Susan Imhoff Bird's Blog, page 4

how to reassemble a broken heart

My heart has broken so often it is covered with tape and bits of glue, it’s misshapen, and at times it limps along behind me, barely keeping pace. After a break it never returns to the way it had been; after each fracture the pieces slowly find their way back to each other and then seem to affix in random ways, the result a lumpy thing that experiences life in an unfamiliar way, whose desires are a bit different than before. It feels familiar to me, yet strangely foreign.

I thought, I believed, I dreamed, I desired. I created an expectation—which Buddha knew to be the cause of all suffering—then my fragile heart crashed against a rocky shoreline and shattered.

I suppose the first step toward healing is the awareness that one’s heart has shifted and changed—from this day forward it is on a slightly different path. The break cracks it open: each fissure exposes edges and allows access to its depth, to parts perhaps unknown. Sometimes these newly exposed parts shriek with the pain of light, sometimes they weep at their nakedness.

As my heart lies in disrepair, I feel each separate piece, and I wait for wisdom, I wait for those previously undiscovered fragments to speak.

I ride my bicycle. I inhale autumn’s fragrances—loam, decomposition, burning wood—it is a season of acceptance, of loss, of what was solid becoming ash. A promise of rebirth lies beneath, but my heart cannot feel, cannot yet believe. I catch the wide brown eyes of a doe, slender among denuded oaks, and a minuscule sliver of my heart quivers. I pedal harder, hoping to exhaust the scattered segments into collapsing back together. Instead, the individual pieces burn, my chest alight. I feel small flames throughout.

I take on long-forgotten tasks, I organize, I nest. Again, a flicker of heat, a reconsidering, as I restack favorite books, smooth the duvet, re-stain the parched, neglected, cedar fence.

I reconsider what I want. Yes, at its core, this remains the same. Two pieces come together, edges fusing in a burn that spreads throughout the entirety of my rib cage. Wisdom, strength, space, adventure, endless possibilities. Purple walls in my office, philosophical discussions, canoeing, a hike in the snow, exploration of canyons and gorges, hearts, minds. Labyrinths, enigmas, the enduring question, why. More pieces slip into place, some as before, some in new locations. Heat.

I forgive myself for the tears, the drama, the pity. I tell myself nothing good comes easily. I take a moment to shop online at my favorite outdoor-gear retailer; imagining, but not purchasing. A few more pieces slip into place. I write a short to-do list: Pull old files to shred. Fill a give-away box. Be me.

My heart is not as it was yesterday, yet it glows. It’s calling in those last stragglers. It’s lumpy and misshapen, and it promises to be there for me, as long as I vow to listen, always, and work to give my reassembled, curious, tenacious, intractable heart exactly what it wants.

where art and literacy meet

this coming august 25th I’ll be the featured author at the Literacy Action Center’s annual fundraiser hosted by local Utah artist Pilar Pobil.

I visited her home and gardens last month to introduce myself and spend some time becoming familiar with the setting for the event, which is her gracious home and gardens in the avenues area of salt lake city. Pilar, born and schooled in Spain, chose utah for her home decades ago, and has become one of our communities beloved treasures.

in the presence of a visual artist, I am humbled. my palette consists of only black and white, and is essentially limited to 26 characters. I visualize color, my mind swept with vibrant hues, subtle shades, earthy depths and translucent, tinted waves . . . but on the paper, on the screen, I am limited to recognized configurations of those 26 letters.

however, when I read, I reverse the process I use to write, and words leap into color, shape, form, an explosion of visual creativity inside my mind. the pure pleasure of this process is incredible, almost inexplicable ~ because I can read, my mind is filled with images of people and places, with vistas, with kitchens and barns and great halls and roads, with rivers and mountainsides and a lookout tower in glacier national park, with creatures and mythical beasts, lovers and gnomes, secret gardens and libraries filled with walls of books and hidden passages to foreign lands.

I, too, am a visual artist.

when one learns to read, one is immediately and permanently a visual artist, a painter, a photographer, a designer of scenes and costumes, landscapes and people. an entire world opens, the mind is set afire, and nothing is ever the same.

please join me august 25th at the home of Pilar Pobil, 403 east 8th avenue, in salt lake city.

for more information:  Literacy Action Center 801.265.9081

the paint

of all the horses, it is a paint that corrals my eye, my heart.

he stands alone, on a patch of grass twenty yards from his nearest bandmate. his stance is perpendicular to the herd, the eye that faces the others wide and deeply aware. muscles bunch under smooth hide as he shifts from one foreleg to the other. there is just enough of a breeze to dance his mane against his neck, his forelock across the far eye.

what pulls me to him I can only ponder. I many not know the truth for hours, or during my lifetime. is it his outsider role, or his patience? perhaps his inner wisdom. or maybe he is a rebel. a denounced stallion. one who wielded power in an earlier life. I supply a backstory, I infuse him with traits I wish for myself. if he is my mirror, I could be a sinner, a has-been, a separatist, a pacifist, a former pugilist, an underdog, the unloved.

one hundred fifty or so other horses drink from the watering hole, tug at grass, nuzzle flanks and shoulders, instigate or respond to what may or may not be playful attacks. I’m curious, I absorb the experience, but I remain fully committed to my paint and know that as I settle in bed this evening it is he who will visit, he who will remain in my mind’s eye, he who will become the backbone of a story that begins to weave its way from head to heart, from heart to head.

 

 

[barb richardson, a writer friend of mine, is aunt to jim schnepel, who is the president of the Wild Horses of America foundation (catch that acronym), and jim was kind enough to invite me out to see the Onaqui herd. the photo here was taken by jim.]

which you are we talking about

in conversation last week, a friend bemoaned the fact that he was recognized in the community as an exceptional physician and educator. he felt narrowed, constricted, by this validation from society.

I, in turn, bemoaned the fact that I was likely seen as more scattered: business school graduate and retailer, small business owner, writer, social worker a dozen years ago and now again, mom of three college students. at this stage in my life, I told him, I wanted to be a master of something, not simply someone who was quite good at a number of things, who had spent time here and there, done this and that.

my friend was envious of what I saw as a shortcoming. he wanted to be known as someone with more depth and variety in his experiences, gifts, and desires.

I wanted to be queen of something.

and then I remembered my skate skiing boots.

last winter I took up skate skiing. this same friend gave me a pair of his old skis, and I bought new bindings, poles, and boots. I took lessons. I eventually learned to stay upright (most of the time), to ski up and down gentle hills, even to glide gracefully for moments at a time. after just a few sessions, I looked at my shiny new boots with an extraordinary sense of pride and validation. I had learned to alpine ski as a child, and didn’t completely stop until shortly after having my second child. then came a dearth of ski days–almost 20 years of them–up until last winter. those skate skiing lessons helped me reclaim a long lost aspect of myself. I could once again consider myself a skier.

those boots are a symbol of just how complex and varied a person I am. which, as I reconsidered our laments, is exactly how my friend wished the world would see him.

few of us wish to be pigeon-holed, forced into narrow descriptors of our capacities. I don’t truly want to be labeled and categorized, yet I am pulled into that desire by society’s tendency to focus on what one does instead of who one is.

my friend is multi-faceted, curious, engaged with life, a thinker, a philosopher, a fisherman, cyclist, skier, runner. who happens to practice and teach medicine.

and I, well, I am multi-faceted too, a queen of many small things, a person who is validated by reminders of how richly diverse her life is. who may not have yet reached mastery of anything, but is a life-long apprentice of many things she loves. and those ski boots remind me, each time I see them, of potentials and possibilities and the fact that I am not yet done creating myself.

a town isn’t a town without a bookstore

“What I say is, a town isn’t a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it’s got a bookstore it knows it’s not fooling a soul.”  ~neil gaiman

yesterday I spent a few hours in Dolly’s Bookstore in park city, utah. Dolly’s first opened in the early 1970’s, and is one of those exceptional environments that evokes a smile as you walk in the door. books (of course), cards, candles, doo-dads and whatchits, large chalk signs on walls with hand-written quotes about reading . . . everything cleverly displayed and scented, occasionally, with a waft of bubbling sugar from the candy factory next door. mmm. the store is warm and filled with visual delights, behind which lie story after story, whole worlds just awaiting discovery.

although the atmosphere was pure delight, it was people who made my experience so fabulous. those who walked in the door focused on purchasing a specific book (a steven pinker, a photo book of the area, the latest and greatest chapter book for a 10-year-old), to those who needed an airplane-read, to those searching for a present for the pickiest person they know, to those just wandering through while they finished eating their caramel apple–truffle–outsized marshmallow square.

shoppers in ski coats and warm boots offered opinions on conservation, wolves, and their favorite new novel. they asked where to find good coffee. they smiled, held hands, discussed with spouses/children/sisters which calendar to purchase (“outlander” was a hot choice) or which of three books they should buy for their mom. they told me how to spell names (a-m-e-e and lynn-with-an-e) as I signed books for them. their boots tracked melting snow across the hardwood floors and the booksellers just smiled. shoppers had their books wrapped for christmas. (the snowflake paper or the red?) people in carhartts and arcteryx and designer boots, people in puffy down jackets and sweats. people with shiny faces, red noses, sniffles from being in the same space as the bookstore cat. visitors, and locals. and the booksellers themselves: gracious, knowledgeable, helpful, tolerant, always willing to share a bit of themselves with each request for help.

beautiful people, all.

I agree with neil gaiman. it’s a sad town that doesn’t have a bookstore.

a pen and a notebook

terry tempest williams wrote her book finding beauty in a broken world in an attempt to increase understanding of our world’s staggering suffering.  she writes of spending time in rwanda working with a small group of americans, known as barefoot artists, to create a memorial to those who lost their lives in the horrific genocide of 1994. surrounded by refugees, rwandans trying to reestablish families and communities, she employs her myriad gifts to connect at a spiritual level, the level of deepest need.

in describing the people, many of whom have little more than the insufficient clothing they wear, tempest williams brings them to life as dignified yet devastated, compelling yet staggeringly naked in their vulnerability. the people are achingly human, existing in inhumane circumstances. yet life continues, and the will to not only live but to thrive is demonstrated by the desire to participate, to engage, and to create.

the children she spends time with are arid soil begging for moisture–knowledge–to instigate their sprouting.  and when terry leaves the community, the children call out to her, when you come back, bring us more pens and notebooks!

not food, not clothing, not candy, not money:  pens, and notebooks.

for it is with those tools they can draw and write, they can create something from nothing, they can hold on to it and have both record and proof of their creations. their existences.

I, too, crave pens and notebooks. I, too, desire record and proof.

and I wish the same for everyone on earth.

5 exceptional books about wolves

a crazy-avid reader, I devoured dozens of wolf books as I researched canis lupus and its history on our continent. though I learned from every tome–as an example, jim and jamie dutchers’ book living with wolves is not only informative but filled with breathtaking photography, and comeback wolves is a compelling literary collection–the following books made my top 5 list as a result of what lay beneath the words and pictures. a book that leaves you somehow different is the kind of book that resonates, and remains. the books I’ve listed below are powerful in not only the storytelling, but in the understandings both stated and alluded to.

 

of wolves and men, barry lopez. lopez is a master, so exceptionally talented and committed to his craft that reading anything of his will transport you. this book is the ultimate compilation of all things wolves, as experienced by mankind.

a society of wolves, rick mcintyre. beautiful photographs interspersed with facts and stories: reading mcintyre’s book will leave you not only feeling like you understand these wild creatures, but that you should quickly plan a trip to go see them.

among wolves, marybeth holleman. holleman shares wolf researcher gordon haber’s story, some of his findings, and his enthusiasm for canis lupus. beautifully told, this book brings back to life a fascinating man who lost his life doing the work he loved.

decade of the wolf, douglas smith & gary ferguson. place the top yellowstone wolf biologist together with an exceptionally thoughtful and elegant writer in a canoe, in the wilderness, and in the presence of wolves, and the result is this insightful glimpse into the lives of yellowstone’s wolves. together they point a lens on specific wolves, and widen the view to encompass man’s history with wolves.

howl: of woman and wolf, susan imhoff bird. (how could I not include this one?) returning balance to ecosystems requires perseverance, even when it is difficult.  as does life.   give it a read: maybe you, too, will see yourself in a wolf.

if your favorite wolf book isn’t on my list, let me know.

 

5 creative non-fiction books worth every minute you spend with them

at a workshop I attended last week, the presenter asked if anyone in the audience knew how to remain excited by their work throughout their career.  the room was silent. he looked at each of us and then said, stay curious.

when I read a book–essay, article, news flash–I want to learn something. I’m insatiably curious. I love historical fiction for what I learn about a land, an era. I love mysteries set in an unfamiliar field or locale for what they teach about what to me is unlived, and thus unknown. I read nonfiction to increase my knowledge of a specific subject, and essays to open my mind to new thoughts and paths. creative nonfiction is thus one of my favorite genres, because it often combines a bit of everything I just mentioned.

creative nonfiction magazine defines creative nonfiction as “true stories well told.” its founder and editor, lee gutkind, goes on compare the genre to jazz— “it’s a rich mix of flavors, ideas, and techniques . . .”

below is a sampling of creative nonfiction journeys I have taken, sitting on my couch, savoring every chapter.

the language of the night, ursula k leguin. a collection of essays that challenge thought so beautifully, guide gracefully, and delight completely. this woman is extraordinary in her creativity, and in her humanity.

rising from the plains, john mcphee.  I could list just about every mcphee book here, but this is my absolute favorite, the one that taught me how to love difficult terrain, and the people who love it. mcphee is a master teacher with a poet’s heart.

refuge, terry tempest williams. terry is a force. though all her books are powerful and challenge our relationship with other, this book touches me more deeply for its theme of personal loss.

where rivers change direction, mark spragg.  this book showed me how men encounter a different world than I do, and gave me not only a glimpse into that experience, but a deeper understanding of what it might be like to be male.

a little more about me, pam houston. I’m cheating a bit to add pam here: in her own words, her books are about 82% true. but they feel true, one hundred percent true, and they grab you, keep you solidly in your seat, pull your heart, and get you in the gut. this book is my favorite of hers.

 

I’d love to know which creative nonfiction books keep you riveted!

5 best-ever books

I love these books. images of their covers are banked in my memory, and they each engaged me so deeply that I lost myself in their stories. I cried, I wanted to meet their characters and converse with them. or just be in their presence. I am so grateful to each of these authors for creating a world in which I lived, vividly and wholeheartedly, for a magical length of time. these books are not ordered, because each is fabulously unique and ultimately, incomparable.

 

the history of love, nicole krauss. I fell so deeply in love with leo, an elderly jewish man, and his generous heart, I could barely stand to let the book end. and yet.

the poisonwood bible, barbara kingsolver. kingsolver introduced me to a world I didn’t know–the congo–and a family so extraordinary, all the while lulling me with such beautiful prose I never wanted to set the book down.

cutting for stone, abraham verghese. my heart broke again and again, yet following the tale of marion stone’s history and journey kept me completely spellbound.

the dog stars, peter heller. oh, so spare and beautiful. I cried, I believed, I closed the book reconsidering what a purposeful life might truly look like.

the time traveler’s wife, audrey niffenegger. henry and clare live on my bookshelf, barely contained in the pages, and have even seeped into my being. an amazing, intricately woven love story across tangible and intangible boundaries. just wow.

 

please comment with your own best-ever books! I am always looking for more books for my stack.

 

5 illuminative books about how to be

like millions of other humans, I am curious about how to be in this world. how to balance my wants/needs/desires with those of the greater community, how to find my own “happy place,” how to accept things I don’t really wish to accept.  over the years, I’ve read many books written by masters, by students, by yogis and wise ones and commonplace folk. in each I found something, but in those listed below, enough welled up to place the book on this list.

 

the four agreements, don miguel ruiz.  everyone should read this book, and work to live by these agreements. everyone. I work, daily, toward better living them.

the alchemist, paulo coelho. I have read this at least a half dozen times, and each experience is as heartful as the first. be true to yourself.

the tao of pooh, benjamin huff. that is one wise bear, with a lovely sense of humor.

true love: a practice for awakening the heart, thich nhat hanh. everything this vietnamese zen buddhist writes is geared toward inner–and thus outer–peace.

traveling light: releasing the burdens you were never meant to bear, max lucado. lucado is a master teacher, and reading him helps me refine and re-find me.

I’d love to know what’s on your list ~ the only way we expand ourselves is through experience with other.