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Glaciers - they move slowly
Jun. 26th, 2005 10:36 pmToday the New York Times travel section had a piece on how global warming is melting Alaska's glaciers. It was a thin piece, particularly obvious to anyone who has ever been to the state more than once. But there was a picture across the middle pages....
My heart is caught in my chest, suspended like a gut on a rollercoaster or tumultuous flight. It is a picture of a place I've never been to, yet the green, glowing against the various shades of graphite - one shade of grey the sky, one shade the rocks- this light I know exceedingly well. This light I see maybe five times a year now; I can count it one hand. The scene is cut with a slash of white and blue, the unique tints of color illuminated by the light refracted in glacial ice.
Like a recovering addict or someone healing from heartache, I count as success the days I've not been homesick. I am both proud and ashamed to say that I haven't thought of Alaska in terms of loss, homesickness or longing in .... maybe over a week. I dream of it from time to time. Like last night, when I dreamt of looking for a place to live in Juneau, marveling at the low prices and new development. I don't know if it was a character in the dream or the narration of my subconcious who commented that I would never be happy living away from Alaska, Juneau specifically.
Like an addict I can keep count of the times I've thought about It. This very morning, even before I opened the NYT, I was looking at Knut Hamsun's In Wonderland, a book about Russia 100 years ago seen through the eyes of a Norwegian Noble Prize winner, and I remembered that I haven't read John Muir's Travels in Alaska. I reminded myself I should read that before reading the travelogues of other lands. Like an addict, I restrict my viewing of porn - Juneau Photos (yes yes, it's my homepage) or the Juneau Empire, my local paper (shockingly, not nearly as awful as the SF Chronicle).
I'm not certain I want this part of me to "heal." Sure, it will make my wandering in the world easier. I know it will make me less tedious in conversation - I won't have an Alaska story or insight for every topic. But I'm not sure all lessons of place or community, the ones that formed who I am, are transferable. I see pictures like the ones in the NYT, I read their print*, and I feel as though I have something unique and special. I was born and raised in Alaska. I can look at a picture of a place I've never been to but recognize as my homeland. Alaska. I can feel the air, smell the glacier, hear the landscape. Just as quickly as my heart leapt, it settles. Back to Berkeley.
*The parting essay in the NYT magazine was by a woman from Anchorage, writing about one of her early hiking trips there. I hate Alaska writing such as this. Give me a break, lady. Mosquitos. Enormous. They beat on your tent like a creature from the unknown. You whined in the rain. Upon your return you counted your mosquito bites with a sort of pride. You've now been in Alaska for over 10 years, aren't you bored with "Alaska writing" like this? So tired, yet sells so well.....
My heart is caught in my chest, suspended like a gut on a rollercoaster or tumultuous flight. It is a picture of a place I've never been to, yet the green, glowing against the various shades of graphite - one shade of grey the sky, one shade the rocks- this light I know exceedingly well. This light I see maybe five times a year now; I can count it one hand. The scene is cut with a slash of white and blue, the unique tints of color illuminated by the light refracted in glacial ice.
Like a recovering addict or someone healing from heartache, I count as success the days I've not been homesick. I am both proud and ashamed to say that I haven't thought of Alaska in terms of loss, homesickness or longing in .... maybe over a week. I dream of it from time to time. Like last night, when I dreamt of looking for a place to live in Juneau, marveling at the low prices and new development. I don't know if it was a character in the dream or the narration of my subconcious who commented that I would never be happy living away from Alaska, Juneau specifically.
Like an addict I can keep count of the times I've thought about It. This very morning, even before I opened the NYT, I was looking at Knut Hamsun's In Wonderland, a book about Russia 100 years ago seen through the eyes of a Norwegian Noble Prize winner, and I remembered that I haven't read John Muir's Travels in Alaska. I reminded myself I should read that before reading the travelogues of other lands. Like an addict, I restrict my viewing of porn - Juneau Photos (yes yes, it's my homepage) or the Juneau Empire, my local paper (shockingly, not nearly as awful as the SF Chronicle).
I'm not certain I want this part of me to "heal." Sure, it will make my wandering in the world easier. I know it will make me less tedious in conversation - I won't have an Alaska story or insight for every topic. But I'm not sure all lessons of place or community, the ones that formed who I am, are transferable. I see pictures like the ones in the NYT, I read their print*, and I feel as though I have something unique and special. I was born and raised in Alaska. I can look at a picture of a place I've never been to but recognize as my homeland. Alaska. I can feel the air, smell the glacier, hear the landscape. Just as quickly as my heart leapt, it settles. Back to Berkeley.
*The parting essay in the NYT magazine was by a woman from Anchorage, writing about one of her early hiking trips there. I hate Alaska writing such as this. Give me a break, lady. Mosquitos. Enormous. They beat on your tent like a creature from the unknown. You whined in the rain. Upon your return you counted your mosquito bites with a sort of pride. You've now been in Alaska for over 10 years, aren't you bored with "Alaska writing" like this? So tired, yet sells so well.....