I’m so glad you shared this and included that poem. It’s the only poem my dad ever liked and so I wrote it out in my high school handwriting and framed it for him to set on his bedside table. After he died (way too young--he was great) I took it back.
As for peace, I just don’t know where to get it these days. Or maybe I don’t know how to hang in to it for more than a minute or so. Toddler are really loud, folks.
Your titles together say so much of it -- when dark internal times stalk me in the middle of the night, being able to see stars, even one or two between clouds, helps me find equilibrium if not peace. The stars are very forgiving, and I somehow find it hard to believe they're uncaring. Same for being among trees, or near water. Human attention and troubles can be short in one's lifetime, but time is long and these things can remind us of that. Beautiful reminders, Chris.
When I lived on the Blackfoot River (1978-1983), in a 12x12 cabin just across the swinging bridge, I found myself in a goldmine of peaceful moments... utter silence as the world and the river stopped after two feet of overnight snow, followed by a temperature of twenty-below-zero... standing quietly outside my door as three chickadees and a nuthatch took turns landing on my fingertips and taking sunflower seeds from my palm... the nights of just one sound, the crackle of the wood stove fire...
I’ve been struggling to find where to go for peace lately. The wood drake line from Berry always sticks to me — yet why can’t I draw myself outside? Is it the smoke still here, the claustrophobia of home buying, the latent fear baked into the pandemic? Who knows.
If we don’t find ways to bring peace and compassion into the world, and aren’t we just contributing to the anger and hatred? I don’t think it’s a silly question at all. Also that is one of my all-time favorite poems.
Sep 21, 2022·edited Sep 21, 2022Liked by Chris La Tray
Thank you, as always, for this. I both love autumn - my favorite colors, some of my favorite flavors, the season (mostly) of my birth and my parents’ - and also struggle with it. I can do wintering, I can do summering, but something about the transition, wrapping up the busy season and slowing down without hitting full stop just yet, often sends me in a tizzy (if summer heat didn’t do so already). My mind buzzes, like all the bees anxiously gathering their last bits of pollen from whatever’s still blooming decided to choose my head as their hive for the winter.
So. Peace feels difficult to come by these days, feels like a distant memory to my body. I too feel most at peace when I’m disconnected from the internet. It’s not necessarily where I’m happiest - I need community just as much as I need isolation in wilderness - but it can be a Venn diagram. I’m grateful I got to experience a glorious week in a remote part of Canyonlands earlier this summer, sans cell service, wandering and wondering and thinking and not thinking. Amazing how expansive that can feel in the moment; and how little it takes for the body to forget that state of being. That is the work and the practice, I suppose: to remember stillness, to not allow yourself to forget serenity.
I find joy and peace in connecting with my family and friends. I am so very fortunate to have been able to maintain relationships with friends from every season of my life.
I have to confess that peace has been evasive over the past several years. I have been dealing with a succession of physical challenges. I who for so many, many years have basked in the luxury of great physical health.
At the end of 2020, symptoms delivered me to the office of a gynecological surgeon who informed me that I had endometrial cancer. In March 2021 I had surgery and three weeks after was informed that the cancer was classified as Stage 1A. Good news. No indication of transmission into the lymphatic system. Really great news.
Going forward, in August 2021, I was diagnosed with a really humongous cataract in my left eye that rendered me legally blind for a number of months. Finally between April 2022 and August 2022, cataracts were removed from both of my eyes. Presently my vision is better than ever.
In November 2021 I began to experience pain in my left leg. Since then I have had physical therapy, an X-ray, a cortisone shot, and an MRI. Both of my hips are shot. I have been in pain all of these months, day and night. I can barely walk. But I am awaiting the surgical date for my first hip replacement. Hurray! Relief and restoration are in my future.
I guess that the whole point of this is that during this extensive period during which I have had to wait for diagnosis’ and surgeries and test results, I have fought to feel peaceful. I have been so very, very, very fortunate. There have been solutions for every ailment that has assaulted me.
I wish everyone who reads this post good health, hope, and the joy of a body that functions as you would like it to. I also wish all of you a glorious autumn season. One of the greatest gifts and greatest blessings ever.
Where do I go for peace? Silence. The concerted doing of "nothing," only contemplation. Not for hours at a time, usually; maybe half an hour in the mornings, maybe 10 minutes between responsibilities during the day.
I've long aspired to this but it's been tough to force myself to practice regularly. Lately, I've been basically driven to it because right now Everything is even more A Lot than before, and nothing else helps. Nothing else I can do stop doing, and no one I can talk to, can even touch the peace I find in silence and stillness. Temporary peace, which I try to make cyclical. As Berry says: "for a time, I rest in the grace of the world." For a time.
I loved this post Chris and I have to say, this newsletter has one of my favorite comment sections on the internet.
I just returned from a trip to the Eastern Sierra/June Lake area and found deep peace in sitting beneath those mountains in complete silence other than bird calls and the wind in aspen leaves. Ah the joy of off-season travel and such a relief from the never-ending racket of traffic, sirens etc. in Los Angeles.
Peace comes to me in much the way it comes to you. When I get up at 4 a.m. every morning and go out on my porch to see if the cloud cover has lifted and stars are visible and then I listen. A few mornings ago, I heard an owl in the distance. I remember hearing Trumpeter Swans last winter. In the spring I hear frogs and birds. When I take long walks in the woods or stand on the bluffs overlooking the Salish Sea and see the islands in the distance. When I draw. When I do the yoga practice I've done since I was in my 20s. When a baby smiles at me in the grocery store. I don't know what I would do without those moments of peace.
Smoke Signals is among the best movies I've ever seen. A gift, as you said. It was Bob Dylan who played John Trudell and Jesse Ed Davis' distinctive music over the PA system at a concert in Vancouver, B.C., in the 1980s and inspired me to send away for the AKA Graffiti Man cassette tape soon after that.
That Jim Harrison quote reminds me of something my husband says a lot: "The failure state of Clever is Asshole." Pretty sure he's quoting the novelist John Scalzi. Just be kind, just be real, just take the risk of being corny.
The Fisher! I love this. I'm realizing how little I know about fishers generally; certainly I've never seen one. I love my mustelids, though; must learn about this one.
Love that you centered gratitude and peace in your post--a reminder to pause. I recall reading a buddhist quote or idea that the world is so beautiful, we just make it broken and can't remember or pause long enough to see it or remember to see it. And the world wants us to not see it, to call it corny, too light, not dark enough. As the days darken and the leaves turn golden, with new snow on the mountains this morning, I'm grateful for the new slant of light--and I'll risk sounding corny to say it. ha.
Peace comes easy to me as I read this post, Chris -- the words herein, the restful feelings brought about by reading your poetic sentences ... I feel gratefulness for all this.
Over the past couple of weeks I have discovered peace in committing to being of service to my wee family and my dearest friends and my circle of acquaintances, in that order. But more than that, I feel deep peace in the raw honesty of examining my heart and saying my Truths. There is deep peace for me in remaining present in life, open to whatever comes about from that presence.
We're in the peace zone here at the moment. Long break between renters so we're back on the flanks of Emigrant peak, with clouds and light rain, and cattle and elk bugling. I'm edging back toward my book, and my newsletter, and writing in general now that the glary smoke-particle light has died down. A year into my new job I can feel my brain coming back, and the notebook beckoning. If anyone is a podcast person -- Anderson Cooper has a new podcast about clearing out his mother's apartment, about confronting his grief over losing her, and his father and brother before them. It's very touching and real. His second episode is with Stephen Colbert, and the sheer loveliness of listening to two men talk about their real inner lives.
I’m so glad you shared this and included that poem. It’s the only poem my dad ever liked and so I wrote it out in my high school handwriting and framed it for him to set on his bedside table. After he died (way too young--he was great) I took it back.
As for peace, I just don’t know where to get it these days. Or maybe I don’t know how to hang in to it for more than a minute or so. Toddler are really loud, folks.
Your titles together say so much of it -- when dark internal times stalk me in the middle of the night, being able to see stars, even one or two between clouds, helps me find equilibrium if not peace. The stars are very forgiving, and I somehow find it hard to believe they're uncaring. Same for being among trees, or near water. Human attention and troubles can be short in one's lifetime, but time is long and these things can remind us of that. Beautiful reminders, Chris.
When I lived on the Blackfoot River (1978-1983), in a 12x12 cabin just across the swinging bridge, I found myself in a goldmine of peaceful moments... utter silence as the world and the river stopped after two feet of overnight snow, followed by a temperature of twenty-below-zero... standing quietly outside my door as three chickadees and a nuthatch took turns landing on my fingertips and taking sunflower seeds from my palm... the nights of just one sound, the crackle of the wood stove fire...
I’ve been struggling to find where to go for peace lately. The wood drake line from Berry always sticks to me — yet why can’t I draw myself outside? Is it the smoke still here, the claustrophobia of home buying, the latent fear baked into the pandemic? Who knows.
If we don’t find ways to bring peace and compassion into the world, and aren’t we just contributing to the anger and hatred? I don’t think it’s a silly question at all. Also that is one of my all-time favorite poems.
Thank you, as always, for this. I both love autumn - my favorite colors, some of my favorite flavors, the season (mostly) of my birth and my parents’ - and also struggle with it. I can do wintering, I can do summering, but something about the transition, wrapping up the busy season and slowing down without hitting full stop just yet, often sends me in a tizzy (if summer heat didn’t do so already). My mind buzzes, like all the bees anxiously gathering their last bits of pollen from whatever’s still blooming decided to choose my head as their hive for the winter.
So. Peace feels difficult to come by these days, feels like a distant memory to my body. I too feel most at peace when I’m disconnected from the internet. It’s not necessarily where I’m happiest - I need community just as much as I need isolation in wilderness - but it can be a Venn diagram. I’m grateful I got to experience a glorious week in a remote part of Canyonlands earlier this summer, sans cell service, wandering and wondering and thinking and not thinking. Amazing how expansive that can feel in the moment; and how little it takes for the body to forget that state of being. That is the work and the practice, I suppose: to remember stillness, to not allow yourself to forget serenity.
Hi Chris,
I find joy and peace in connecting with my family and friends. I am so very fortunate to have been able to maintain relationships with friends from every season of my life.
I have to confess that peace has been evasive over the past several years. I have been dealing with a succession of physical challenges. I who for so many, many years have basked in the luxury of great physical health.
At the end of 2020, symptoms delivered me to the office of a gynecological surgeon who informed me that I had endometrial cancer. In March 2021 I had surgery and three weeks after was informed that the cancer was classified as Stage 1A. Good news. No indication of transmission into the lymphatic system. Really great news.
Going forward, in August 2021, I was diagnosed with a really humongous cataract in my left eye that rendered me legally blind for a number of months. Finally between April 2022 and August 2022, cataracts were removed from both of my eyes. Presently my vision is better than ever.
In November 2021 I began to experience pain in my left leg. Since then I have had physical therapy, an X-ray, a cortisone shot, and an MRI. Both of my hips are shot. I have been in pain all of these months, day and night. I can barely walk. But I am awaiting the surgical date for my first hip replacement. Hurray! Relief and restoration are in my future.
I guess that the whole point of this is that during this extensive period during which I have had to wait for diagnosis’ and surgeries and test results, I have fought to feel peaceful. I have been so very, very, very fortunate. There have been solutions for every ailment that has assaulted me.
I wish everyone who reads this post good health, hope, and the joy of a body that functions as you would like it to. I also wish all of you a glorious autumn season. One of the greatest gifts and greatest blessings ever.
Sincerely,
Melissa
Where do I go for peace? Silence. The concerted doing of "nothing," only contemplation. Not for hours at a time, usually; maybe half an hour in the mornings, maybe 10 minutes between responsibilities during the day.
I've long aspired to this but it's been tough to force myself to practice regularly. Lately, I've been basically driven to it because right now Everything is even more A Lot than before, and nothing else helps. Nothing else I can do stop doing, and no one I can talk to, can even touch the peace I find in silence and stillness. Temporary peace, which I try to make cyclical. As Berry says: "for a time, I rest in the grace of the world." For a time.
I loved this post Chris and I have to say, this newsletter has one of my favorite comment sections on the internet.
I just returned from a trip to the Eastern Sierra/June Lake area and found deep peace in sitting beneath those mountains in complete silence other than bird calls and the wind in aspen leaves. Ah the joy of off-season travel and such a relief from the never-ending racket of traffic, sirens etc. in Los Angeles.
Peace comes to me in much the way it comes to you. When I get up at 4 a.m. every morning and go out on my porch to see if the cloud cover has lifted and stars are visible and then I listen. A few mornings ago, I heard an owl in the distance. I remember hearing Trumpeter Swans last winter. In the spring I hear frogs and birds. When I take long walks in the woods or stand on the bluffs overlooking the Salish Sea and see the islands in the distance. When I draw. When I do the yoga practice I've done since I was in my 20s. When a baby smiles at me in the grocery store. I don't know what I would do without those moments of peace.
Smoke Signals is among the best movies I've ever seen. A gift, as you said. It was Bob Dylan who played John Trudell and Jesse Ed Davis' distinctive music over the PA system at a concert in Vancouver, B.C., in the 1980s and inspired me to send away for the AKA Graffiti Man cassette tape soon after that.
That Jim Harrison quote reminds me of something my husband says a lot: "The failure state of Clever is Asshole." Pretty sure he's quoting the novelist John Scalzi. Just be kind, just be real, just take the risk of being corny.
The Fisher! I love this. I'm realizing how little I know about fishers generally; certainly I've never seen one. I love my mustelids, though; must learn about this one.
Love that you centered gratitude and peace in your post--a reminder to pause. I recall reading a buddhist quote or idea that the world is so beautiful, we just make it broken and can't remember or pause long enough to see it or remember to see it. And the world wants us to not see it, to call it corny, too light, not dark enough. As the days darken and the leaves turn golden, with new snow on the mountains this morning, I'm grateful for the new slant of light--and I'll risk sounding corny to say it. ha.
Peace comes easy to me as I read this post, Chris -- the words herein, the restful feelings brought about by reading your poetic sentences ... I feel gratefulness for all this.
Over the past couple of weeks I have discovered peace in committing to being of service to my wee family and my dearest friends and my circle of acquaintances, in that order. But more than that, I feel deep peace in the raw honesty of examining my heart and saying my Truths. There is deep peace for me in remaining present in life, open to whatever comes about from that presence.
Deep Peace to you, Chris.
Chris, Here's a quick read by Harrison on writing. Enjoy
I'm sure all you writers out there will enjoy it too.
https://lithub.com/i-hunt-and-fish-because-it-helps-my-writing-some-very-specific-writing-advice-from-jim-harrison/?utm_source=Sailthru&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Lit%20Hub%20Weekly:%20September%2017%2C%202022&utm_term=lithub_weekly_master_list
We're in the peace zone here at the moment. Long break between renters so we're back on the flanks of Emigrant peak, with clouds and light rain, and cattle and elk bugling. I'm edging back toward my book, and my newsletter, and writing in general now that the glary smoke-particle light has died down. A year into my new job I can feel my brain coming back, and the notebook beckoning. If anyone is a podcast person -- Anderson Cooper has a new podcast about clearing out his mother's apartment, about confronting his grief over losing her, and his father and brother before them. It's very touching and real. His second episode is with Stephen Colbert, and the sheer loveliness of listening to two men talk about their real inner lives.