All that Light! It makes us a little loopy...

This solstice the sun hung over head for 21 hours and 50 minutes. I grew-up with a father who often said “You’re burning day light kid.” Well, let me tell you I have tried for over a decade now to burn up all the daylight in an Alaskan summer and it is an exhausting task – though I do give it my best effort.

Our family celebrated all weekend, kicking off the festivities with The Midnight Sun Fun Run. Fairbanks has plenty of serious runners who participate, but none of them take themselves too seriously, and so there is no shortage of them running the 10K in costume. They are not alone, runners of every age, shape, and gender will take to the roads which winds through neighborhoods to be cheered on by locals who hand out water to all takers. Many of whom are dressed as superheroes, giant fish, lumber jacks, Jedi, and flowers of every variety.

The next day the Midnight Sun Festival is the main event downtown. It is a street fair of the classic variety with booths, food, games, and rides. It begins at noon and goes on until midnight and always features music and dance performances free to the public.

That same evening the Midnight Sun Baseball Game, an event that has not required artificial lighting since the inaugural game in 1906, begins around 10pm. Just the same, by the time you have shook hands with the local ball players, had them sign your program, and convinced your family that now is in fact the perfect time to get ice cream, midnight is a distant memory.

You are thinking all that sunlight makes us a little loopy, huh? Well, you’re half right. There is something strangely appealing about being able to stay outside all night long doing things by the light of the sun. It is a bit like staying out past curfew – way past curfew! You know there will be consequences, but that just adds to thrill.

94 Days of Summer: Alaskan Style

June 21st marks solstice for all of us living in the northern hemisphere and it is filled with sunlight and the promise of summer. A promise I took pretty lightly growing up in Virginia, where an Indian Summer might take you halfway through October before the air became crisp.

Life has carried me pretty far from those climes and these days I am prepared to use everyday that summer has to offer. I am often asked what life is like here. Well, living in Alaska, summer or winter, is a lot like going to camp. You mean to write, but you are on the move and writing letters home is often competing with sleep, but this year is going to be different! No for real – this summer I will send poorly edited letters, slightly sticky postcards, and maybe even some almost-in-focus photos back to document this odd life I am carving out up here. No promises about winter, but this summer is a sure thing!

I know, I know, I am already a week late and a couple of photos short, but you watch your in-box. You will get 94 days of Alaska summer in fun-size installments for your personal enjoyment!

More Soon,
Jennifer

Stranger in a Strange Land

Dear Friends, Family and Fellow Vagrants

Some of you must be wondering if I fell off the face of the planet. The answer is yes. Yes, and I have stumbled into a very odd place indeed! So clearly am I am stranger in a strange land here. The air is breathable, the land forms recognizable as such, and the populace no less varied than others encountered in my travels, but there the similarities stop. I am clearly not on the planet of my youth.

The inhabitants, while enjoying each other’s company well enough, maintain their most fundamental relationships with a species that appears to exist in many separate and contained environments. Hundreds of beings live within hand held bits of light and are able to communicate using hieroglyphics on a small illuminated screen. This symbiotic community may be tiny in stature, but clearly is vast in number.

When I arrived here I immediately learned of a rare, but highly sought after beast with detachable antlers. I have spent days receiving communication via the tiny species mentioned above reporting the trials and tribulations of those in pursuit of this beast. The prized creature is dispatched and the adults and older youth then gather together for hours and hours (21 to be exact) using very SHARP KNIVES to disassemble it. It is weighed, marked, and runners deliver the parts, sharing them or storing them for future use. I am lucky to have found myself among such an openhanded community.

These days the diet consists a great deal of apples, honey, something called kugel (which is very edible and worth trying to recreate when I get back home), and the beast (minus its antlers). Occasionally they use their bread to fortify the local rivers - which might explain all the variations on “kugel.”

Young and old here are extraordinary storytellers. The older often recite poetry about the many creatures found here, including the beasts with detachable antlers, a King of Fish that swims in their rivers (perhaps that is what the bread is for), as well as stories of loves lost and won.
Young beings everywhere here call me mom. It appears to be a designation of some sort, perhaps a variation on “Hey, You,” but certainly is not a rank or title. It can be said with distinct derision, most frequently it is just a means to get my attention, but I have noticed that quite often genuine warmth and affection are conveyed with that single word as well. Perhaps it is long the lines of a pet-name.

The youth here are bold, and often travel out of sight of the older community members. Typically, they spend their time in small herds whenever they can. Together they build fires, eat, and beat the snot out of each other with an enviable exuberance. They also share stories. All are heroic in nature and nearly all include intuitive details that make lengthy descriptions unnecessary. They know. Time and breath are in short supply here. Consequently, the youth encourage each other, as well as other community members, to save theirs whenever possible. Still stories get told. Sometimes they speak of love and the mundane details of service to the larger community, but that is quite common stuff among them. More often their stories are about the complicated craft of Star or War, as well as many battles from The War of Hammer!

Lately there has been contemplative chest beating, songs sorrowful and lively, and (I kid you not) the building of colorful make-shift shelters for sleeping in outside as the temperatures begin dropping towards freezing.

Yes, it is an unlikely place I find myself these days. I admit I have grown very fond of the youth (particularly that odd bunch that insist on call me “Mom?”) but I have not forgotten you.

On nights when the others sleep I work quietly, repairing my ship. Perhaps some of the youth would consider it an adventure to help me man her, we will see. I doubt I will return to the planet of my own youth anytime soon, but my wanderlust is far from sated. So watch the night skies for me, soon I may find myself on a planet near you.

Until Then, I remain yours.
Truly,
Jennifer
9/2010

Paradise Found (an oldie but a goodie)

Okay, I realize that most of you would not consider Interior Alaska paradise, at least not in the middle of winter. Perhaps I am overstating a bit, but during these dark winter days I have found a source of sunshine in downtown Fairbanks - and it's not just their bright yellow walls. The Stash is generating real warmth.

The Stash is Fairbanks's own Handmade Gallery and Sewing Lounge.

Sewing Lounge! I love this, what community doesn't need a venue that supports creativity in a hands-on and straight-forward manner. The Stash is home to a sewing lounge: a needle and thread Mecca for the beginner as well as the experienced seamstress, crafters, and fiber artist alike. The equipment you need is there, set-up and rentable by the hour, space to spread out, and if you need it, a little help from your friends at The Stash.

Cool? Yes.

But really, a Sewing Lounge?

In San Francisco? Sure.

In Fairbanks Alaska? Why not?

It is not the first of its kind. A drop-in urban sewing lounge exists in the Bay Area for those who long to "sew and socialize" which is aptly named Stitch and gets credit for blazing this particular trail back in 2000. Since then a handful of other locations can boast a sewing lounge, but they are decidedly "sew urban" and exist almost exclusively in large metropolitan areas such as Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, St. Paul, and Seattle.

However, you don't need to be an urbanite to see the practicality of a place where you can use, but don't have to keep and maintain, the sewing equipment you need. In Fairbanks Alaska, we don't all have sewing rooms or studios, or perhaps we do, but currently the children are sleeping there. However, just as many of us live in cozier accommodations ranging from the classically full home, to dry cabins, or dorm rooms.

This snug bit of truth places our local sewing lounge on the cutting edge of the artist and maker revolution. Just think: this could be the end of dragging your sewing machine out of the closet or, as I do, borrowing one. No longer will you displace meals from the dinner table, or struggle to remember how to use this particular model of sewing machine. No more will you need to hunch protectively over your project, acutely aware of the "premium real estate" you are occupying in-house, feeling rushed to finish what you have started before a riot ensues. Hassel will no longer be the number one killer of Creativity!

Why not? Because ‘the Stashettes’, Rachael Brechan, Jane Magelky, and Robyn Neilko - the owners of The Stash - hear you and are providing a haven where ideas flow, artists and makers connect, and creativity isn't just surviving - it is living LARGE.

You can learn to make duct tape accessories - think craft meets punk rock - or soulful knits, that warm the heart, heads, and hands of those who make, as well as receive, them. The Stash hosts special events and participates in First Friday - Fairbanks's well-established monthly evening of gallery strolling and meet-the-artists type mingling.

In a manner both inspired and practical, the Stashettes are confident that art enhances the quality of life and they are helping others make that connection all over Fairbanks. Already they have hosted a variety of projects including a knit-a-thon, in which local knitters took part in an evening of knitting hat's for chemo patients. Currently, they are supporting a drive for blankets that will be distributed by the Northern Council on Aging and they maintain display space billed as "For Kids, by Kids" which promotes local artists and makers who are under the age of 18, many significantly younger than 18.

Less than six months after opening The Stash has grown from showcasing a few dozen local artists and makers to approximately 100 local artists and makers whose vision and designs reflect a willingness to take risks, a sassy flavor, or an ironic playfulness that one doesn’t always associate with traditional galleries. Their sign boasts 100% Handmade - 100% Local and is brimming with hand-spun and hand-dyed wools, vintage fabrics, artistically re-purposed materials, and one-of-a-kind products, which are selected through a juried review and all of which support a creativity-based counter-economy.. The Stash is another step forward in the efforts to revitalize downtown. A downtown where, those carving out a living will tell you that, increasing its appeal among longstanding- independent-thinking Fairbanksians as well as newer community members means providing more choices for the socially conscious consumer.

To me, all this feels like a beginning, an underground movement breaking through, a grass-roots movement taking hold. Surely these women represent the indie craft movement emerging across the nation? True, they offer an alternative to mass-produced goods. Their shoppers can make purchases and feel good knowing they are directly impacting the local economy, while the environmentally conscious are pleased to have a selection of artists and makers whose products embody the revamp, reuse, and recycle ethic, and everyone seems to enjoy discovering just how much talent exists in our community.

When I asked each of the owners, they laugh and say it isn't so. Sure they are fans of the indie craft movement, but their reasons for creating this venue are much closer to home. They are each "Makers" themselves. No, it turns out that community-building, helping revitalize local economy and social responsibility are just natural by-products of their collective creativity.

11/2008

Sometimes We Choose - Sometimes We are Chosen

Eight years ago Chris and Ruby met for the first time. She was two and a half. He was thirty-six, and the simple fact is, he never stood a chance. Before Ruby, Chris had every reason to believe he knew who he was and where he was going. He was, for all intents and purposes, a grown man. He had a career, a community, and five surfboards — which, as anyone could plainly see, was all he really needed in this life.

It was probably true, too, until Peyton turned up again, just like a bad penny. Chris had heard she was in town, and decided he wanted to see her again. Perhaps he was hoping to see that he had romanticized her, built her up to be more than she was, or that she had moved on. Then he, too, could put away any lingering feelings for her and do the same. Whatever it was and whatever he hoped, what he had not anticipated was meeting Ruby.

Ruby orbited Peyton like a small moon. As a little girl she was all eyes, motion, downy hair, and a strong gravitational pull. I think of photographs from the day Ruby learned to walk, barefoot in thick grass, surrounded by Peyton’s family. Ruby was the center of her own personal solar system. Moving back and forth among them, her small body pitched precariously forward, she ricocheted off paired-up knees. Each time she reached her destination she was praised, turned, and aimed in a new direction. Ruby mastered the balance needed for walking that afternoon, encircled by more love than many who walk this world for years.

When Christopher met up with Peyton, he met Ruby, too. They decided to get together the next day for a longer visit and made plans to go to the beach. The three of them spent the afternoon playing in the sand, soaking up sun, and slathering SPF 50 on Ruby. They built sand castles and played at the water’s edge. Chris willingly filled his pockets and shared his towel with every tiny shell, or bits of shell, Ruby selected, sorted, and treated like a matchless treasure to bring home. After a nearly sand-free lunch, Chris helped give Ruby a bath and get her ready for bed. Somewhere between the SPF 50 and helping Peyton tuck Ruby into bed that night Chris’s found his heart was now in double-jeopardy.

The afternoon had allowed Peyton and Chris to see each other through a new lens. As adults who were capable of balancing the needs of others against their own and I believe this set the stage for their next visit, and the one after that. Now, you, I, and Peyton know that one good day with a toddler does not a parent make, but despite the many challenges that would come, from the beginning, Ruby knew better.


These days Ruby’s caramel colored hair might be momentarily captured by a head band. She is ungainly, persistent, insightful, and sees the world through astonishingly beautiful eyes, which take in every detail. Well, every detail apart from her shoes, which she still can’t find in the front hall, or the plate that Chris has asked her to clear to the kitchen counter. She might have missed her lunch box in Peyton’s back seat, which she is still pretty sure she brought in from the car.

However, this is small stuff, particularly when understood in context of what is observed. Ruby sees kindness in places easily overlooked by others. When necessary, she envisions whole worlds for herself and for us. Are you in need of a quick vacation? Ask her about Peru, you will understand what I mean. As a little girl Ruby often described seeing angels. Not specifically beings with wings or illuminated by white light, but beings that could only exist as angels.

I guess the last might be considered as imaginative versus perceptive, but there is no question that when Ruby and Chris met she recognized him for who he was, or was becoming – a parent. Sixteen months and 4, 972 miles later (as Chris tells it) he arrived in Alaska. This time Ruby put it to him - will you be my Daddy now? I don’t actually have the particulars on Chris’s response, but I do know that Ruby treated him as a Daddy. Identified him as hers, and when it was not as straight forward as all that for the other adults, she simply trusted that he would eventually find a way to put it all-to-rights.

May 28, 2009 was life as usual at Ruby’s house. Ruby’s little brother, Noa, wanting her attention, a full day of school, friends, and cheerleader practice. She did chores, finished homework, and listened to a chapter of Harry Potter before going to bed. Save one detail. Chris heard from a family friend, Jill, whose specialties include family law. She was calling to let him know the adoption paperwork was finalized and that at last he could call Ruby his own.

Happy Gotcha Day Christopher

"Happiness - Off the Beaten Path" or other travel guides I wish somone would write

At 5:42 a.m. my facebook news feed read, “Sarah Jones* and John Jones* have ended their relationship.” It was an unexpected way to learn that their 18+ years of waking-up together, making love, having babies, arguing, mowing the lawn, worrying about each other’s parents and siblings; and unpacking after long family trips, had come to an end. Very suddenly, 5:43 am was a great deal more significant for me.

John and Sarah were high school sweethearts, managed to date throughout college, married, and then took on graduate and medical school. Like many of us they are raising a family. They have built professions side by side in the town they grew-up in and appear, at least from my distant perspective and some lurking through online photo albums, to have created full lives.

Having botched a first marriage of my own, I am of the opinion that being married requires more than stamina. That waking-up in love day after day is about more than shared history, common ground, or even desperately wanting to pull off a marriage better than the one your own parents did or did not endure. What that elusive more is seems increasingly harder to define these days. Opinions ranging from “God” to “Great Sex” fill the self-help shelves of bookstores everywhere. With so many possibilities being voiced it seems a sure thing that there is not a one-size-fits-all answer to sustaining love.

I have long believed that life is what we make of it. As I grow older, I have also come to believe even those willing to make the very best of this life sometimes find themselves in unredeemable situations. Life-crushing poverty, war, famine… these are often just the accident of being born in the wrong time or place, and just as often there is no way out. I am not suggesting that when a marriage fails no one is at fault. By all means blame whomever you want. Most of us recognize that our actions will bear consequences, regardless of which actions we take, and as the shelves at bookstores attest - there are many meaningful and significant ways to nurture relationships.

I, myself, have never seen the travel itinerary for a life. Flights, even when closely monitored for arrival or departure times are rarely predictable, frequently experience delays, and there are no e-mail alerts that let us know when the volcano blows and stops air travel all together.

I think it takes courage to live somewhere other than the corner of “Almost and Happy.” You often have very good neighbors there, moving causes disruption and discomfort even when you are ready to leave, and more so when it is going to take you someplace unknown. I wish I could send my Sarah and John each a map or a travel guide. You know something like “Happiness- Off the Beaten Path” or “The Lonely Planet’s guide to Bliss.” Unfortunately, leaving a trail marker is the best I can do - keeping in mind of course that I am often nowhere to be found - here it is:

Fall in love with YOU. Fall hard. Fall deep. Reach for as genuine a love as you have ever dreamed might exist. Be particularly generous in accepting your flaws.

It is a risky undertaking. This is not something that gets quickly checked off your list. At least, I have never actually met anyone who said “Yep, been there, done that.” Nevertheless, along the way you do meet others trying to do the same thing. Strangely, it means that they recognize the feeling of being loved, and this greatly increases their (and your) capacity to love others. I think this trail runs pretty close to one of those fabled towns of peace and contentment, but I am not sure. Sarah, John, I promise to let you know if I get there first, I’ll continue to leave markers along the way, and for sure I will send up a flare. Feel free to send out a search party if you get there before me. As I mentioned above, pretty often I am nowhere to be found.

*Names have been changed to protect Sarah and John’s privacy