To: Friends and Family
Next afternoon: Gray all day. But no wind or rain. Just bones radiating cold like freezer packs. Word on the street—wind last night registered 90 mph. I drove into Tillamook for cheap gloves so I could cut off the fingers.
Instead, I discovered fire-starter sticks bathed in pitch and Rainy Day Books.
And yes, folks, this evening we have fire!
According to the native people, winter was the time for telling stories. Telling stories at any other time could bring rain or even more dire consequences. Winter, you see, was when the spirits came back and therefore the time for communal rituals and ceremony.
Because Ocean’s daughter is South Wind’s second wife, his first wife became jealous and decided to leave. However, no matter how long or far she walked, the poor woman kept waking up in her old room—her bed always made, but her possessions scattered about. She could never get away because all the world is South Wind’s house.
Last night, I heard a different story from our friendly TV meteorologist who traveled out from Portland in his blue and black rain gear to report on potential flooding. From a rainswept bank of the Wilson River, he reminded us that “Tillamook means land of many waters. And today,” he continued as the camera cut to the river, “these waters are rising. Just to my left”—the camera focused on a massive root system—”a towering spruce was toppled by eighty-mile-an-hour winds as this cascading river washed away the ground upon which this fallen giant once stood...the future of the farm behind it now dependent upon how the ocean swells and the incoming tide will affect this already raging river...”
What we may or may not have lost in between these stories, I’m not prepared to say.
Subject: Catching Fire
From: walden@intermind.net
12/29—8:30 p.m.
I’ve been reading Vaclav Havel’s Letters to Olga (written in prison).
Havel went to prison for his dissident, then became president of his country.
I’m sitting here tonight, inconsequential. Bookended by eternity. Safe. Except from my safety. And oh yes, from the storm that won’t quit.
It began around 3 when I woke from a nap to wind lashing the trees like knives through all the silks of the world. Suddenly the rain came like bullets out of gunmetal sky. With the gray ocean thrashing about like the mind of a restless god, an unsettling dark took possession of the world. It’s now 8:30, and the lights keep flickering as if all civilization is now under siege. The big wide window pane before me just buckled and crackled like cellophane. A terrible chill has found its way into my bones and won’t leave.
I tell you there’s more to the weather here than meteorological forces.
And whatever it is feels personal.
Everything would be better if I had a fire. However, I've been engaged in a Promethean battle with the big cast-iron bully inhabiting the middle of my living space.
While any dumb fool can set swaths of California on fire with the careless flick of a cigarette ash, I can't start a fire by holding a BIC lighter to an artfully constructed pyramid of newspaper, dead twigs, and treated wood chips. I have, however, created a lot of smoke, which along with the smoke detector has driven the cats under the down comforter on the bed.
Screw the wood stove. Fuck the scout hand book.
Screw the wood stove. Fuck the scout hand book.
I’m going to join the cats—and begin to repent for all my comforts, as the only one Havel had in his prison was a cup of evening tea.
•••
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| Rainy Day Books |
Instead, I discovered fire-starter sticks bathed in pitch and Rainy Day Books.
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| Karen Spicer, Proprietor and Webster, resident cat |
Getting the cold out of my bones has given me the courage to go deeper into this place. And I’ve just learned from my newly purchased Nehalem Tillamook Tales that there really is more to the weather than weather—and why, despite coming here for self-reflection, I feel compelled to you tell my story:
According to the native people, winter was the time for telling stories. Telling stories at any other time could bring rain or even more dire consequences. Winter, you see, was when the spirits came back and therefore the time for communal rituals and ceremony.
Storytelling was part of those traditional ceremonies, along with dancing, singing, and praying. The purpose of the ceremonies was to enhance the well-being of the tribe. Then as now, the people wished to protect their wealth and power. However, they were also concerned with matters beyond self-interest. Dancing, for example, helped maintained balance in the world. Storytelling was a form of education.
The people took education very seriously. Unlike most native people, they didn’t permit storytellers to change or embellish the traditional tales. And children didn’t simply gather at the feet of the storyteller to listen but had to learn the vivid and convoluted narratives verbatim. The stories not only embodied moral and practical lessons but drew each person into the collective psyche.
South Wind, as the story goes, travels only in winter. He has different head bands which he wears, depending on whether he wants to tear off a few limbs or pull up the whole tree by its roots. South Wind is married to Ocean’s daughter. Ocean is the chief of chiefs who receives what he needs from South Wind. Ocean and South Wind agreed after the marriage to work together. South Wind promised to destroy things so Ocean can possess them. In return, Ocean promised to drift and drown things.
Because Ocean’s daughter is South Wind’s second wife, his first wife became jealous and decided to leave. However, no matter how long or far she walked, the poor woman kept waking up in her old room—her bed always made, but her possessions scattered about. She could never get away because all the world is South Wind’s house.
Warmly,
Joan
Next: Seals of Approval
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