You Never Know

By a certain age, most of us are able to recognize our own imprints on the paths our lives have taken. For better or for worse. We know ourselves well enough and, if we’re at all self-aware, we have an inkling of how we’re perceived by others. Then something unexpected happens, and we realize we don’t know anything at all.

This week, on the island of Maui, I have spent time at the school where I once taught and it feels like I have been dropped into my own, long-ago past. Everything is different. Everything is the same.

View fullsize

I was twenty-six - on the cusp of my own adulthood - when I arrived the first time. I came alone to this tropical paradise with a newborn baby and no teaching experience, to work with kids less than a decade younger than myself. How I managed to stay one step ahead of them, I’ll never know, but we sang, and laughed, and talked about life. Some 39 years later, some of those same students gathered over dinner to tell stories on me – each sharing a pivotal moment in their lives at which I had the honor to be present. We sang, we laughed, and we talked about life. Though they are adults now, I cannot help but think of them as my ‘girls,’ and feel protective and proud of where their own paths have led them.

View fullsize

Maui is a magical place all on its own. But for me it is also the place where we grew up together, these girls and I, and that experience is relived as easily as the heady scent of gardenias out the window, the sight of lush, green valleys that roll down the mountainside, and the cacophony of raucous doves at dawn. I feel humbled beyond words by the honor they pay, and the warmth we share even after all these years. The experience is a reminder of the importance of being ‘present’ in our lives and open to the people around us, no matter on what island we happen to land.

And then there is this: None of us pay close enough attention to the influence teachers have well beyond the classroom – for better and for worse. The things we say and do leave indelible marks on the kids who cross our paths. They matter. We matter. We cannot know the influence we have in forming the people those children will become. But if we’re very, very lucky, they’ll invite us over for dinner and remind us.

There is More to Come

Today’s that very special day in the Minnesota calendar when neighbors venture out of doors bearing checklists of all they want to do before the summer comes. We greet each other in the street and recount stories of the long winter we’ve just been through together and alone. We mark the height of tulip stems just peeking above the ground, and pull aside fall’s crusty leaves to expose the first, delicate blue snow drops to the welcome sun. It’s not that the weather is perfectly spring-like today or that we’ve haven’t already had a few sporadic better ones. It’s just that instinct tells us today’s the day that it’s okay to hope.

Today also marks the first anniversary of my retirement, the passing of the year in which friends cautioned me to do nothing more than feel the weight lift off my shoulders. They told me to register in my body and soul the absence of an obligation to ‘work,’ and nibble only incrementally at the edges of what’s next. Above all, they cautioned me to be forgiving and patient with myself.

And though I haven’t entirely followed their counsel, I’ve enjoyed this winter the extraordinary luxury of listening undisturbed to Minnesota’s falling snow beside a quiet fire as I quilt, and to the cacophony of randy birds beyond John’s San Francisco deck (spring comes far earlier there).  I’ve reinstituted the glorious habit of lunching with long-neglected friends and I’ve reopened the space (and given myself permission) to read and play the piano, to nap and dream of who I want to be.

I’ve also, of course, enjoyed all the busy-ness and connection that go with the birthing of a book. Fan mail has arrived from strangers, and friends from various and random parts of my life have popped up at nearly all my readings. New friends have emerged, as well. I want to thank from the bottom of my heart every single person who has picked up my book and read it. I know my competition is measured in all of life’s other busy moments and the many wonderful writers on the shelf. You have humbled me by your attention, enthusiasm and delight. It has been a joy to share my story with you.

And so, this magic year’s gone by quickly, and I’m starting to take bigger bites of that question, ‘what’s a girl to do?’ The last time I had to ask myself was forty-some years ago, when I graduated from college with no idea of who I was or what I wanted. I like my chances better now. The opportunities are endless – companionship, and writing and peaceful contemplation will surely be involved, as will some investment in the community around me.

I’m not quite ready, yet, to let go this state of wonder and suspension that I feel; I am repelled by the political ugliness that swarms just outside my door; and sometimes, it’s hard to be optimistic about my aging body and mind. But I love the simple idea that propels me into spring: there is more to come. 

Shooting the Bolt

Tragic news today, another death recorded in the annals of Antarctic exploration. British adventurer Henry Worsley died this morning in Punta Arenas, Chile, after aborting his attempt at the first unsupported solo crossing of Antarctica. He was thirty miles from the finish line.

In my recent book talks about Trans-Antarctica’s successful crossing twenty-five years ago, I have become too dismissive of twenty-first century exploration of this dangerous continent. Not only have the biggest records already been broken, I have told my audiences, but the communications and transportation apparatus are increasingly sophisticated and reliable, making the risk less acute (as if, without risk, there would be no reason to go).

Worsley, for example, filed daily audio postcards on the web and kept his followers up to date with Tweets. He was able to call for fairly immediate support when he realized the trouble he was in, and to record an audio farewell. So I am brought up sharp to realize that none of these advantages kept him alive. I am humbled by my own hubris. Antarctic’s punishing cold, impossible winds, and high altitude remain relentless, no matter the sophistication of all the stuff an explorer brings along.

I don’t think I truly realized how dangerous our own Antarctic adventure - the first unmechanized crossing of the continent - was until the expedition team was nearly half way home. Their continual battle with the elements and my own struggle with uncooperative airplanes slowly pierced my inherently naïve optimism. I began to realize – when it was too late to do anything but keep going - that we’d be extremely lucky if everyone on our team, or the dozens we flew on and off the continent, made it out alive. In fact, near the end of a journey over four times the length of Worsley's, one that flirted with Antarctic winter on either end, a plane with our film crew on board crashed into a snow bank. And with only sixteen miles to go, team member Keizo Funatsu, was lost in a blizzard for over thirteen hours. How close we came!

I know next to nothing about the Worsley expedition - I was just another armchair follower - and can offer no analysis or judgment of what might have gone right and wrong, even if I wanted to. I can only mourn with others a family’s very public loss, and remember that, but for the grace of everything I do and do not understand, we were spared a similar tragedy in 1990.

Our goal in launching the Trans-Antarctica Expedition was to bring attention to the continent and to sway the contemporary debate about its future. Worsley was raising money to aid wounded veterans in an expedition timed to commemorate the 100th anniversary of Sir Ernest Shackleton’s aborted 1915 attempt. Both expeditions had valuable and worthwhile purposes that made the risk seem reasonable. Their bold adventures have inspired millions.

But let’s be honest. Neither expedition would ever have occurred had not the explorers possessed what, for us mere mortals, seems an inexplicable and slightly mad desire to conquer this, the most remote and dangerous place on earth.  No matter how much we help them prepare behind the scenes, the ultimate success of such death-defying adventure depends on the emotional and physical stamina and good judgment of those who step onto the ice, and on their ability to face down the many factors beyond their control. It doesn’t matter that I, and everyone reading this, take statistically far greater risks every day when we climb into our cars, build houses on flood zones or venture onto beaches where strong waves may carry us away. We all make choices and we live with the consequences. None of us can judge others’ motivations or deeds. We can only admire and celebrate a person who understood his own passion, weighed the risk, and died pursuing his dream. My best wishes to the Worsley family.

Hear Henry Worsley’s moving farewell message, “Shooting the Bolt,” to his followers on his final day: https://soundcloud.com/shackletonsolo

Make a contribution to Shackleton Solo