View Lisa’s Earthwatch Expedition and Hadrian’s Wall Excursion in a larger map

alone

Over the summer I had this amazing euphoric period. I was out doing amazing things I had never done before, stepping way outside my normal routine and exploring sides to my personality that usually lay dormant or underused. I felt this overwhelming sense of optimism and basic peace with the world. For once I saw beyond the walls of my room, and the skyline out my window, and I knew that other things were out there — things that had nothing to do with me or any human being, things outside of our narrow little history and time and idea of what it was to live.

It’s this odd human conception that everything has to MEAN something. Or that things should be a “certain way”. It’s a wonderful capacity to find patterns and connections that our brains have, and a terrible curse. Because you don’t find any other animal or plant or fungus or living cell asking itself why it exists, or if it dare disturb the universe. It lives because living is what living things do. And it dies because living things eventually die. Along the way things happen to it, and it makes things happen, and it all goes on. It’s amazing, and it’s beautiful, and it’s very much outside what I usually contemplate in day to day experience. I think about my job, and I think about being alone or being with people, and whether my muscles ache or my head feels clear, and I don’t think about the fact that there are deep oceans filled with living creatures we’ve never seen. I don’t think about the people I’ve never met and the stories they’ve lived. I don’t think about the stars, because where I live they’re blocked by the bright lights of the city. I get pulled down into the little grey pocket that is my corner of the universe, and I forget that there’s a world out there. I forget that I’m living.

There was this one night in particular, over the summer, when I was out patrolling the beach on St. Croix and we were digging up a turtle nest. Someone had to take the spare radio and finish the patrol alone, in case any adult turtles should come up while we were working. I took the extra radio and my dying flashlight and started walking. It was just me, the loose sand, the fading light of the moon on the ocean, and the vines growing sea grapes. At that moment I could have been the only person on the face of the Earth, that is how alone I was. I thought about my students, about people I loved and people I’d lost, and then my thoughts fell away and I kept walking. And then I started singing. Why not sing, when there was no one who could hear and giggle at me for doing it?

And then, I saw a dark shape sitting on the edge of the beach, jutting out past where the waves were lapping the shore. I checked the posts to see where I was, and if I wasn’t passing by the same log we’d passed a hundred times. The light was very dim, and my flashlight was failing, but somewhere in the darkness the shape moved, and moved again. My heart was pounding as I fumbled in my bag for the spare radio, which I’d never thought I’d need.

“You’ll never believe this,” I told the radio, “but we’ve got a turtle.”

Another volunteer had to rush the scanner over so we could wave it over the turtle’s flippers and find the electronically implanted ID number, and I had to crouch behind the massive animal and tug on its back flippers to attempt to read its metal tag, although the moon was nearly gone and I didn’t have enough light. Mostly I had to wait, and sit with the turtle as it made its way up onto dry ground to do what it had come to do. So I sat and watched. The scanner arrived, and the turtle’s barcode popped up in its blinking window, and we scribbled the numbers onto the official data sheet. But then we sat and waited again, and watched the turtle in silence.

It was the most connected I’ve ever felt to the world, to all the creatures who live in it. It was all exciting and new, and I didn’t know what was going to happen, or what I was going to do when it happened. I just knew I was seeing something ancient and beautiful, older than the sand I was sitting on, and I wasn’t distracted by idle chatter or worries about whether things were the way I expected them to be. That first time I was frightened to patrol without the other volunteers, but then I enjoyed walking the beach alone. I savored the chance to watch the waves, or look up and see the Milky Way’s trail across the sky, or sing profound and silly music while making little sneaker-prints in the sand.

What I’ve done, since I’ve returned home and faced the realities of the fall and winter, is to retreat. I’ve tunneled as far into myself as I can go. Occasionally I pick up a book or a thread of an idea and my mind races ahead of me, and I recognize the shadow of the feeling that occupied me months ago. But mostly I stumble through my days, feeling very little, seeing even less. Nothing very much registers. People are an irritation, a distraction from the monotonous hum of waking existence. When I am reached for, when demands are piled upon me, I want to pull away, to wiggle out from under the burden.

Despite occasionally wishing for more company, I think my basic loneliness stems from the recognition that I am worn out by people, worn out by trying to know and to love, and worn out by the struggle of trying to recover something that I once had and lost. The very idea of meeting a stranger and going through the whole dance — I don’t entertain it often, or for very long. I am at odds with myself over it, because I know that the nature of humans is and should be social, because no person could survive totally alone and without friends or love or affection. But often I think that would be simpler for me. There would be nothing else to lose. No intrusive memories or regrets to push away. Maybe I could be that solitary figure back on the beach, singing to the waves, radio stuffed safely into the bottom of my bag in case I ever really need it, but hoping that the need does not arise soon.

Collection of photos from my recent Earthwatch expedition in Iceland. Sad to say, I accidentally erased all of my video footage - but this gives a bit of the idea.

The purpose of the project was to collect data about the glaciers in Southern Iceland. As these glaciers press down, they form large pools of water underneath them. This water drains out as rivers, but can also collect over time underneath the glacier. Eventually, the glacier’s ice starts to float on top of the water, because ice is less dense than water, and when this happens, the water bursts out and causes destructive floods. Scientists want to figure out ways to predict when this might happen, and where the floods are likely to go.

It’s also possible that the glaciers will be affected by global warming and that this will lead to changes in how and when they produce these floods.

Sitting in the colonial schoolhouse: “This is so much better than our REAL school. No offense, Lisa.”

Upon hearing that a child’s father would take him “out to the woodshed” when he misbehaved: “Why, what happens in the woodshed?”

One boy, on seeing me in my bathingsuit: “I’m glad you’re wearing that and not a bikini. That would make you look… inappropriate.”

Overheard at dinner: “I need to have another cup of soda. I deserve it!” 

Birthday boy, upon noticing the balloons and singing waitstaff and not realizing they were approaching HIS table: “I feel sorry for the poor sucker who’s going to get that!”

Back in the hotel room negotiating over what to watch on TV: “Can we watch the Simpsons?”
Me: “Is it rated G?”
Kids: (collective mutter)
Me: “There must be something appropriate that you’d all want to watch.”
Child: “What about Bad Girls?”
(after the group has stopped hysterical-laughing)
Me: “_______, do you really watch Bad Girls?”
______: “All the time!”
Different child: “Do your parents know that?”
________: (gazing imploringly at me) “You won’t blow my cover, will you?” 

Walking down the hotel hallway with the group of boys staying in my room plus the adjoining room: “We must look so weird all walking together with just all of us and Lisa. Look at you, Lisa. You’re like the Octomom!”

The most difficult part of the day, though, was not the inclement weather - it was the several inches of freshly fallen snow - powder - on the trail. Though I can take almost any intermediate trail under typical conditions, I only ski a few times a year and I only started skiing a few years ago. This was my first time skiing on powder, so in some ways I felt like a complete beginner all over again. Almost as soon as I got started, my ski got stuck under the inches of snow and I tumbled to the ground. I then spent the next few minutes pushing myself painstakingly back up and then sliding around in frustration as I attempted to get my skis back on.

Once I was up and ready to go, I stood looking down the expanse of the trail and wondered whether I could make it down. I didn’t want to fall again. Of course, this made it even more likely that I would fall again, because with the anxiety taking the forefront, I couldn’t ski naturally using the techniques that I knew. I was extremely cautious, nervous, jerky in my movements. I got down to the bottom, finally, and wanted to head straight in for the hot chocolate and forget about the whole rest of the day. Why push it? Why risk injury, frustration, and embarrassment?

This was how I felt, too, when I first learned to ski. I could barely get the skis on without slipping, and I was terrified of crashing into a tree or tumbling down somewhere and being unable to get up. My sense of direction not being the greatest, I also worried about wandering onto a trail that was too difficult - and of course, as a beginner, most trails ARE too difficult. (I still struggle with finding my way when I’m at a new mountain, but now that I can take a wider variety of trails, this anxiety has lessened at least.)

The first few times I went skiing, I approached the activity with a sense of dread and left afterwards feeling relieved and proud for getting through it. I’d go on the green trails and feel satisfied with that, unwilling to press my luck on anything that required greater technique. Then we visited Snowbird for a ski vacation as a family, and the instructor informed me that I was on the “hardest green trail in the United States”. Once I got through that, I realized that I could take a wider variety of trails and not worry so much about getting lost. That was nice.

Each time we went, I would think to myself, “I’m glad I got through this… now I never have to do it again.” It took quite a while, and many successful runs, before I ever thought that I might want to ski for fun. Even now, I’ll choose to go when the opportunity presents itself - it’s not something I seek out on my own. I’m happy enough when I’m doing it, and happier when I’ve gotten through another successful day. Maybe someday I’ll book a ski vacation purposefully and look out the window and think, “Today looks like a great day to ski… I can’t wait to get out there.” But I doubt it.

A lot of things come naturally to me, but it’s a very useful experience to deal with learning something that doesn’t. It really helps to understand when trying to work with someone who’s struggling, to know how it feels to be stuck in the struggle. You don’t want to try because of what might happen. Maybe it isn’t exactly like skiing, where you can actually physically hurt yourself, but there are other ways to get hurt. You know you’re not a natural, and you know there are people around watching and judging you even as they’re standing by to help you when (not if) you need it. Even worse, the anxiety itself is clouding your brain and making you forget what you already know. If you happen to have a successful run, it can feel like luck - like you’ve tempted fate and you’ll get the worst of it next time. That reinforces the relief you feel about being finished, and the desire to never ever go near it again.

The only way to get through it is to stack up a pile of successes. There isn’t a substitute. You won’t feel better about your ability until you’ve experienced it again and again.

So I’m going back out on the powder today. I’ll probably fall. I’ll probably get frustrated, and I’ll definitely feel relieved when it’s over. But it’s the only way to learn how.

I had to break it to her that iPods were not invented yet.

She recoiled in horror. “You mean… they didn’t even have music???”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Which would you rather do - eat a spider, or lick the science room floor?” Satisfied smug, thinking - I’ve got her now.

I quickly glanced down at the floor, still smeared yellow and pink from Friday’s prop painting session. Then I smiled back up at him, and with a matching twinkle in my eye, said,

“Well, I’ve eaten ants before. So a spider wouldn’t be so bad.”

He grimaced and started to back away. “I was just joking…”

Lesson learned: Do not try to out-gross the science teacher. Especially if she’s been to Australia. It’s like Fear Factor out on those tours. (The ants tasted like Sprite and are said to be very high in Vitamin C.)

I have to say, this particular group plays very fair. When I was a kid and boys and girls were expected to play on mixed teams, every boy were always picked first, unless there was a super-ultra-tomboy in the group, who would generally get picked in the middle even if she was a superior athlete. This group is more enlightened (and their teachers make sure of it). The active girls are picked right alongside the boys. There is some angling to make sure that friends end up on the same team, but with such a small group, that often can’t happen and the kids don’t make much fuss about it. The last kids to be picked are generally the ones who don’t really know the game rules, and/or don’t make much contact with the ball.

Of course, the experience of being picked last never does anything to change that, either.

There’s one boy who always gets picked last for teams - I can’t remember watching a game where he wasn’t picked last. He’s a kid I’ve gotten to know quite well over the past few years and yet the fact that this keeps happening surprises me. What surprises me is that he hangs in there. He’s eminently clumsy, chronically knocking things over and bumping into people, and often can’t make contact with the ball or defers to more confident, aggressive players because he really wants his team to win. He’s competitive (read: anxious about losing) and he does bristle sometimes when he’s picked last, like today when he burst out, “This is a stupid team!” after watching the most non-athletic, disconnected girl get welcomed onto a team before he was. (She later wandered away from the game, without anyone noticing she was gone.) It’s the closest I’ve ever heard him get to complaining that he is always, always picked last.

What’s amazing to me is that this kid goes out there, every day, and stands there in public, and watches everyone else get picked before he does, and takes it. He wants to be in there, with those kids, so badly that he’s willing to take it. Not always with the best grace, but guaranteed if it isn’t raining tomorrow and the group goes out there, he’ll be right there waiting to get picked, hoping maybe this time - this one time - the team captain will turn to him and pick him out of the crowd. Maybe not first. Maybe not even second. And if he’s last again, he’ll take it, because he isn’t giving up.

I didn’t do that, as a kid. I gave up. I couldn’t control the embarrassment or anger I felt about being picked last, and I was convinced that the other kids hated me and were picking me last to send me a message that I wasn’t wanted. It was a tangle of mistaken perceptions and emotional overreaction, and a compounding of teasing and rejection and insults until I finally just walked away. I actually stopped trying. I played alone at recess - for years and years. I was almost too old for recess by the time I started interacting with other kids on the playground. There had to be kids at my elementary school who stood there and endured the selection process day after day, but I didn’t notice because I couldn’t even bring myself to be a part of it at all. I didn’t participate, or even watch.

This kid stands there and opens himself up to the possibility of being picked last every single day, and because he does, he ends up on a team. And he gets to play. It makes me really proud to watch.