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Finding Home
by Suzanne Vadnais Monson
I was called to this sacred river valley by something ancient. I felt it the very
first time I visited.
Some 20-odd years ago when I began my transformation into becoming a valley girl,
I made a vow to safeguard this place. It actually exists in one of my endless journals.
This river, the only one in the world that is protected from top to bottom, is connected
to something so much bigger than me, and everything around it plays a part in its
evolution. I have always known that one of my jobs was guardian of sacred spaces.
Why else did I plant close to 100,000 pine trees in the Superior National Forest?
It was about more than making up for the endless paper I use for strong stories and
bold artwork. It is about giving something back.
There is an old-world charm blended with real-world sophistication that rolls off
the people who grew up in this enchanted river valley. I never dreamt I'd ever meet
a man big enough to handle my tendency toward radical feminism, yet there he was,
managing the hardware store on main street in Osceola. On our first date, when I
was trying to let Jim know that I am smarter than he is by quoting some impressive
author, he told me, "I don't know who this expert of yours is, but I trust my
guts on this one." Like much of this place he's spent his entire life enjoying,
this guy is a perfect example of a St. Croix Valley native: strong and distinct,
a personality that catches your eye, kind of like those majestic white pines that
used to fill the bluffs in huge stands towering 100 feet into the air. It takes a
lot of stamina and grit to master growing up with so much Big City just a stone's
throw away.
A deer whisperer
The best way to experience the difference between life in the valley and life an
hour west of here and is to imagine sitting alone in the woods for a week so still
and quiet the deer approach you and actually nuzzle your face. Jim did this as a
boy. When you walk in the woods with him, he whistles to the deer he encounters in
a way that stops them dead in their tracks. Their ears perk up. They turn. And then,
miraculously, they move toward him. Jim Monson is a deer whisperer. In those moments
when my husband beats himself up for only having a degree in computer networking,
I remind him that he knows how to do things they don't teach in school.
I'm working hard on not taking for granted that I live in this unbelievably gorgeous
place, but I have to admit it can be easy to get caught up in what often seems like
the mine fields of daily existence. I can count on one hand the number of times I've
stood at the bluff in awe this year. I should be there every day. The view is deserving
of this kind of adoration. But I trust it's going to be there so it becomes easy
to let other things take precedence. At first, I was blown away every day. I saw
my first opossum, watched an eagle take flight from a White Pine right above my head,
met Great Blue Heron babies days after they were born. I'm working on keeping the
awe I felt at first sight alive and well thousands of glances later.
What I like most about living in this majestic part of the world is about more than
oh-my-god landscapes and frolicking critters. In this quiet village we actually know
each other. The town is small enough and I've lived here long enough that it's possible
to say hello and get an honest answer when I ask "how's it goin'?"
"Better than chopped liver," Judy replied the other day.
"Well that doesn't sound so great."
"You're right," she added with a soft sigh "I'm having a tough time
today, just feel kind of sad."
I stopped moving. "Tell me about that," I offered. I care about this woman.
She knows this. She lets me in.
Genuinely engaged
I am blessed to live with people who are genuinely engaged. In Grand Marais, my last
attempt at creating a community I could call home, I'd always been an outsider, a
mouthy college girl from St. Paul with weird ideas. A tree-hugger. A womanist. Here,
in sweet little Osceola, my postmaster reads poetry to me. Sue at the Super Value
offers tips on managing menopause. And Pam at the hardware store tells me stories
about how the men don't think she knows what she's doing. Hardware really is a guy
thing, you know. I get to laugh and enjoy soulful conversation with the folks I encounter
as I run my daily errands. I get to feel connected to my place. I had no idea how
these authentic interactions that mark my daily ramblings would be the glue I would
need to paste my world back together when my sister-in-law committed suicide.
Something died inside of me when we lost Holly. I was blown so far off course by
the tragedy of what happened I have a hard time accurately remembering an entire
year of my life. It feels like a movie when I look back. I see myself running an
art residency, see myself driving around in my car, see myself sobbing on the couch,
in my bed, on the bench by the water fall where we sprinkled her ashes. What was
so awful she couldn't talk about it? How could anyone feel so cut off they could
not ask for help? How could death seem like the only option? I know in my heart that
if she knew there were people around her who cared and wanted to help, Holly would
still be here. But she didn't feel that way. She felt alone.
Many of us do. It is a challenging kind of reckoning. We are alone, when we come
in and when we go out. But while we're here, we are connected to everything we share
the planet with. How has it come to be that so many of us have forgotten this? I
worry that the isolation Holly felt has become epidemic. In a country where most
of us commute to work in cities an hour or more from our homes, we have added another
job to our plate: managing road rage. We eat and sleep at home, but spend very little
real time there. And much of this little time we have is often spent attending to
the chores of maintaining a home, a family, a lifestyle. Rarely is there time to
go out and mingle with our neighbors, actually engaging in meaningful conversation.
Do more, have more
I fear that this thing that marks us as human, this ability to care deeply, is disintegrating
under the weight of the pressure to do more, have more, be more. What if in the process
we lose sight of the fact that only in our connections to other people do we experience
genuine, messy, love? What if we forget to mingle? What if we're too busy to notice
that someone right next to us desperately needs a hand? What if we are too stressed
to make time to get to know Bill at the hardware store? We will never know how it
feels to be attached to a gruff old timer who's had both of his knees replaced and
is holding off on surgery for his hips, because it's too hard to heal at his age.
He still wants to carry that 50-pound bag of sunflower seeds to your car, even though
it is tough for him to walk. Can you imagine thinking that this guy is just some
anonymous old man hobbling after you as you dash to your car, speeding off to the
next item on your lengthy to-do list?
I know it's radical, but I actually love this guy. He reminds me of my Uncle Eddy,
a spunky men's clothing salesman who died too young from lung cancer. That I get
to play with a man who reminds me of someone who filled my life with light when I
was a little girl is something no amount of Big City paychecks can replace. It's
a heart and soul thing, a deep, middle-of-the-gut thing, a human frailty thing. Knowing
people, actually honoring their stories by listening, is all about this. I can't
let Bill carry my Sunnies. I carry them and walk slow so I can listen to his stories.
I find him fascinating. I want to know this man more than I want to get home in record
time.
That I live in a place where I can honestly acknowledge something as terrible as
suicide in daily conversation helps me come to terms with tragedy. It helps me begin
to feel safe again, something I was pretty sure was a fantasy after Holly checked
out.
It wasn't until this spring that I knew I was making my way back to the land of the
living. I was walking out of the post office when John approached me.
"Hey, how are you?" he asked, leaning in for a hug. I stopped moving. He
cares about me. I honor this.
I tell the truth. "I'm doing okay John, it's getting better. Thanks for asking."
We've known each other for the entire 20-odd years I've been out here. In one of
our first meetings, he dared to tell me he is a recovering alcoholic. He was one
of the first people I told about Holly. I knew he wouldn't freak out.
The very first time I touched the soil on the shores of this mighty river, I heard
it call my name. I stopped. I listened. I let it in.
Suzanne Vadnais Monson is an arts educator, creativity coach and the author of
Enrichuals: 64 Cards to Jump-start Your Creativity. She is underway on her spirited
guide to creative self-care, Navigating By Stardust, to be published in the Spring
of 2006. You can reach her at (715) 294-4522 or by e-mail at comeoutandplay@cornernet.com
Copyright © 2005 Suzanne Vadnais Monson. All rights reserved. |
| July 2005 |
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