This is an aimless blog that gives voices to small joys, quirky happenstances, everyday occurrences, and occasional pesterings as the author navigates her life paths as an educator, transplanted Wyomingite, traveler, and curiosity seeker.
Screeching around our home, the cicadas that come with the onset of the rainy season sound like an army of broken hard drives droning in free space. They can reach up to 120 decibels and can be heard in the heat of the day right before a storm. Their chorus is an extraordinary buzz.
Funny true life story about this part of our Brasília life. Two years ago, two friends were visiting from Alaska and Washington, D.C. when we heard a loud sound in the house. Uli was out of the house somewhere, and the sound seemed to be coming from his office. It sounded like the death of a computer, and I immediately thought that there must be some sort of hardware melting down. Our friends and I rushed into his office to intervene and search for the origin of the noise. We looked and looked and eventually found a two-inch bug happily clinging to the screen window while emitting this broken computer sound. After having a good laugh, our friends made a recording and we started to hear cicadas everywhere.
Now, when the cicadas really get noisy, I cannot help but thinking of flying broken hard drives.
Recently, Uli was introduced to Mr. Rogers, so last weekend we watched this documentary. It was beautiful and almost felt like a movie that has somehow given you a hug while watching it. And sometimes you need a hug. While not a central piece of my childhood, Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood was still on air and, together with the science show for kids 3-2-1 Contact, it was PBS programming that we watched on occasion. Most notably, the theme song and some of Mr. Rogers' routines such as changing his sweater and shoes are pieces of Americana that we all know and recognize.
The film got me thinking about neighbors and the common good, finding what is special in every child (and human being), and how effective and poignant such an example of kindness can be. He tackled tough themes but did so with so much calm, focus, and goodness. His authenticity and empathy seemed to pervade his actions and motivate his encounters with others.
Wouldn't it be fine if we all could be such a neighbor for one another? Wouldn't it be fine to encounter gentleness and empathy in those we meet? Wouldn't it be possible for us to go back, put on a fresh sweater and change our shoes, and just enjoy the company of a neighbor?
As for me, I am not sure I have the right wardrobe but I'm going to see if I can seek such goodness and emulate such authenticity in my neighborhood of this universe.
Not long after I posted. Less that 24 hours after I posted.
It rained.
For four glorious days, the parched earth and dust gave way to sweet droplets of rain. The fragrance. The decadence.
On Monday, I had to drop something off at work quickly. When I exited the building, there were clouds rumbling. By the time I reached our apartment, the sky was sputtering. I arrived to run raggedly through the house shouting to my husband about the rain when everything opened and it poured.
Really there is nothing sweeter. Nothing more refreshing. More nourishing.
We haven't had a tiny drip drop of rain in 117 days, I read this morning. With temperatures near 35 Celsius/95 Fahrenheit and relative humidity around 15% Brasília is parched. Not yet record-breaking, 2020 is currently in 8th position in historical records for the length of the dry season with predictions that it could maybe rain just a little bit on the 22nd. There is a fine dust layered everywhere on everything. It makes you feel lethargic and a bit slow. This is a normal part of the seasonal changes here, and it really isn't hotter or drier than some of the arid prairie in Wyoming or deserts of Arizona where I have spent time. However, as my skin becomes flaky and cracked and I constantly gulp down liters of water, I have to admit that a bit of rain would be nice.
A friend and proud Brasíliense Nicolas Behr published a bilingual collection of poems worth a read if you'd like to understand our home town. Here's a .pdf in an online version: It Will Never Rain Again.
Until it rains, I think I will just settle into some poetry, brew a cup of strong, Brazilian coffee, and put some music on in the background from a place where it surely must be raining.
The bored girl Alice could not resist temptation nor the adventures that awaited. It has been a while since I read Lewis Caroll, but I do remember the nonsense that awaited Alice in Wonderland. The story that unfolds after she follows the white rabbit is whimsical and dangerous at the same time. My college lit class studied the book's symbols and Victorian references at length, but I still think the appeal of the story is its oddity and adventure. What if there were such a universe down a rabbit hole or through the looking glass? Would you go down the rabbit hole?
We started listening to a podcast called Rabbit Hole about what the internet is doing to us. Based on the YouTube radicalization of a twenty-something in West Virginia, the investigation looks at YouTube and its algorithms and how they shape thought. The content is well-researched and thoughtful, tracing how this young man oscillates from conspiracy theories and truths on all sides of the political spectrum. It is well worth a listen, especially with such a powerful platform like YouTube at the center of the discussion and knowing that its reach is unimaginable and global (see this article about Brazil). About half way through the series, I can draw parallels with which stories are and which stories are not coughed up on my Twitter, Google, or Facebook feeds. It is alarming, particularly so when we seem so ready to take what we see and hear at face value.
I want to think about this. How did we get here?
Are we not teaching and practicing enough critical thinking? Not only our "children" but also our adults do not seem to have the media literacy to validate sources and fact check information. When our "feeds" give us like-minded and like-sourced material, it can pull us down a tunnel of misinformation in which every publication swirls together into a loop of the same lies or truths. Would we recognize real facts if they came from another source? Do we have enough practice at dissonance and adequate exposure to multiple sides of an argument? Can we teach ourselves to get out of the rabbit hole? Can we resist the temptation of an incendiary and righteous trip down the rabbit hole in the first place?
What responsibility do big tech companies have in all of this? Have they built such perfect artificial intelligence that feeds into our vulnerabilities as humans that we do not have the will to escape? Where is personal responsibility in all of this? And, if big tech has some responsibility, how shall they enact it? Flagging or removing content is a form of censorship. What power to decide what can and cannot be seen... should this be in the hands of a company who wants you to watch and who depends on your views to generate income? should this power be in the hands of government who might easily manipulate the masses?
Can we escape our polarization - socially and politically - to come together over anything? Can we agree that some ideas and symbols are simply hateful and should be stopped altogether? We are so encamped in our positions that I have doubts that we can recognize the Mad Hatter or the Queen of Hearts... let alone the emperor without clothes!
Is this a new problem? I suspect it is a different problem. Not that talking heads, tabloids, or idle gossip did not spread its fair share of misinformation, but this is so much more instant and so much more available than ever before. Why wouldn't you believe an authoritative voice on YouTube or a Facebook post that your neighbor shared? At what time in history did we have so much information at our fingertips? How do we sit through the tea party and sort through surprising fact and absurd fiction? When did high quality journalism become something to attach? When did our media become entertainment relying on clicks and likes? What it always this way? Is there any source that we all collectively can trust with the facts? If not, truth seeking is a rather weary journey.
See? There are a lot of serious questions. As for me, I'll be on the look out for that pesky white rabbit.
Two summers in college I worked as a camp counselor in the Black Hills at Outlaw Ranch (OR). It was an impressionable time and one in which I was susceptible to bouts of reflection and philosophizing. It was a Christian camp, and I was surrounded by other truth seekers and in really good company. We spent the summer creating community by hiking at sunrise, singing silly songs, worshiping by the fireside, canoeing across the lake, and mucking bathrooms, cabins, and the kitchen. The summer at OR was divided into two distinct types of camps: youth camp for different ages and family camp. Personally, I had never experienced family camp, but we had speakers and musicians and families who came for a week at a time. As counselors, this meant that we adopted families of all ages and led activities for kids in the morning and families in the afternoon. The guest speakers often were thoughtful professor types or authors or thinkers from the greater South Dakota region. The musicians created music connected to their faith journeys and the area. For me, the time with peers, families, thinkers, music, and nature was a perfect input for a bit of wondering and questioning.
One of the summers I was there, the other counselors and I spent a lot of energy questioning what we knew to be true about our faith and the world. We received a guest speaker one week who shared a life journey in which he lost and found his faith; he was a relentless questioner. I liked this but it was new for me to be exposed to Christians who were willing to ask deliberate, tough, earth-shattering questions about religion, the bible, and Jesus. It felt refreshing and a bit dangerous. Even now, I remember a distinct conversation about reconciling doubt and questions with faith. Our guest shared his view that the best faith arises from uncomfortable questions. In fact, he went further to say that his faith was kept active and alive by questioning and coming back for more conversation. Describing his journey as one in which he always emerged with a pocketful of questions but has determined to keep moving forward, propelled by his faith, he was a good model for how I felt at that time. It is a phrase that I have tucked away for over twenty years and keep circling back to. I do have questions.
That was a long narrative to say that I have found my voice and have
begun to write. The pandemic has given me space to question, and I have a
lot of questions right now that I would like to explore. After a
meandering walk through my neighborhood, I am confronted with the
inexplicable end to a paved path before meeting another. Even those who
constructed the path must have wondered as they painted a large question
mark at the end. Did they run out of asphalt? Was there no plan to
continue further than a certain number of meters? Was the plan altered
after or before this bike path was built? What was going on here where
the sidewalk ends after several kilometers? There are interrupted sidewalks like this all over Brasília. Why? I guess I will have to keep asking and to be comfortable with a pocketful of questions.
It's the nation's biggest holiday with glitter, wigs, samba, and silly costumes almost everywhere, even in Brasilia. We went out to meet our Portuguese tutor at a local cafe on Saturday morning and the spirit was already moving the block in a neighborhood celebration (yes, at 11 a.m.!). With a spirit of anything goes and everyone belongs, I was already tapping my toes and looking for that long-lost glitter...
In town this evening running errands, I walked past this sign. The message hit me over the head. The sign must be a sign.
IN CASE OF PAIN, DANCE
I've been in a bit of a funk lately in pondering the planet, ecology, humanity, our communities, our discourse with each other, and my own place. Perhaps I should blame it on over-consumption of news as I think that if my head were in the sand and I were more oblivious, my mood would not be contaminated. Perhaps I should blame the dry examination and brooding that happens after the holidays when I set out to tackle a new year. Perhaps it is that very sentiment of "tackling" life that is to blame, whether a personal or cultural mindset. Perhaps we're just in a very heavy moment of history when there is more cognitive dissonance and discord than I can handle. I don't know. But, sometimes, we have to be in the moment that we are in to examine and work beyond it. There isn't another way...
...unless we might dance! One of my tacklings this new year has been to find community in Brasília and to learn some Brazilian dances. These endeavors both bring me distraction and joy. We are attempting some Forró and Samba de Gafeira at a local dance school, and the entire community has embraced us with friendly welcomes and chit-chat during lessons. Maybe the secret is turning my funk into a bit of toe-tapping Bruno Mars.
Sometimes the best way to find respite is to break up your routine and get out of town for a weekend. We took advantage of the MLK holiday and took off for the nearby town of Pirenópolis. The short two-hour trek from Brasília (150 km) is a beautiful drive across the cerrado or wind-swept savanna. The Portuguese colonial town is clearly an accessible escape for weekenders from the capital city, and it was particularly full of visitors on Saturday evening. The cobblestone streets are lined with vendors, restaurants, and guesthouses. We were tucked back from the party zone for the evening and choose to put our energies towards exploration of the terrain. We joined a guided trip through the information office to the State Park -- and it was lucky we did as our little car could not have possibly handled some of the rough access roads. We swam in waterfalls, awaited a rainstorm under shelter, walked to rock outcroppings and viewpoints, and breathed in the fresh air and surroundings. In less than 48 hours we found total escape from reality, and it felt rather good!
18th Century Church
Side street in the town
Ahhhhh! The Cerrado!
First waterfall of the day
And the second
Swimming in the cool, clean water (right before the rain)
Rocks!
Pretty spot for a selfie
Third waterfall where we swam (and got bitten by little itchy bugs)
Vista point - one of the highest in the state of Goiás at around 1,300 meters (4,500 feet)
Context is everything, right? I love to hike and, if given a choice, I spend my free time outdoors. For me, as a Wyomingite, a hike means an ascent, a sense of accomplishment, and a view. With my husband, we have had many a debate between my concept of hike and the German sense of wanderung. Basically, my version involves a mountain and a scramble to the top and his version involves more of a walk... I remember when I was a student at Augustana and meeting fellow students from Minnesota who went camping at lakes! (Yup. For me, camping involves mountains.) In Indonesia, I understood that hiking might mean walking on a trail in town or climbing up a volcano, probably in flip flops.
Here in Brazil, it seems that the attraction that pulls people out of their urban lives and draws them to nature is the waterfall. Or at least that is the case around Brasilia. And it probably involves proper hiking gear -- you know, a bikini or speedo and flip flops.
My fellow hiking friends and I headed outside of town last weekend to a waterfall trail head about 40 minutes away. We saw four waterfalls, including the Spanish waterfall, Indaia, the Bride's Veil, and the backside of Itiquira. It was not a mountain, but it was beautiful. Take a look.
The moments we have together can be so fleeting and can seem so inconsequential. Life is structured that way, I suppose, so that humans don't realize how precious each moment is or how normal interactions shape who we are. In this post, I want to share my rememberings about my dad's youngest sister who passed away two days after her 52nd birthday in November from cancer. I am not sure that there are any words that make her death less tragic. She was the aunt who still lived on the farm when I was a little girl, the one most available to us when we visited. Although we did not see each other often in recent years, I have many memories connected to her - and most of them make me smile. It's strange, isn't it, how family and friends are in our lives and, whether in the foreground or background, they comprise important bits of our stories.
So, in the form of a small tribute, I would like to share some of the scraps of memories I have about my Aunt Stephanie, although we called her Gussy.
When we were kids, she lived on the farm and was still in school. After all, she was only a decade older than me! We went to watch her cheer lead at some basketball games. When she was at home on the farm, she would read stories with us, bake cookies and cakes, and sometimes sit down at the piano and play. She and my other aunts would play with my long hair. I loved the attention. My brother and I loved to visit the farm in part because of my youngest aunt hanging around.
I can remember going outside to climb and play on bails of hay during a particular Christmas visit in the snow. We ascended to hide and peek down on one another. I can also remember riding in the car with her and cranking up the music. It was so cool.
Once I wrote a letter to the farm and addressed it "Uncle Gus" as a joke that seemed funny to me as an adolescent. My Uncle Steve and my Aunt Gussy didn't open it for some time because they weren't sure who it was for! That was goofy.
My two youngest aunts were really close and lived together in a nearby town when they were probably in their twenties. Joe and I got to visit and hang out with them in Bowman. That was really cool! My memories do not totally connect but I can remember them taking us cruising and also to the movies, perhaps to get us to be sleepy so we wouldn't be so attentive at a movie that kids normally wouldn't watch... We also made cookies, of course.
When my aunt went to school for a while in Dickinson, we exchanged old-fashioned, snail mail letters. I loved pen pals and had several. Aunt Gussy wrote back and forth with me quite a bit to tell me her happenings and respond to mine. Even in the last years, I would pop a postcard in the mail now and then to randomly say hello. Sometimes, my aunt would send me a card with a stick of gum in it. That always made me smile. It's kind of cute, right?
There were a lot of celebrations that happened in North Dakota. Anniversary parties for my grandparents and the weddings of almost all of my aunts and uncles. This was a blast. Getting dressed up and running around with the other kids, watching the grown ups dance, and just enjoying the big family. I remember my aunt at these events as she paid attention to all of us rugrats. I even remember her pretty (and fun) wedding when I must have been in junior high school!
Gussy had a really dry sense of humor that made people laugh. She made up a song about Missoula, Montana that still sticks in my memory. She would tell stories about her dog that were hilarious. Some of her jokes weren't very funny except for the telling. We loved her for that.
I really looked forward to seeing my aunt as an adult and thought it was cool to have her around. She visited my family in Wyoming when I was a teenager and lived with us for a short while. Because they lived "Out West" (to my family this means Washington state), we didn't see each other often. But I do remember looking forward to seeing my aunt when there were gatherings here and there. It was always special when they came, and I was super excited when she came to celebrate my wedding to Uli a decade ago.
When I went to Seattle for a conference a couple of years ago, we met up for an evening to have dinner and wander around the city. She and Troy were great hosts, and I enjoyed reconnecting with them. In fact, we talked about coming out to visit at some point with Uli. That would have been fun.
All in all, I would not say that my aunt and I were particularly close in recent years. But she will always be part of my tribe and a piece of my story. It is heartbreaking that she left us all so soon and was so sick. It happened so fast and so unexpectedly. I loved that even when she must have been feeling really icky, we exchanged emails, often with her stories of baby bunnies in the yard or a short note about her faith and peace. I imagine this small tribute might have made her smile - I hope it would have - and she may have had other stories to add. I'm grateful that these shiny fragments remain to remember the moments we shared together. Rest in peace, Aunt Gussy.
It's summer time in Brazil, and we are almost upon the summer solstice in the southern hemisphere (seems weird, right?). You might imagine that it is hot here. But, it's not really. Instead, we are in the middle of the rainy season. When it rains here, it pours. And it is raining a lot. The skies clear between storms but sometimes we have a downpour more than once a day. Driving during a storm can be particularly hazardous as visibility gets pretty abysmal and the streets flood with several feet of water to plow through with the car. The high plain of Brasilia is bursting with green outdoors, looking lush in stark contrast to the dry season when everything gets brown and dehydrated.
The truth is that I kind of like the weather and the moisture, but the truth for my houseplants is something different. One plant has already been sacrificed to the winter rains in a sad, withering death spiral that finished in the compost bin. The others are not so happy with the diminished sunlight and cool temperatures. Today, I moved all of my greenery next to the windows in hopes that they might perk up and begin to dry out a bit. Who knew that it would be so hard to keep them feeling happy and green?
Last week I made the long sojourn to the U.S. for Thanksgiving via São Paulo and Mexico City and finally to Mexicali where my folks picked me up.
It's funny because my home has always been in Wyoming in the same red house on the top of the hill on the north side of town. In my mind, it is a fixed, immutable space where I could imagine sitting at the kitchen table or counter drinking coffee in the morning, watching the occasional cow or horse approach the back fence, listening to birds chirp, or, very rarely, see a squirrel be chased up a tree by whichever lucky mutt was part of the family. The familiar. The routine. Memories stacking up one against another of the brown cabinets and sitting clad in robes to read the paper or watch the morning news. This is not romanticized. This is the fabric of the every day home to which I have returned from every corner of the earth. The richness of the fabric was not in its presentation but in its details, the little frog figurine that hung from the bar stool counter top, the mismash of coffee mugs in the cupboard, the treasures in the junk drawer under the counter, the grandfather clock chiming on the quarter hour, my dad's storage in the cabinetry above his space... I do not know if any of this is very important, and I wondered how I would feel about not returning to that home any more.
What is even funnier is that this time I returned "home" to a place that was not home. My parents' new place in Arizona is nothing like the split-level I grew up in. But, even situated in a retirement community underneath the flat, wide skies of the desert, it maintained the heart of a home. Some of the familiar pieces of childhood made their way south to this new location, even the grandfather clock. But, I am not sure that those things really matter. It felt like home because of the people who were in it. Resuming conversations, deepening relationships, retelling stories, and returning to family made it home. The dog racing after a ball, the turkey in the roaster, getting creamed at Scrabble by my mother, Dad "resting his eyes" in his chair after making lefse, and drinking coffee around the table in the morning. These are perhaps the pieces that make a place home and I enjoyed the return.
