Roll With the Ship

On our recent trip to Antarctica, we travelled on a small research ship, the Spirit of Enderby. A strong and resilient vessel, she brought us through the tough seas of the sub-Antarctic ocean, substantial pack ice, and into places a large cruise ship could never enter. 

Our cabin consisted of a sleeping berth tucked into a closet-like enclosure, which we quickly learned to love, as it kept us from being tossed out of bed in times of heavy weather! As the ship rolled, we went from hitting our heads on one bulkhead to bracing our feet against the opposite. When it pitched, we became human rolling pins, side to side. After awhile, we had cores of steel!

During the first few days, we worked to accustom ourselves to the constant motion of the ship. Walking taught us the origin of the “drunken sailor” saying, as we obeyed commands to keep “one hand for yourself, one hand for the ship.” This meant always to hold on to a rail or wall, and not carry anything with two hands. 

Sea sickness plagued many of our fellow passengers. We learned what worked for us (pressure bands, Bonine on the really bad days, and ginger lozenges). 

We learned never to fill coffee cups more than half way, and to seize any reasonably calm sea for the opportunity to shower without being thrown around on a naked bruise-hunting mission. We learned to walk. We learned to brace. We learned to live with the motion.

After awhile, we learned the real lesson: The ship is going to roll, so we might as well roll with it. There's nothing you can do about it anyway! 

And isn’t this lesson transferrable to real life and business? Sometimes storms come, and strong winds nearly blow you off your feet. Fighting the them results in sickness and stress, where rolling with them develops strong core muscles and greater balance. When the roll gets really bad, there's nothing for it but to tie yourself down and rest, meditate, or listen to a good book.

Ultimately, if we stay on dry land, we avoid the discomfort and challenge presented by stormy seas. But we also miss out on the adventure, and on the joyful discoveries of the journey and its destination. So I pick the ship. Always.

Things Are Not Always What They Seem!

Lessons from Antarctica, Part 3

We shared our flight to Invercargill with a tiny, bedraggled, elderly lady sporting a ruffled scrunchy and pink hair. I am ashamed to admit to inner eyebrow raising. She is now one of my favorite people on earth, a phenomenally gifted and successful sculptor and painter from Ireland with a lively wit and a very warm heart. 

I’m ashamed of my initial assessment, and must admit that my own appearance likely could have been more polished on that day. Beth was my first “things are not always what they seem” experience in Antarctica. 

There was also the hut at Cape Evans once occupied by Robert Falcon Scott in his effort to be the first to reach the South Pole. Scott's McMurdo hut is so much more than the remains of a camping trip. It offers history and lessons in the results of grandiosity. I spent much time pondering these.

And, the dead seal that wasn’t. As I leaned down for a closer look at this sofa-sized pile of fat and fur, it raised its head and barked its bestial bad breath right in my face!

Many of us learn over time not to take things at face value. Then we forget!

Antarctica gave me a fresh reminder to bring this caution to work with me. As a Benefit Auctioneer, my events usually involve fancy dresses and sparkly shoes. But I do one auction where the bidders show up in jeans, camo and well worn boots… and pay for their items with rolls of $100 bills. It’s one of my favorite events, because the crowd is so much fun.

Our awesome veterinarian, Dr. David Cloutier, mentioned to me once that he always asks to take on the difficult pet owners in his large practice. He’s learned that their attitude often reflects a total devotion to the welfare of their pets, sometimes moreso than the compliant people who do whatever is recommended without question.

I need to keep all these moments in mind as I go through work and life. Beth walks beside me every day now, in my heart. So does that seal!

Lessons from Antarctica: 2. Slow Down!

I'm always in a hurry, have so much to do, so little time. Yet In Antarctica, time just abides. Let me try to explain. 

Have you ever had the experience of going on a vacation, whether a relaxing week at the beach or an adventure-filled camping or skiing trip, only to find the week or two gone before you know it? You’ve had a great time, but, especially at the halfway mark, time speeds up.

In Antarctica, time takes on the opposite quality. It rests. It settles. It ceases to exist, at the same time that it becomes all.

For instance, whales: we saw them from time to time, sometimes in pods of 50 or more! Yet that seeing required time on the bridge, time with binoculars scanning the horizon for blows. 

Sometimes hours or even days passed with us seeing nothing but the waves and horizon. During that time, we would often find the giant Albatross and Petrels, who soar for hundreds and thousands of miles between land masses, stretching their wings to ride the currents of air, attuned to the nuance of the wind and waves.

That time offered its own reward: peace.

In my work and in my life, my default mode always has been speed. I pack as much as possible into every day. I schedule myself to the max, governed by the sense of passing time and an eagerness to be, do, experience it ALL. I drive fast cars and fast motorcycles. I drive them fast, on fast roads. I write fast. I talk fast (which is a good thing for an auctioneer after all).

Since Antarctica, I am learning to slow down, to let the peace of reflection and patience find its way into my days. By doing that, I have discovered new ways to look at challenges, keeping in mind the staggering beauty and immensity of the ice and the mountains and the water in a place where time stands still. 

I remember the whales.

Lessons from Antarctica: 1. Be Prepared!

While I’m a firm believer in keeping my work and my life in balance, my recent trip to Antarctica opened my mind to a new way of looking at how this balance can benefit my business. 

We were totally off the grid for 35 days, and only marginally on its edges for another 5. The distance freed me to look at life, and work, without the pressure of daily tasks and correspondence that get in the way of big picture thinking. 

My biggest takeaway was that, while it’s usually more effective to leave the office at the office, it can be tremendously enriching to bring “real life” to work! This series will explore some of the lessons I learned on that trip, and some others I am uncovering since our return. Here we go!

Be Prepared!

No matter how long it takes to put on layer upon layer of carefully selected clothing, and do it while precariously balanced on a deck that never stays flat, do it. 

On our first landing on one of the sub Antarctic islands, the sun was shining, the wind was calm, and a hike was planned. It never occurred to me to wear a raincoat or rainpants. But on reaching the bluff, the heavens opened up and the wind drove the icy rain harshly into my face. 

The next time, especially as we travelled further south, I was ready. Each morning as I leaned against the wall of my rolling cabin, I focussed not on the annoyance factor, but on the rich experiences in store that day. Layered up, I could go on that hike that suddenly presented itself. Yes, I could handle that wet zodiac landing without stress. 

The cold weather sucked the life out of camera batteries with relentless speed, so I learned to charge them all as soon as we returned to the ship, and to keep the fresh ones inside my clothing next to my body. In that way, I was able to capture forever the images of stunning majesty we encountered every day.

In business, readiness also pays off in possibility. Keeping my printed collateral up to date will pay off when I encounter a potential client. Practicing my elevator speech makes it easy and natural to talk to unanticipated prospects. Practicing my chant makes my auction delivery smooth and pleasing. Before Antarctica, I have to admit I would let these things slide in the face of more interesting or pressing demands on my time.

Now, I’m ready.

Time Travel with Tears

I went to church today. It wasn't my usual church here in Stockton Springs, but my first "real" church down in Bath. I went to get a table, and a cross, and a hymnal, and I left with a heart full of sorrow and of joy.

When I was a child, we walked to a huge gray gothic church, where the wisest, kindest, smartest, everythingest minister I have ever known, Rev. Ellis Eaton, guided our congregation through life and faith.

In the late 1960s, we realized we could no longer sustain the old, drafty, creaky, stunningly beautiful building, and began making a plan for a new space. We loved the old church, with its balconies and organ and choir loft and stained glass windows and fellowship hall, but God had another plan for it, and for us. We purchased some land in the woods on Congress Ave., and began saving to build. As soon as we could secure a mortgage, we broke ground.

During construction, I was in high school, and deeply involved in youth fellowship, choir, Bible study, committees, you name it. Our church was our family. My current pastor said recently that when he was young, if the doors of the church were open, he was there. That's the way it was in Bath, and not because it was our duty to be there, but because it was our joy and desire to be.

The ultra-modern new building featured a 30-foot glass wall at the rear of the sanctuary, anchored by a cross cut from a tree from one of our member's woods. Inside, the spare, Danish pews felt shockingly comfortable for their lack of cushions. Wide wood beams held up the soaring ceiling, directing our prayers to God.

While a professional crew did some of the major construction initially, our new home was mostly built by its inhabitants. After school or work, weekends, vacations, we all pitched in at whatever task we could.

Rev. Eaton and the others at that church, taught me, showed me, the meaning of true faith. During those years, I came to a personal relationship with my Savior that has been, and will always be the center of my life. I learned to love God, and that He loved me, passionately and without reservation.

That relationship and the church, were about joy and fellowship and love and prayer. It was about Advent Events with ginger snaps and hot cider and tromping around in the woods to gather each year's greenery for the building, then gathering for dinner in fellowship hall, exhausted and thankful and happy. It was about caroling through the streets of Bath every Christmas. It was about sunrise Easter services and confirmation classes and adult baptisms in the Atlantic ocean and prayer meetings and prayer life.  It was about tremendous support in times of tremendous sorrow, and exultant celebration in times of joy. Most of all, it was about serving God, learning His will for us, listening to that still small voice.

My youth fellowship friends and I grew up and moved away, to college, jobs, marriages, nearly all in places away from Bath. Some of us came back, and found the church much as we had left it -- vibrant, spirit-centered, growing.

Yet as the years went by, things began to change. After several years back in Maine, I moved away again. Family and friends told me attendance was down, the mission changed. My mother relayed her experience of receiving a form letter telling her she was being dropped from the enrollment lists for lack of attendance, without even a phone call to see if she was ok. (She wasn't, in fact; she was in a deep depression following the sudden death of my father.) A FORM LETTER??????? Without even her name typed in at the top?

In recent years, Mom has been attending a book club at the church, made up mostly of women from the old Women's Fellowship there. The congregation, she said, had shrunk to 40 or so members, and they were having a hard time keeping the heat on.

In August, I read the building would be sold. The remaining congregation, now focussed on social justice issues, would move to a boarded up storefront downtown.

Last week, Mom called to tell me that the church was selling the remaining furnishings, and told me who to call if I were interested. I was, and immediately called Jane, whom I had not seen in 30 years or more. She told me what was available, including a table and a cross.

Today David and I went to Bath. The front door of the church was locked, so I went in through Fellowship Hall. Immediately, waves of memory washed over me, along with an entire ocean of tears.  There was the spot where I gave Rev. Eaton a huge hug at his retirement celebration. And the place where we sewed Gloria into her dress (broken zipper) at my sister's wedding. The building was shabby from deferred maintenance and neglect.

In the sanctuary, I found my table, in which we had kept the attendance count forms (usually over 400) and on which we put the bulletins for the ushers on Sunday. On it rested the large brass cross from Fellowship Lounge, where prayer meetings and youth fellowship and bridal preparation had taken place. Jane also left four of the blocks we had made from leftover wood from that huge, blessed cross. The once-beautiful table was rickety and covered in cobwebs, and the cross pitted and unpolished.

Over lunch, Mom and I shared a good cry over the fate of the place we had loved so much. At one point I asked her, "What do you think Rev. Eaton would say?" And suddenly I knew. He would say that the church was not the building. The church was the family within it, and that the Christian works and Christian love of our church family had gone out into the world and multiplied by a factor we would never know. He would say it was ok. It was a building.

He would be right.

Several hours into polishing that dear cross, I realized that the building was like a wedding dress, all beautiful and special when it was new, now faded and worn with age. But the church itself represents the marriage -- created with vows before God, and sanctified forever. We'll remember the dress and the building, but we live the church, the marriage, every day.

My artifacts, especially the cross, feel as dear to me as my wedding ring.

Flush Grammie Down the Toilet

 

I don’t know why this story bothers me so much.

Bangor Daily News, which I always check on the iPad with my morning coffee, held a story today about a local crematory offering a new service. http://tinyurl.com/flushgrammie 

For a mere $1,995, you can now get your dearly departed boiled in water and lye for twelve hours, with the resulting liquid remains simply deposited in the town “wastewater system.” In other words, dissolve Grammie in a harsh chemical and flush her down the toilet. The remaining bones will be ground up and delivered to you as a “cremation-style” by-product.

Seriously?

The story touts the environmental benefits (save 40 gallons of propane!). The liquidators say their service is extremely popular, one that will appeal to “people who choose to drive a Prius,” according to the Bangor Daily News. And this is the first place in the country to offer it for any purpose other than disposing of medical cadavers and animals! Woo Hoo! Aren’t we the innovators! 

Funny, I drive a hybrid, albeit not a Prius, yet this process doesn't appeal to me one bit. Never mind that a regular old cremation costs half that much.

EEUUWW!!

If environmental awareness is your motive, can’t you just wrap Grammie in a cotton sheet and bury her sans coffin in a green cemetery, letting nature take its course? In my case, it would be cool to use quilting fabric, but either way, it would keep me out of the sewer! I am a sew-er, as in one who sews. I do not want my remains in the shit plant.

And as a marketing tool, is flushing Grammie that appealing? Really?

Now I’m the first to say I really don’t care, at least I haven’t until now, what happens to my physical body after death. David and I have an agreement, whomever has to deal with the departed spouse may do as the survivor needs/wants to do to facilitate healthy grieving and healing. But I think I’ll have to put my foot down on this.

Speaking of putting my foot down, there is a legend near us about a general who allegedly had his wife burned for a witch, and she pledged to have her foot on his neck forever. In perpetuity, a stain in the shape of a woman’s stocking has appeared on his gravestone. Whether you believe it or not, it’s a cool story.

But if David decides to flush my dissolved remains into the Searsport sewer, as in waste disposal plant, a foot on his gravestone will be the least of his worries.

Getting Ready

Dereka shamed me into it. My friend and fellow Friendship Sampler Quilter, Dereka Smith, is riding her bicycle (as in, no clutch, no throttle) from San Diego to St. Augustine, camping along the way. Dereka, sweetie, you have moxie to spare. When a guild member posted her blog url derekasblog-dereka.blogspot.com, I realized that I’ve sadly neglected my own blogging responsibilities, and should get back into the habit before we go to Africa.

David and I leave in just under two weeks on our third Ayres Adventure, Call of the Wild ayresadventures.com/Africa_CallOfTheWild, where we’ll ride BMW motorcycles through South Africa, Botswana and Namibia, with a possible short jaunt into Zambia to see Victoria Falls. We’ve been assured our trip will include lots of wildlife, and at least one spa. What camping will be involved is promised to include luxury tents with ensuite bathrooms. If not, one smiling tour leader will have a very cranky grammie on his hands!

As I continue to struggle with competence and confidence on the bike, I’ve been working with Mark Brown of MotoMark1 motomark1.com. Since mid-January, Mark has made bi-monthly trips to Greensboro to work with me one-on-one, and he and I both see real progress.

Mark was a professional motorcycle driver (he scorns the word, “rider”) for many years with the North Carolina State Police, and has trained Marines, adventure riders, beginners and everyone along the motorcycle continuum. He has a rare gift: the talent to teach, as well as the talent to ride. We have one more lesson next week, then it’s off to Africa!

In the mean time, I’m riding nearly every day here in Greensboro, and spending my Maine days compiling lists and piles of stuff for the trip. This being our third Ayres Adventure, we have a much better idea what to expect. My last stabbing happened Friday, a yellow fever shot allegedly good for ten years. I’ve had hepatitis A and B, tetanus and typhoid shots, giving me more pincushion experience than I normally have in the sewing room, and malaria pills are on the dresser ready to go.

Plus I’ve been reading books on Africa, watching National Geographic pieces arriving daily in red Netflix envelopes and listening to my No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency audio books with a new attentiveness.

LL Bean has made their first quarter earnings on my purchases of insect-repellant clothing. The molded earplugs we ordered at the IMS Charlotte show last month have yet to arrive, despite the salesman’s promise of their being here within a week. If they don’t make it, we’ll take the Shoei helmets instead of the Schuberth, which are far too noisy to ride all day without better hearing protection than what we have. I also scored an awesome, orange, vented Olympia riding jacket at the show for less than half price. I’ve test driven it several times here, and it will do nicely.

Are we ready? But for the actual packing, I believe we are, physically anyway. In my stomach though, it isn’t quite real, not yet.