Hitting Bottom and Calling it Home

Photo by Jim Mastro

Thirty one years ago, Jim Mastro applied for a job as a seal trainer at the San Diego Zoo. He didn’t get it so he went to work in Antarctica. For a year.

When I met Jim earlier this year at the Southern California Writer’s Conference, I knew none of this. If I had, I would have abandoned what I was there to do and hounded him for details. Luckily, I found out later that he provided them in his book, “A Year at the Bottom of the World.”

I didn’t know there was such a thing as ice envy until I read this book. There is, and I have it. It’s Jim Mastro’s fault. His writing and his photographs (all of those that appear in this post are his) capture the ferocity, the isolation, and the beauty of Antarctica. As Tina Fey says, “I want to go to there.”

A quick word here about Jim: he is the author of the Children of Hathor Trilogy, a gripping series of novels for people in the “middle grades” of school and for all others who love an inventive and well-written sci-fi adventure story. In the first book,“The Talisman of Elam,” hero Jason Hunter boards a space ship in his backyard and nothing is the same for him, his friends, or the planet, again. I’m not a kid (by a long shot) but I loved “Talisman” and I urge you to check it out along with its just-published sequel, “The Hand of Osiris,” here. Both books have been reviewed by librarian Ardis Francoeur and you can read what she thinks here:

Children of Hathor Review by Ardis Francoeur

Jim knows a bit about life-changing moments. One July Day, he’s boarding a jumbo jet in Los Angeles. Two days later, he’s in Christchurch, New Zealand climbing up the steps of a Hercules LC-130 with 34 other passengers. Which wasn’t easy since all of them were wearing three layers of clothing including a thick red parka and “bunny” boots, the equivalent of wearing giant and very sturdy marshmallows for shoes.

“My feet looked like they belonged to a cartoon character,” he writes.

Photo by Jim Mastro

Six hours later, he realizes they are past the PSR point or the point of safe return. This means that the Herc has to make it to McMurdo Station in two to three hours or it will run out of gas somewhere over the icy ocean. They don’t issue life jackets on the planes that fly to McMurdo Station. They provide “exposure suits.”

Photo by Jim Mastro

The Herc, equipped with skis, lands on the Ross Ice Shelf. Jim emerges into a world carved out of ice, surrounded by air so dry and cold it seemed like a “living thing that disliked people.” But it was also beautiful.

“The sky, the vast field of snow on which I was standing, even the ice crystals flickering in the air — all of it was blue. Blue in a million hues. In the distance, jagged, snow-covered mountains glowed pink and purple from a still-hidden sun. The sky was cloudless, the air dead calm, and the whole world encased in ice. It was more strange and beautiful than I could have imagined.”

From there, Jim takes us through a year at the bottom of the world season by season. The book is informed not just by that first year but also by his subsequent stints that, combined, add up to more than six years at the bottom of the world. In those six years he has:

• Dived under the Antarctic ice and come face to face with seals who spend much of their time breathing through holes in the thick layer of frozen water above them
• Held a baby skua and placed it back in its nest
• Stroked the neck of a Wandering Albatross, a bird that stands three feet tall and has a twelve-foot wingspan
• Defended himself against a bug-eyed seal, the name the researchers gave adolescent male seals whose hormonal surges produce the same unpredictable behavior common to teenagers of all species
• Ordered a pizza – and got it delivered
• Fallenl in love with the woman who is became his wife

Photo by Jim Mastro

Photo by Jim Mastro

He learned that in summer it is hard to get a minute alone on the most isolated continent in the world. That is when researchers from all over the world flood into McMurdo and work around the clock to take advantage of the fleeting season.

He also learned first hand what winter anger is, why “winter-overs” — those who spend the winter at McMurdo and the South Pole station — look a little wild-eyed when confronted with the arrival of spring and new faces. I’ve often wondered if I could handle day after day of darkness, not to mention the cold and storms that rush over the ice in winter.

“My sleep/wake rhythms were free-cycling. Periods of alertness and periods of extreme drowsiness would strike at any time, and the forced rhythm of meals and work had no noticeable effect. There was no day/night cycle to act as a cue, and my brain was improvising.”

Photo by Jim Mastro

Sensory deprivation took its toll. He learned about “Big Eye” — sleeplessness. His dreams went wild and became a source of fascination. He spent time with colleagues talking about fresh fruit or fresh anything.

Reading this book was like traveling vicariously through the seasons. I fell into Jim’s account and the photographs which display the harshness and beauty of the environment while also giving a good idea of the people and daily life at McMurdo when he worked there. Things have changed since then and he writes about that too. In fact, he shared some insights with me in an interview which you can find by clicking the link below.

Interview With Jim Mastro

Learn why no one killed the spider they found in some lettuce. Jim also talks about how his experiences may have influenced the characters or stories in his trilogy. “A Year at the Bottom of the World,” can still be found at Amazon and at BetterWorldBooks.com among other sources. I’d like to say I’d lend you mine but I’m never giving it up.

The drawing for Jim’s books has been done and two lucky readers now have their copies. If you’d like copies for yourself or for a friend here is where you can find them http://www.amazon.com/Jim-Mastro/e/B001IYZB1K. Thank you for stopping by!  

A Journey To Now

In May I was feeling the loss of an old friend very deeply. It was his birthday month and a year since the last time I’d seen him. May was the time he’d normally be wrapping up his training for the Mount Washington Road Race in New Hampshire’s Presidential Range. Unable to run last year, he and I made breakfast for his fellow runners after their training run. He died of cancer last November.

His absence was palpable, like a deep bruise that throbbed every day. I was conscious that my grief was not only for my friend but for myself. This appalled me. Here I was, surrounded by more love than I ever thought would be mine, a family that is large, multi-faceted and very much alive, and a chance to do what I’ve always dreamed of doing. I was, and remain, grateful for all of it.

But struggle and confusion persisted. How is it possible to hold loss and grief and joy and gratitude in one heart all at the same time?

Around this time, I started to read Katrina Kenison’s memoir, “Magical Journey”, one of two books I’d given myself for Mother’s Day. Within, I found a fellow traveler grieving for her own old friend. “She’s been gone three months and I’m still not used to the world without Marie in it.” A few pages later I realized I had tears in my eyes as I read about Katrina’s loss as if I were reading about my own.

“The stark, absolute absence of her— of her life, her face, her hello on the other end of the phone, her name popping up in my e-mail box, her presence here on earth— has begun to grow, as Sylvia Plath put it, “beside me like a tree.” I live in the dark shadow of that loss, the shape and color of my own life changed by the too-early end of hers. And I know now, in a way I never quite did before, that time is contingent and that anything can happen.”

I lost myself for a few days in the story of Katrina’s journey. It was triggered by a convergence of events that unfold for all of us in one form or another: the unexpectedly premature flight of her youngest son from the nest, the loss of her friend, the end of a job she had loved, the approach of menopause, and the impending arrival of her 50th birthday. Among other things.

When these events are listed like this, it is perhaps tempting to say, “that’s life isn’t it?” Children grow, friends die or leave, our bodies change, and we get older. I’ve said this to myself, usually when I am feeling anxious or worried or unbearably sad. I see it now as an attempt to sidestep the emotions that come with loss and the unrelenting reminders that nothing, absolutely nothing, is permanent. I am learning the long, slow, hard way that the key to growth and peace lies in how I respond to that single, incontrovertible fact.

In “Magical Journey,” Kenison is a pilgrim in the land of impermanence. As I read her book, I felt as though I were taking each step with her, sometimes forward, sometimes back, and sometimes into familiar territory. When she described finding herself suddenly untethered to the daily routines of childcare, I remembered the first year after my son went away to school. when coming home from work meant coming home to a lonely silence and a strange, unsettling feeling that I often tried to ignore by throwing myself into work or hitting the gym. Like Katrina, I came to understand that the crack in what she calls the container we’ve built for ourselves represents both an ending and the beginning of whatever is next.

“Sitting here alone in my slowly brightening kitchen, I wonder if my early-morning restlessness could be preparing me for an awakening of my own. And if perhaps what has felt so much like an ending might also be a beginning.”

What I came to appreciate most about “Magical Journey,” however, is that  there were no discussions of “bucket lists” or developing action plans and strategies for the second half of life. In fact, Katrina spends a lot of time being still and grappling with not knowing exactly what is coming.

“Instead of continually wondering, “What’s next?” we can bring a spirit of inquiry into the present moment. We can be still, and more considerate toward ourselves. When it is too dark to see, we can listen instead. We can ask, “What is my experience of this moment?”

In the stark new silence of dawn in her once-noisy home, she writes her way to understanding and starts to pay attention to her inner guide. Her journey takes her from that kitchen, to immersing herself in yoga and learning to teach it, to a marriage counselor with her husband, to old friends, new friends, and then to helping others through healing practices and leading memoir workshops. Those are the stops that are easy to describe and are, indeed, rich and very powerful experiences but she didn’t get to them though by following her old expectations or the expectations of others.

“It seems that an honest answer to “What now?” isn’t going to have much to do with my youthful aspirations or definitions of success. It will rise from deep within, … My real task is not to try to reinvent myself or to transcend my life after all, but to inhabit it more fully, to appreciate it, and to thoughtfully tend what’s already here.”

We learn from each other’s stories. This is one of the oldest ways that humans have helped each other navigate the years between birth and death. Mothers, sisters, fathers, brothers, friends, perfect strangers – they can come along at exactly the right moment with the right words or just the simple companionship that makes you realize you while you must make your own journey through life, you are not alone.

In writing about this stage of her life, Katrina touches on the changes that come to all of us. Loss. Love. Children. Letting Go. Hanging on. Not knowing. Learning to trust and live in a world where nothing is permanent and time seems short. Reading “Magical Journey” helped me to remember that ultimately the place we’ve been headed all our lives, the place we must truly learn to inhabit, is now.

One final note. As I sat down to write this, I visited Katrina Kenison’s blog only to find that she has encountered yet another reminder of life’s fragility and the need to let the current moment guide our actions. She had been planning to write many blog posts and ask that readers consider buying a hard copy in the books stores while they remain. The death of a young friend has led to a period of silence and I would like, because I feel so strongly about this book and know many of you will find it a beautiful piece of writing, to ask you to consider buying a copy if you do not win the copy signed by Katrina Kenison that I have waiting for the winner of my drawing on August 8. See below for more details on that. And thank you.

With this post, I wrapped up a month-long celebration of journeys and books. Each post focused on a particular journey and the book that either took me or came along for the ride. Because this month also encompassed my birthday, always a milestone in life’s journey, I wanted to celebrate by sharing the books I mentioned here. Beth of I Didn’t Have My Glasses On won a SIGNED copy of “Magical Journey” by Katrina Kenison, by being among those who left her thoughts or “Liked” this post. Congratulations! By the way, the winner of the drawing for “Stranger in a Strange Land” is “Fat Bottom Girl Said What?.” Her blog is lively and sometimes heartbreaking. Check it out at http://fatbottomgirlsaidwhat.wordpress.com.

Road Trip, One Page at a Time

With this post, I begin a month-long celebration of journeys and books. Each post will focus on a particular journey and the book that either took me or came along for the ride. Because this month also encompasses my birthday, always a milestone in life’s journey, I want to celebrate by sharing the books I mention here. Each post will come with an invitation to leave your own thoughts and, by doing so, enter a drawing to win a copy of the book or books in that post. It’s a way of saying thank you for the wonderful welcome during my first six months of blogging here. I’ve learned so much and look forward to learning more.  Let me hear from you! Happy travels and happy reading. Congratulations to Camille at Wine and History Visited who won the drawing for “State by State, a Panoramic Portrait of America.” Next post: Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein!

I was late to discover the book, State by State, a Panoramic Portrait of America. It was published in 2009 but it turns out that it came to me at the perfect moment, the way the best books always do.

It took me a little while to realize just why the red, white, and blue volume beckoned to me from the “Librarian Picks” shelf at the local library. Then it hit me. It’s July, the anniversary month of my first road trip ever. Thirty nine years ago this month, my barely-younger brother (we are the same age for three days which makes us Irish twins), and I wedged ourselves into my mother’s green Pinto station wagon, drove down the dirt driveway to US Route 2 and turned right. We came back six weeks later. In between, we saw 18 states and 5 Canadian provinces, celebrated my 18th birthday and his 17th with our first legally-purchased beer in Denver, and never thought about the world the same way again.

Lots happened on that trip that we wished hadn’t. Lots didn’t happen that we wished had. In other words, it unfolded the way most journeys do. It challenged us. It drained us. It thrilled us. It left us wanting more.

My brother went back on the road a year later and began a series of trips that took him to every state but Alaska by the time he turned 26. It took me longer. Nevertheless, that first road trip became a reference point for all future trips. Once, I found myself driving a rented car from Oakland to Sacramento for work and as I motored through orchards and past acres of green leafy things, I was seized by the freedom that comes with being alone in a car, in a new place, in motion. I was single then, my son was already launched on his own journey and lived two thousand miles from where I’d raised him. The sense of discovery born on that first trip with my brother came back to me and I stopped the car near a town, found a phone booth (yes, a phone booth) and called him at work.

“Let’s do it again,” I said. “Let’s take two weeks and pick a place to drive and just do it again.”

He laughed. In the background I could hear the sounds of machines shaping the wood that he and his crew made into furniture. In his laugh, I heard the “no” already forming. He was a dad now. He was working with my father to build the furniture business. He couldn’t just pick up and go.

The moment passed but a new realization lingered. Once a journey is over, it can be recalled, never re-lived.

Still, echoes of that first trip and all those I’ve taken since grew louder in my ears as I read each of the fifty essays in State by State. Although inspired by the Federal Writers’ Project state guides, editors Matt Weiland and Sean Wilsey, did not set out to recreate them. Instead they asked “a mix of novelists, reporters, cartoonists, a cook, a playwright, a filmmaker, and a musician” to show us around.

Jonathan Franzen “interviews” the state of New York, Ha Jin paints a portrait of the Georgia town where he bought his first house and started his family. Dave Eggers gives us all the reasons that Illinois is the best state out of the fifty, and John Hodgman earnestly explains the importance of being Massachusetts.

Some of the writers write as native sons or daughters, others as outsiders. In every case, the perspective is personal and piercing, and, as in Franzen’s interview and Hodgman’s essays, sometimes laugh-out-loud funny.

The pieces also struck old chords for me. Heidi Julavits opens her piece on Maine with, “By the time this essay is published, I will already be in hiding…” She understands that calling herself a “Mainer” requires a string of qualifiers and explanations that add up to this: you may have a birth certificate proving you were born there but there are degrees of “native” and it doesn’t do to overstep by claiming any authority over what a Mainer is or isn’t.

That made me laugh and sparked a rueful sense of identification.  I grew up in neighboring New Hampshire where my family has lived for nearly 50 years, a drop in the bucket that nowhere near assures us “native” status.

This kind of thing will happen for any reader, though. Many of us came from one of the fifty states. Others of us found our way to one or more for work, love, school, or just curiosity. Part of the fun is seeing if the essayist got “your” state right. For example, Will Blythe does a beautiful job of being a New Yorker traveling the roads of New Hampshire but, like most visitors and the swarms of media types who cover elections every four years, never ventures into the upper third of the state. He missed the heart of it. And I say this from the completely unbiased viewpoint of one who came of age there.

Of course, the minute I opened the front cover and saw the definitely not-to-scale map of the country inside, I did what anyone would do: I counted how many states I had set foot in. The answer, I was happily surprised to discover, is 48.

I started to read the essays about states I already felt some connection with and then I stopped, went to the beginning and went through alphabetically. You’d never plan a real road trip that way but was a wonderful way to sink into the diversity and also to find the common threads that run through the tapestry that is the country. In every case I was in the hands of a guide whose unique voice and experience left me completely satisfied, and also wanting more.

I loved this book so much that I bought two used copies after I returned my library copy. I’m keeping one but would really love to share this book with another intrepid reader and traveler. If you’d like it, write a comment and let me know how many states you’ve visited, or your favorite state and why, or an adventure you had while traveling through the U.S. I’ll add your name to a list and on Tuesday, July 16, I’ll use Randomizer to pick a winner. Then I’ll get in touch to make shipping arrangements.

Thanks and, selfishly, I’m looking forward to learning from all you fellow travelers.

Right after I found this book, I came across this truck parked along one of my regular walks. This is one way of logging the miles and places one travels on life’s journey: