not the only one. The first mornings and evenings of January (they are alarmingly close—six hours between them, with sun shining right in your eyes before it sets again.)— make us notice. People talk about it. In the grocery store, at the lumberyard, at the pool. It helps too, that the peak that goes all purple and pink with alpenglow after lunch is named Santa Claus. It’s perfect.
My friends—and I know that “my’ is possessive, and therefore writers should be careful using it—as in owning something or someone—words matter. They do. I learned this during my tenure as Writer Laureate from Native writers. But, these women are my friends, and I am theirs and we do own each other’s hearts – in a way—or as much as friends do—and we like to be claimed. It makes us feel good to be so linked. So owned. Does that make sense? I am lucky every day that I have such fine humans (as one of them would say) in my posse (as she would also say.) The other one speaks less expressively—she simply advises that if you want to have good friends you need to be a good friend and is.
So over the holidays we helped her clean her lodge for Christmas parties, since she was short staffed. Dusted, wiped, mopped, set up tables and chairs. Ironed tablecloths and arranged flowers and greens. I even got to decorate the little sort of Christmas tree in the corner with glass ornaments that looked like vegetables. The eggplant was hilarious. (Maybe you had to be there?)
On January 2nd Nene texted that we need to walk now—and Beth responded she was in—and I had been up for hours thinking I should write a book this year, and scrolling through pages of journals in search of a storyline. I was also worrying about packing for Australia ( we are off to see our son this week). My daughter says use the 333 rule or the 54321 rule. (look it up). I use the small suitcase and one carry on backpack rule. It mostly works.
Also: I have a bunch of books on my iPad I’ve been hoping to read, and I plan on looking out the window. It is a shame to fly halfway around the world and never see it, isn’t? What are we without wonder and awe? We can fly! It’s astounding. View the oceans or the tops of clouds from 30,000 feet? Wow. Look, see. Say thank you and pray the plane stays in the air as long as it’s supposed to and lands where you hoped to be. On the flight to Australia they serve ice cream bars in the middle of the night in economy class. It’s a wonder—
But back to the reason for this note: wonder and awe and sunrise on January 2nd. There was so much joy and wonder we walked the beach twice. Yes, it was very cold, and very windy. ( 12? 10? North at a gale?) So cold and windy that much to our delight the waves had frozen—
Nene kept exclaiming at every view. She picked up a two foot triangle of clear ice and had us look at the sun through it, and then set it down carefully—“Don’t break it!” It was more holy, more sacred than a window at Notre Dame. Like something angels would possess.
Then Jeff (the oldest dog) caught my attention, up on the trail near the ponds. He barked at me, which is odd— he walked back and forth almost quickly, which was also odd. He’s usually measured in his pace. I walked up the bluff and looked. He was adamant. He wanted something. He pointed toward the pond. Was someone in there? I heard ice cracking and focused over my face mask, my glasses were sort of stuck on my nose.
It was a bear. A big brown bear. Close. Across the small tidal pond in the leafless alder scrub. On January 2nd in frigid weather. She should be asleep. She is alone and in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fish & Game, the police, all know about her being in town, still. People see her. Take pictures. Follow the tracks down streets. Nature is supposed to take its course. I had hoped she was in bed, safe.
Jeff and I have never been this close to a bear. Neither of us moved. We watched her, she sat down and watched us. Then she got up, turned, and slowly ambled away. There was no threat at all. She was, like the yoga pose, a humble warrior. And she was dragging her back leg. It’s the same bear that was wounded last summer. Nene and Beth scrambled up and saw her too. The other dogs, Trixie and puppy Rosey stood still as Jeff. Good to know this is their instinctual response. We hustled toward the sunrise, and the bear walked slowly toward the frozen river.
“She’s looking for food,” Nene, who is also a vet, said. “Poor thing.” Earth stood hard as iron. Water like a stone.
She looked fat, though.
We walked in silence a little while. Thinking about the fate of the bear, thinking about the beautiful and cruel world and how it is both at the same time, even on this little stretch of beach. And mostly, how much we love it, and how lucky we are to share it with friends.
