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We
Alaskans
by Dawn Brunke
I recently bought a
computer that had a lot of problems, and so I called the support
lines, which were most often answered by technicians in Alabama. One
of the first questions they asked was my address. When these folks
found out I was calling from Alaska, they inevitably gave a gasp of
surprise. "Alaska!" they exclaimed with a combination of
wonder, awe and intrigue. One man went so far as to become nervous, as
if I were a celebrity he had the unlikely good fortune to be talking
to, and he told me that his teenage daughter would be "so
impressed" that he actually spoke with someone from Alaska in
person!
As most of you reading
this know, we are a collective mystery for many in the Lower 48. We
live in a remote, vast land, physically removed from the rest of our
fellow Americans. We live in the Last Frontier -- wild country,
distinguished by towering mountains, polar bears, sled dogs and frigid
temps. In fact, the second thing the technicians from Alabama
predictably cried out was a series of rapid-fired questions about our
winter: Isn't it cold there? How do you live with all the
darkness? How long is the daylight? How cold does it get? What do you
DO all winter? Don't you get depressed?
While the honest
Midwesterner in me wanted to tell the truth, another part of me
couldn't help but embellish. After all, there are days on end in the
dead of winter when temperatures plummet below minus 20 and, here in
the Valley, the wind-chill factor can reach an outrageous 60 below;
there are days when the sun barely sneaks over the horizon at 10 am,
and slinks back down not long after 3 pm; from some houses there hang
icicles so huge that if they fell, they could skewer a man; and
frostbit toes and noses are nothing to laugh about. When the
technicians were properly cautioned into silence, I let loose with a
breathy sigh. Then, I regaled them with a taste of the magic of
winter: when the moose step lightly across the white mounds of snow in
our front yard, tufts of warm fog snorting from their huge nostrils;
when the Bohemian waxwings gather at the red berry bush outside my
window, chattering in excitement; when the Northern Lights boogie
across the night sky in pulsing, arcing, crackling streams of green
and blue, and how last year the display of intense red lights that I
had wished to see for so many years finally appeared, like some dream
come true. I told them despondency only comes if you can't find the
magic of winter; that winter's silent, white shroud is like a shawl of
restful comfort, an invitation to creativity, to going within, to
becoming quiet and peaceful and centered after our long, active,
light-filled summer.
And when the
technicians in Alabama didn't know what to say, I cradled an inward
smile for all of us lucky enough to live here, in this most
magnificent state of ever-changing seasons. We are the protectors of
this land, ambassadors of northern mysteries, vigilant witnesses to
the wondrous forces of nature.
It's winter. Time to
nourish ourselves, and time to celebrate! We are celebrities, after
all; we are Alaskans.
Dawn Baumann
Brunke is the editor of Alaska Wellness magazine. She is also the author
of Animal Voices and Awakening to Animal Voices.
For more information, see www.animalvoices.net
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A
Soul's Journey:
Alaska, The Last Frontier
by Julie Krause
The words echo back to me
in memory, "You'll love it or you'll hate it." That's what
they told me before and even after I got to the great state of Alaska.
Little did I know how right they were!
My experience of living here truly
became a love-hate relationship, or perhaps I should say a hate-love
relationship. The moment this wide-eyed cheechako stepped off
the plane of ego and onto the Last Frontier, an unforgettable journey
began to unfold. Like a precious gift bestowed upon a child, I
embarked on a journey toward my soul.
I came from a visual stance of
“what you see is what you get.” It was an extroverted state bent
on viewing the world as it was on the surface, full of people who
display superficial personas and cling to an air of artificial
optimism. Everything my old state had to offer was right before my
eyes and very predictable: sunny days, mild predictable winters, and
four full seasons. I was full of ego-conscious energy and walked with
a highly elevated attitude before coming here. I thought I was ready
for anything. It didn't take long to figure out how unprepared I was
for my new environment.
The first year went by and, as
most people predicted, I hated Alaska. I hated her dark, cold, damp,
isolated existence--as if it could even be called an existence, I
thought to myself at the time. I wasn't sure I could survive another
winter, let alone three.
Alaskan winters have a unique way
of slowing us down just enough to prepare for the approaching
darkness. Winter’s arrival offers a welcome reprieve from the
summer's frantic pace. When we see “termination dust” on the
mountain, we know Old Man Winter has just handed us his calling card.
It's now time to nestle down into a deep, relaxing hibernation – a
perfect opportunity for self-reflection and introspection.
Slowly, as one year began to roll
into the next, something wonderful happened to me. I found an elegant
pattern of simplicity awakening inside. Now I was surrendering to
Mother Nature’s ways, instead of resisting and dreading what she had
to offer. As I ceased to struggle against her -- like a salmon driving
against the current, I began to naturally and gracefully flow into the
cycles of change taking place around and within me. I surrendered to
the spirit of this land, letting it carry me where it willed....toward
my destiny and fate.
It often takes several years
before we can fully appreciate the rich rewards this land bestows upon
us. There is a strengthening of character that takes place within us,
and for each the experience is different. For me, it was the discovery
of a project I hadn't realized I was working on until it was complete:
an internal bridge toward wholeness. During its construction I
reconnected three parts of myself into one -- mind, body, and soul.
Sturdy and resilient is the bridge
I've built while living in Alaska. It holds me up as I journey between
the two extremes of brightness and darkness that dominate in this
great land, and in this world.
Thank you, Alaska, for opening the
eyes of a child, and for rediscovering the heart, mind, and soul of a
woman. I will miss you!
Julie Krause has
been living with her family in Alaska for 7-1/2 years. On military
assignment, they expected to stay four years, but opted to stay
longer. Soon enroute to Idaho, Julie is already feeling homesick for
the Last Frontier.
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