Geocaching with Bigfoot in the Wilds of Canada

“Could you write a story about your encounter with Bigfoot?” my brother asked. “I need a bunch of them for a geoart project.”

“What encounter with Bigfoot?”

“Invent one.”

“???”

I didn’t immediately blow him off. He is my brother after all. I let his request simmer and a few days later I had an idea. I’d never encountered Bigfoot, but I’d had a scary encounter with… well, I’ll tell you about that later. You can read about both encounters below, but first, a few fun facts about geocaching and geoart.

Geocaching T-shirt.
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Bigfoot geoart

Geocaches are hidden worldwide, including Antarctica. There’s even one on the International Space Station.

Geoart: Geocaches are placed so that if you saw them marked on a map, they would form a picture, like the Bigfoot above.

As of this writing, the largest geoart in the world is a smidge smaller than the state of Delaware. 4,200 caches spread out over 2400 square miles (6216 square km) It took my brother and 5 buddies 18 months to build it. He’s interviewed about it here:

His Bigfoot geoart is comparatively small–roughly 5 x 10 miles  (8 x 16 km)–and comprises a mere  217 caches.

Now, on to my encounter with Bigfoot:

An Encounter with Bigfoot in the Wilds of Canada

At the time of my Bigfoot encounter, the highway between Wawa and Timmins was two-lanes, had little traffic and zero cell phone coverage. It’s was a long, boring drive.

My husband was at the wheel making good time (a.k.a. driving over the speed limit) and I was in the back reading to our two-year-old about a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest and was searching for its mama.

Are You My Mother? book cover.

“Are you my mother?” it asked a dog.

“No,” answered the dog.

“Are you my mother?” it asked a cow, a kitten, and a “Snort” (a steam shovel).

They were not.

I was turning to the last page when my husband yelled, “Heads up!” and slammed on the brakes.

Something was standing on the highway. In our lane.

Something huge. Humanoid. Covered with scraggly hair.

It turned and loped away, still on our side of the road.

Inch by inch, we gained on it.

We swerved into the other lane, my husband all but standing on the brakes.

Inch by inch, we caught up and ran neck and neck with it.

Our daughter pulled on my sleeve. “Read!” she commanded. “Bird mama!”

I couldn’t. Couldn’t tear my gaze from the creature just outside our window.

She furrowed her brow at me, then turned to see what I was looking at. Her eyes got big and she waved to the creature. “You my mama?” she called.

It turned its shaggy head. Was that a puzzled look on its face? It couldn’t have heard and understood her question… could it?

“You my mama?” she yelled, waving both hands in the air.

It shook its head.

She clapped her hands. “No Mama!”

The creature waved a shaggy limb and veered off into the forest.

We drove a lot slower after that.

***

Did we really encounter Bigfoot?

No, but something big and hairy did stand in our lane on the highway.

A female moose.

We slammed on the brakes.

She turned and galloped down the highway, still in our lane.

We swerved into the left lane and inch by inch we caught up and ran neck and neck with her.

Females are smaller than males, but she was still so big that her body and head were above the roof of the car. Only her legs and underbelly were visible through the passenger windows.

After what must have been only a few seconds but felt like an hour, she kicked off against our car and veered into the forest. The only lasting damage was the dent her hoof left in the car door.

“Will I ever stop being tired?”

Dear R

A few days ago, you asked, “Will I ever stop being tired?”

I didn’t have an answer then, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since and would like to offer three things.

The first is that most of the time the arrival of a second child is a transition. You know they are coming and to a certain extent you can get ready for it. You’re tired, yes, but it’s only a transition.

But when, as is your case, the second baby develops a lifelong health issue, their arrival is no longer a transition. It’s a lifequake.

Lifequake is a new word for me. In case it’s new to you, too, a lifequake is defined as an event that changes your life in the same sudden and dramatic way an earthquake might destroy a building. A car accident, being laid off, a terrible illness, or getting divorced can be lifequakes. The pandemic was a worldwide lifequake. Researchers say we’ll have three to five of them over the course of our lives and, on average, it takes five years to move through each one and find a new normal.

In Kafka On The Shore, Haruki Murakami says this about them:

[O]nce the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.

Richard Rohr, a Franciscan mystic, suggests that lifequakes are an invitation:

The word change normally refers to new beginnings. But the mystery of transformation more often happens not when something new begins, but when something old falls apart. The pain of something old falling apart—chaos—invites the soul to listen at a deeper level and sometimes forces the soul to go to a new place. Most of us would never go to new places in any other way

I’d also like to offer an image I was given to describe what it’s like to move to a new culture and language. In the beginning, you feel as though you’re slogging through water so deep you’re on your tippytoes just to keep your nose above the water. Everything takes more time, more energy. The simple things of life are exhausting.

Then, as the weeks, months and years go by, the water recedes—down to your neck, your belly, your knees. Eventually, as you learn and adapt, there are only a few centimeters of water left. But the water never entirely goes away because you are not in your home culture, not speaking your heart language.

Will you ever stop being tired? I don’t know. You are on a journey no one would ever choose. You’ve gone through a lifequake, and the water is especially deep right now. Life will never be the same. Be kind to yourself.

Thank you to zac-durant-LiGTtFoyI2M-unsplash for the 1st picture and to daniel-j-schwarz-4HYC9meD7DM-unsplash for the 2nd.

One More Conversation

A recent writing prompt asked:

Think of someone in your life who has passed on or is unreachable. If you could have one more conversation with him or her, what would you want to say?

It didn’t take long to think of someone.

Mom passed away end of 2019. She wanted to be cremated and when I went shopping for a box for her ashes, I chose something cheap (which would have pleased her), but beautiful (which pleased me). It was a wood box, painted white with flowers and the words “Live Beautifully.”

When I gave her eulogy, I said that the author of Women Who Run With The Wolves wrote that in her experience as a psychoanalyst, around the age of 40 women decide if they’re going to become bitter.

Women Who Run With The Wolves book cover

Mom was the victim of horrific childhood abuse. That and later events could have made her bitter, but they didn’t.

She was a woman of faith, and in her late 50s she said, “When I came to faith at 18, I thought everything would change. That I would become a new person and all the abuse wouldn’t affect me anymore. Now I realize it follows you your entire life, so I’ve asked God if there any way to use what happened to me to do good in this world to help other people.”

That’s when she began volunteering in the local women’s shelter and became the chaplain for the women’s jail. Her message was simple. “Jesus loves you. I was abused, too. There’s another way to live.” She loved the women and many of them loved her right back, calling her “Bible Betty,” and greeting her with a hug when they saw her in the street.

If I could tell Mom something, I’d like to say, “Thank you, Mom, for not choosing bitterness. Thank you for doing the best you could with the cards you were dealt.”

It’s All In The Spin

Awhile back, I attended a day-long seminar on proofreading (Don’t roll your eyes. It was fascinating).

The presenter asked us to introduce ourselves and tell where we worked.

I wear several hats and, as I listened to the others, I wondered which one to talk about.

“I’m an editor,” the first one said. “I work for the government.”

“I work in the private sector,” said another. “I’m a technical writing.”

And so it went, all worked either for the government or in the private sector. Each one was welcomed with murmurs of appreciation and approval.

When my turn came, I look a deep breath and said, “I work for my husband. I translate, crunch numbers, edit communication pieces and help prepare content for articles, workshops, and conferences.”

Photo by Felicia Buitenwerf on Unsplash

I smiled and waited for my share of kudos.

Which did not come.

In fact, they all looked stunned.

“You work for your…um… husband?” someone finally asked.

I nodded and shrank in my seat. Had a giant L appeared on my forehead? Was that the only thing the group would remember?

Over the following weeks, I gave a lot of thought to what I’d said. How could I describe what I do in a way they could understand and welcome?

A few months later, I attended another editing seminar—Substantive Editing, this time. Once again, everyone worked for the government or for a company… except me.

When it was my turn, I took a deep breath and said, “I work for a psychotherapist. I translate, crunch numbers, edit communication pieces, and help prepare content for articles, workshops, and conferences.”

I held my breath, waiting for their reaction.

“What a fascinating job you have!” someone said.

Others murmured their agreement.

One word made all the difference.

It’s all in the spin.

The Power of Small Gifts: a tribute

My Uncle Charlie died last week. He was 101, and had lived a long and relatively healthy life. At 100, he beat me fair and square at cribbage. When my brother said, “Wow! You beat her!” he said, “Was there ever any doubt?”

Over his lifetime, Uncle C wore many hats: a school janitor and bus driver… part-time farmer with a few cows… a veteran of WW II… and caregiver to his wife through 40 years of Parkinson’s. People thought this last was incredible. He didn’t. He’d married her for better or for worse, hadn’t he?

I knew all those things about Uncle C , but his impact on me was for something else. When I was 15, our family moved to France and I was catapulted into a culture and a language I didn’t understand. I didn’t belong or know how to make friends.

Uncle C and Aunt L had always sent me birthday cards, but when we moved to the other side of the ocean, they began sending a letter with the card. I suspect Aunt L was behind it, reminding him, but he wrote the letters. For over 25 years Uncle C wrote me one letter a year.

There was never any earth-shattering news in them. My birthday is in March, so every year he said he looked forward to digging in his garden instead of shoveling snow. He mentioned birthday parties, updated me on everyone’s health, and said he had coffee and played cards with his buddies every day at the store (There was only one).

Uncle C’s often made me laugh:

Uncle Charlie 1.jpeg

Get even? Did D have poor taste in restaurants?

Another year, he told me of a new pet:

Uncle Charlie 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What color was the cat, I wondered. Did it live in the barn? In the house? What happened to the kittens? I was never told.

Then there’s my all-time favorite:

Uncle Charlie 3.jpeg

I loved Uncle C’s letters. My birthdays were never truly over until I received them. They weren’t long – a few lines scratched out on notebook paper – but they made me feel special.

It’s said that we need to give children roots and wings. Uncle C helped give me roots. His letters reminded me that even though I lived far away, I had a family that remembered and loved me. That I belonged.

 

Quiet Leadership, not just for introverts

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I picked up Quiet Leadership because… well, because I’m an introvert and it sounded safe right in my gift set.

In the introduction, Rock, says:

Quiet Leadership is [a]… guide to a new way of having conversations, based on recent discoveries about how the brain works.

Interesting.

Rock continues:

When we are trying to help a colleague think anything through, we make the unconscious assumption that the other person’s brain works the same as ours. So we input their problem into our brain, see the connections our brain would make… and spit out the solution that would work for us.

Really?

As though he expected my question, Rock suggests we keep track of how much advice we get and how often that advice is useful. I decided to play along.

Over the following weeks, I received all sorts of advice, some of it contradictory. For instance, I learned that the growths on my skin are not cancerous. “Get them burned off, anyway,” said one friend. “Don’t burn them off,” said another.

Had I asked for advice? Nope.

Was their advice useful? Not really.

I felt good about my keen observations of other people’s failings. Smug even… until I had supper with a friend. She started talking about… well, it doesn’t matter what… and to my horror, I said, “You should—”

Nooooooo! I bit my tongue to shut myself up.

She graciously ignored me and continued her story.

Later that week, my husband started telling me about… well, it doesn’t matter what… but as he spoke, I realized I wasn’t listening. Rock was right, I was inputting his problem into my brain, and seeing the connections my brain would make. I was waiting for a nanosecond break in the conversation so I could jump in and “solve” his problem with what would work for me.

Ouch.

Rock suggests we read Quiet Leadership slowly, one chapter a week, and do the homework assignment at the end of each chapter. It’s taken me four months to get through chapter 1. At that rate, it’ll be years before I finish. I suspect it will be time well spent.

A Nobel Prize in Economics… and Water Coolers

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When I was a kid, my father tried to convince me that the study of economics was fascinating. He failed. My brain shut down at the mere mention of “supply and demand.”

He will be proud to learn that, now as an adult, I’ve read a book on economics.

And that I even liked it.

Thinking Fast and Slow was written by Daniel Kahneman, who won a Nobel prize in Economic Sciences for his research. In the book, he says that his goal is to change the conversations we have around the water coolers at work. I’m not sure what this has to do with supply and demand, but maybe that’s because I wasn’t listening when Dad talked about it.

Kahneman spends the first half of the book, explaining that we lie to ourselves and don’t know it. He’s not suggesting that we stand around the water cooler calling each other liars, but that we challenge each other’s thinking. Help each other become aware of how we lie to ourselves.

How do we lie to ourselves?

According to Kahneman, when we’re faced with a hard question, one we don’t have a ready answer for, we often answer a different (easier) question. Then we fool ourselves into thinking we’ve answered the original (harder) question.

As I thought about it, I started noticing that he’s right. Other people definitely do that. I could give example after example.

But I don’t, do I? Of course not. Then again… Hmmm. Maybe I do.

If you read this post from a few weeks ago, you’ll see that I did it there. Or tried to. Luckily my inner voice called me on it.

And I did it again not long ago.

It happened when I learned that an acquaintance had lost her partner. He died suddenly. In the space of a few minutes.

I was sad for her. What a shock it must have been.

What would I do if it had been my own husband, I wondered.

That’s a hard question. A very hard question.

Did I answer it?

Nope, I dodged it. Or tried to.

I looked around our office and thought, “Well, it would make decluttering our office easier. All his books could go.”

Silly answer, I know.

Since then, I’ve had several conversations “around the water cooler” and have found a deeper, more honest answer. One of my sons was especially helpful in talking me down off the ledge.

I highly recommend Thinking Fast and Slow.

I absolutely loved the first half.

Unfortunately, Kahneman lost me in the second half. The part where he talks about… well, economics… supply and demand.

Sorry Dad.

i-like-a-nice-3-gallon-dispenser-with-cold-water-filtration-27118426

 

 

 

2 freebies… plus a great deal on Amazon.com

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Pass the word to anyone who liked Narnia, City of Ember, or Wrinkle in Time…  Amazon.com has slashed the price of my book by 40%.  If you are buying through the U.S. site, the book now only costs $9.04. Put one in somebody’s Easter basket along with the chocolate.

Now, for the freebies.

FREEBIE # 1: Click below for a pdf of the first three chapters. Feel free to share it with anyone who might be interested.

The_Caves_of_Fire_3FirstChapters

FREEBIE # 2: Click below for a coloring page of the book cover. Also as a pdf.  And again, feel free to share.

Coloring page of Caves of Fire

 

 

Unexpected Tears In The Metro

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After a couple years without one, I’ve just joined a new writing group. At the end of our first meeting, two of us chatted about our backgrounds as we headed toward the metro station.

Among other things, I told her I’d been born in a village of a couple hundred people… Had been plunged into a new culture and language as a teenager… That my parents had run a non-profit supply organization in Africa.

“How have all those things influenced your writing?” my new friend asked.

“My… My writing?”

She nodded.

“Umm…” I hesitated, scrambling for an answer. I’ve been writing for a while. You’d think I’d have given that question some thought.

Apparently not. Wow.

I mumbled something inadequate and we parted ways. But as I threaded my way through the crowd toward my train, her question stuck with me.

“How have life-events influenced your writing? How have life-events influenced your writing? How have—”

I stopped.

Tears were rolling down my cheeks.

What?! Why? Continue reading “Unexpected Tears In The Metro” →

Why’s She Wearing Those Crappy Shoes? (AKA: Creativity Exericse # 19)

I’m in the waiting room of the Hockey Quebec office. There’s no one behind the reception desk, so I sit down and pull out my book. With any luck, I’ll have the next hour to myself.

My luck runs out quickly.

“Have you been helped?” asks a man.

“Yes,” I say with a bright smile. “Thank you.”

He smiles, too, and walks away.

I return to my book—and read a whole page before I’m interrupted again.

“May I help you?” It’s a woman this time.

“Oh no,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m good.”

She smiles and leaves.

Two more people come by. Same question. Same smile.

As fascinating as it is,1 I obviously won’t be able to read my book. What else could I do?

Then I remember. I have homework. My creativity assignment2 this week is to observe an event and then imagine as many possible explanations for it as I can. I look around for inspiration… then notice my shoes. I grab my notebook and begin scribbling:

Why is this woman wearing such crappy shoes?

  1. She has no others. Her feet have inexplicable grown from eating a magic bean. Or maybe it’s a curse of some sort.
  2. Someone stole all her shoes… and replaced them with these.
  3. The airline lost her suitcase. She was wearing slippers on the plane. In desperation, she dug these out of the trash can.
  4. It’s therapy. She’s addicted to fashion and her therapist gave her homework: to wear something old. Her stomach is twisted in knots. What will people think of her?
  5. She’s sick of winter. Sick of wearing boots. But there are still piles of snow and slush everywhere, so she wears her oldest shoes.
  6. She’s actually a bazillionaire, but doesn’t want people to know it, so she dresses down. Way down.
  7. She’s homeless and has no other shoes. She has snuck in to stay warm.
  8. She’s R.E.D. (Retired and Extremely Dangerous) and in hiding. In this get-up, no one will ever recognize her.

I continue on until I have a dozen possibilities, then I close my notebook. That was fun. And unlike other events I could have chosen, I know the real reason the woman is wearing those crappy shoes. Number 5 is the truth. I keep those shoes for this time of year. It’s officially spring, but there’s still snow and slush and ice where I live. I’m sick of winter. Sick of winter boots. I refuse to wear them. So I keep this pair of tennis shoes for this time of year. I don’t care (much) what people will think.

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Things could be worse. Last weekend, we visited Quebec City and drove in front of the house we lived in for 20 years… This is the usual amount of snow left this time of year. Neighbors used to chop up the snowbanks with chain saws to help them melt faster.

  1. The Formula: The Universal Laws of Success by Albert-Lászió Barabási in case you’re interested.
  2. Hat Tip to The Creativity Book by Eric Maisel for this creativity assignment.