what’s your tree story?
I used to lie in my bed at night as a child and stare at the tree in our front yard that towered outside my windows. As it swayed back and forth, its shadows danced across my room. I was both mesmerized and horrified. By day, this mighty Sycamore offered shade for my busy make-believe town filled with Matchbox cars one moment and Barbie and Ken adventures (dates) the next. My older sister used to climb high into its limbs. I was never so brave.
The Sycamore.
The American Beech in our backyard was a launching point for our somewhat risky sledding path, where we launched ourselves over the hill and headlong into trees and bushes until we finally hit the valley — and creek — below. Not the smartest thing we ever did. When that Beech was struck by lightning about a decade ago, part of it toppled into the yard below, creating an accidentally perfect climbing obstacle for my curious and adventurous kids and nephews.
The Beech.
These are the trees of my youth and their stories run through me.
But trees have continued to play an important role in my life. They are characters woven through my life story.
There’s the tree right down the road from me that arches over a cemetery in the most beautiful, protective way that I’ve been drawn to stand under it and photograph the light through its leaves as they burn bright in the fall.
There’s the Eastern White Pine I gifted my friends when they moved into their new home — a small, potted tree that now stands free in the soil, reaching taller every month.
I also often think about the two trees I planted during travels in other countries. I planted a tree on a mountainside in Cuba and one in a protected forest in Guatemala.
The protected forest in Guatemala.
I planted this tree in Guatemala.
As I continue to study the effects of climate change, my passion for protecting trees and forests grows. Trees are life.
I have hugged trees, talked to trees, sat with them and apologized to them.
What’s your tree story? I’d love to hear.
***
Learn something
If you want to learn more about the important role trees play in our lives, read a book.
(And yes, I realize books kill trees. This is a problem I struggle with as a lover of books and Mother Nature. Here’s an interesting read about print vs. digital books.)
Here are just a few of my favorite books about trees and nature:
going back
I recently found myself in an unfamiliar spot. I was lost. Misdirected, even. And in that moment, my heart and my head — my entire soul, really — told me what to do.
Go home.
It’s what we all do when we feel lost, I suppose. We immediately try to find our way back. We pause. Take a breath. Lean into the moment. Breathe some more. Ask for help when needed. But of course, we always wait too long, don’t we? I suspect we’re all guilty of that.
But eventually, we claw our way back to the familiar.
Just as with this writing, I haven’t created a plan or a map to guide me. I just sat down and started typing. Same with my life. No plan. No map. If I had planned better, maybe I wouldn’t be right here. Right now. Maybe I’d be in an entirely different place. Or, maybe, I’d be exactly here. We can’t know.
I don’t have a plan.
So I went home.
I don’t know how to explain the intense pull on my soul to head east when things went south. It just happened. Not exactly right away, though looking back over the past two weeks, I’d say it happened fairly quickly. When you’re told you no longer have a place in a specific place, you long to find a place where you do.
So I went home.
I’ve lived longer away from home than I ever lived there. It’s hard to believe, really. I wonder why we’re allowed to call a place home when we lived there for a shorter period than we lived any other place. It’s just the way it is. It’s home because it’s home. There’s no other way to explain it.
I moved away from western Pennsylvania when I was 18. Yet I can still close my eyes and feel and see the road ahead of me when I’m there. I can anticipate the hills. The bends. The railroad tracks. Exactly where we giggled every time our school bus went down the hill super fast and up the other side, past the pig farm that smelled so strong you could almost taste it. We held our breaths.
I am holding my breath again.
I know I need to breathe.
But breathing can be difficult.
I spent the past week at home going backward in order to move forward. I ate my favorite foods I can only get at home. I saw family I can only see at home. I even had lunch with my best friend from elementary and high school. I hadn’t seen her since 1992.
I went back so I can move forward.
I have a tattoo of a typewriter key on my right wrist. BACK SPACE. This permanent reminder on my wrist was meant to serve as a symbol of my love of vintage typewriters and as a nod to my profession as an editor. To edit, you delete things and use the BACK SPACE button quite a bit. You have the opportunity for do-overs. In fact, you have to go back to move forward.
My life has awarded me many opportunities to go back in order to move forward. I’ve had many setbacks and many chances to do things over. I suppose we all have. My situation is not unique. While I am not a fan of the execution of my BACK SPACE key, I am deeply attached to the meaning behind the art.
I am backspacing my way through life. Always have been. Two steps forward and 10 back. Always.
And yet, I catch up again. Sometimes take leaps and bounds forward. It’s what I do. I’m a backspacer.
I found my way back to Pennsylvania and did some (not all) of the things I set out to do in a few short days. I know I can and will return soon. It’s home — and I’m drawn to it more lately than ever before. I am meant to be there, surrounded by the rolling hills and the smell of corn husks drying in the late-summer heat.
I will always go back.
It’s my familiar. My space.
My home.
I played in these woods as a child. This is home.
stay on the path
There are countless lessons to be learned among the trees. 🌳 🌲
And, unfortunately, most people need a lesson.
On a recent trip to Muir Woods National Monument in Mill Valley, California, I was left feeling both awestruck by the absolute magnitude and beauty of the old-growth redwood forest and gobsmacked by the sheer ignorance and entitlement of some of the humans among these giants.
The signs are numerous and their message is clear: Stay on the path.
I was with a group of people I only just met and will likely never see again. A man in our group grabbed his son and said, “Let’s get a picture with that huge one.”
They hopped off the path and ran to lean against a protected coastal redwood that is likely nearing 1,200 years old. The father put one foot up against the tree, pulling his son in tight and smiling big for the photo.
“Ohhhhh, no. You need to get back on the path now,” I said, with conviction.
Of course, the reaction I received from the man and son was exactly as expected. The whole “who do you think you are telling me what to do” look and the hands up in the air, just as most guilty people do when caught. “Ooooooooh, she means business.”
I stood my ground.
“Yes, I do mean business and this is one situation where I’m going to stand up and say something. The signs say to stay on the path for a reason. Stay on the path.”
There was grumbling and giggling. But a voice broke through the awkward moment just in time as a stranger walking by said, “Yeah. Can’t you read?”
There are reasons to stay on the path.
I hesitated to share this because while it doesn’t paint a good picture of the two men breaking the rules, it also makes me seem like a know-it-all pain in the ass.
But honestly, I’m still learning. And only after doing some deep research can I share more about why it’s so important to stay on the path. Here are a few reasons:
🐛 Protect the sensitive habitat. The overstory (trees) protect the understory (plants, fungi, root systems, microbes in the soil). You trample through the forest, you disrupt the sensitive habitat.
💧 Protect the waterways. The redwood and sequoia trees in Muir Woods have roots that spread to waterways, including Redwood Creek. If the roots and soil are damaged, the waterways are affected.
🐟 Protect the coho salmon and steelhead trout. That’s right. Everything is connected. If you leave the path, crumple the soil and disrupt microbes, you can cause changes in the runoff … and suddenly fish are at risk of sickness or even death. The trees help to filter the runoff.
🌳 Protect the trees themselves. These are among the tallest living things on 🌎 and protect many endangered animal species, store more carbon than any other forest on the planet and regulate temperatures for ideal forest growth and animal and plant protection.
There are so many reasons to stay on the path.
And really only one to jump off.
Sunbeams shine through the redwood and sequoia trees along a path in Muir Woods National Monument.
the mountain vs. the road
Nepal. 2019.
The drive from Kathmandu to Sindhupalchok takes about 3.5 hours, give or take 3.5 hours. This, according to the Nepali men driving me along the route, is a guessing game. We will see how it goes. I take their word for it and sit back. I’m riding shotgun, so I have a great view for the next few hours. Or so.
When they told me it’s unpredictable how long this trip will take, they forgot to mention why.
I think I just figured it out.
Ahead of us, a huge swath of this so-called highway to China is gone — literally wiped off the map. At first, my car mates don’t understand why I’m confused by what lies ahead and all around us. Then they realize: the American girl has no idea.
So they explain.
The highway was buried by an avalanche back in 2014 with about 20 meters — that’s almost 66 feet — of rock and dirt that fell from the sky. There were 156 deaths, making it the deadliest landslide in Nepal’s history.
But wait. That was 5 years ago.
The driver nods and shrugs his shoulders.
And now, here we are. The devastation is unbelievable. The road is still barely passable. I hold my breath as our SUV driver slowly navigates boulders, ditches, running water and other cars that are perilously close. For miles, we inch along. The men in the truck with me return to laughing and talking over one another in their native Nepali language. I have no idea what they are saying. As they are in their own world, telling stories to pass the time, I am in absolute awe at the surroundings. This doesn’t seem real.
But it is very real.
The mountain has literally fallen into the valley and we are now driving over it.
This is the Araniko Highway in Nepal in September 2019. Photos by Kasey Jackson.
***
“I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.” ~ Susan Sontag
I cringe to state the obvious here, but travel has changed my life. I admit I am one of the lucky ones. I had a job that allowed me to see things I probably wouldn’t have seen on my own. I have been to places most people only dream of visiting — and some places most people have never even heard of before. I am lucky and fortunate and thankful. I do not take it for granted. I’m privileged.
But I will say it until the day I die: Do what you can to get out and explore. Even if it’s only around your own hometown or state. Get out and have an adventure. Be one with Mother Nature.
***
I chanced upon a documentary the other day on Netflix called “Aftershock: Everest and the Nepal Earthquake.” It’s a three-part series about the devastating earthquake and avalanche in 2015 that killed about 9,000 people in Nepal, including many climbers on Everest. An entire village, Langtang, disappeared under rubble and snow. This documentary reminded me of the devastation I saw in Nepal … and that living in a place surrounded with such breathtaking natural beauty often comes with a price.
So as I have done with all of my trips, I jumped in to do some research. Here’s a little of what I learned about the landslide I passed through:
The disaster took place along the Araniko Highway, which is the only route from Kathmandu to China. The highway passes directly over what is known as a “contact zone” between the Indian plate and the Eurasian plate. This is one of the most active areas of tectonic movement on Earth. This strong tectonic activity weakens the bedrock, leaving it loose and susceptible to landslides. While earthquakes are common here, this particular landslide was not triggered by tectonic action — it was triggered by monsoons.
The landslide created another problem when the debris cut off the Sun Koshi River, forming a lake that submerged a hydropower station. The lake posed a huge flood risk for almost half a million people in two countries and the hydropower station damage led to loss of power for millions.
Mother Nature will always win.
***
I met countless beautiful people on this trip. I learned about high-altitude living and terrace farming. I took part in local cultural activities and shopped for singing bowls and tea in the busy alleys of Kathmandu. It’s important to me to always spend some money with local artists and shop owners during my travels, and Nepal did not disappoint. I also came home with a one-of-a-kind knit poncho and several Dhaka topi, the traditional hat worn in Nepal.
But as always, my favorite souvenirs are my photos and videos. Here are a few that show the magic — and chaos — that is Nepal.
mother of the forest
Avenue of the Baobabs. Menabe region of Madagascar. November 2013. Photo by Kasey Jackson.
When I met them, I wanted to run to them. Throw my arms around them. I wanted to sit among them and listen to their stories about what they’ve seen, what they’ve heard. I wanted to tell them what I just learned from a Malagasy woman who was using their shade as protection from the sun as she sold handmade items to tourists, including miniature twisted wood sculptures of their very likeness.
“The trees are in trouble. They are all being cut down. They are dying.”
This is what she said. So I didn’t go to them. Not only was time a factor — leaders in my group were in charge and I was merely along for the ride — but I was also scared. I was worried I’d somehow do something wrong. Hurt them in some way. Make them sick. I was a traveler from so far away. I didn’t want to intrude. I was there to do good, not harm. So I would stand back and admire from afar for the few moments I had.
And those moments standing along the Avenue of the Baobabs on an orange-brown dirt path known as Road No. 8 that connects Morondava and Belon’i Tsiribihina in Madagascar changed my life forever.
This is one of those moments where you question everything you thought you knew or believed. Spirituality smacks you straight in the heart. The emotions are undeniable. Something special is happening here.
***
The baobab tree is a genus of nine species of deciduous trees of the hibiscus family. Of those nine species, six are endemic to Madagascar. The ones along the Avenue of the Baobabs are Adansonia Grandidieri, and they can’t be found anywhere else on the planet. In the past, this area was part of a dense forest with towering trees of about 100 feet. Now, the Avenue has only about 25 trees left. There are an additional 25 or so Adansonia Grandidieri nearby that grow over rice paddies.
Locals call the baobab “reniala,” or “Mother of the Forest.” The tree, like so many living things in this world, are in trouble. Climate change, deforestation, fires and natural disasters threaten their existence. And when the trees die, life around them changes — or dies — too. Everything is connected.
Baobab trees are sacred and offer nutrition, medicine and water for local people, who have for centuries told stories about these breathtaking beauties. In one of these stories, it is said that the gods didn’t want the majestic trees to wander off, so they reached down, pulled all of them from the ground and stuffed them back into the earth upside-down.
Think about that. The gods didn’t want the majestic trees to wander off.
And here we are.
We’re not only allowing them to die, we are helping to murder them.
There’s no time left. We must act now. We must do everything in our power to protect and revive these precious trees and all of Earth’s living things.
Mother Earth is in trouble. The trees are in trouble. As are the animals, plants … and us.
I wish I had hugged every one of those beauties along the Avenue of the Baobabs, because I likely will never get another chance.
Now, I fight for their survival from so far away.
love your mother
It turns out I’ve always been a weirdo.
I’m one of those people who knew what I wanted to be when I grew up by the time I was in 8th grade. I was already curious and imaginative, devouring books and writing my own stories.
I had it all figured out: I wanted to become a journalist. And at the time, I thought that meant a writer at a newspaper. But looking back now, I realize I also had a borderline obsession with magazines of all types … so that path was set in stone well before I would ever become the executive editor of one.
I’m going to be a journalist, I said to myself.
And I did just that.
I became a journalist.
But what that means exactly depends on many things.
Like who’s asking. And why.
In my opinion, which is the only one that matters, quite frankly, I am and always will be a journalist. Why? I’m trained to be a journalist. I had my first paid reporting job while I was still in high school for a youth newspaper I helped create at my local “real” newspaper office. I was a journalist in high school: editor of the school “newspaper.” I was also an on-air news gal in high school, meaning I read some updates off of a piece of paper as my video image was played into homerooms throughout the school. Think very low-tech. It was still the 90s.
I’d go on to have a few real newspaper roles and then landed in a magazine position with a nonprofit for almost 18 years. The articles I wrote might not have been for “mass” audiences, but it was still a position where I used my skills and crafted stories and captured photos for a print issue of a magazine.
I am a journalist.
Some people say I’m not a journalist since I don’t work for a newspaper or television station. Some have said I lost the right to that title when I took the role at the magazine … and especially now that I’m working for a federal agency.
But to me: Once a journalist, always a journalist.
I use my interviewing skills daily. I know how to adapt to change on the fly. I am fair and honest and value facts. And to me, deadlines are still and always will be sacred. This is all thanks to the training I have as a journalist.
When I was in college, I had the opportunity to receive an environmental reporting certificate though the newly created Society of Environmental Journalists. In my college magazine journalism class that same year, my project was a magazine devoted to environmental and conservation efforts. The cover photo, I still remember, was a stock image of a grizzly bear. At the time, I hadn’t yet started my world travels to capture photos of people, places, things and animals. That would come later. Now, I have hundreds of thousands of photos of everywhere and everything from Nepalese children playing outside of their school to my own kids playing T-ball in Indianapolis. I have photos taken deep in Douglas-fir forests in the Willamette Valley to avalanche dogs on duty atop Dachstein in Austria. And I cherish every single one.
The environmental reporting certificate is on my mind a lot lately. It was a time in my life where I had it all figured out. I was going to be an environmental reporter. I was going to change the world. It was only 1994, and I already knew this was important. Shortly after, a dear friend and fellow college newspaper editor died in a car wreck. I was awarded the first scholarship in her name, which was given to a journalism student interested in a career in environmental issues or community service.
Both would end up being true more than I would ever understand in that moment.
Life had different plans for me.
As sure as I was about the environmental career, it’s tough for a 20-something-year-old to say no to a full-time job before she’s even graduated college. That’s what happened. My internship turned to part-time, which turned to full-time and then, next thing I knew, I had been away from college for almost two years. By the time I returned to campus to finish out my degree, things were so different. Everyone I knew and loved was gone. Graduated. In their first jobs. I went through the motions and graduated. Alone.
I snagged a job immediately upon graduation as a copy editor and the trajectory thrust me into writing and editing and design … nowhere near the environmental career path I had dreamed about only a few years earlier. At the time, that was just fine with me. I was in a great job in a new city with a new love interest and living life.
I was a journalist.
It has taken me this many years to find my way back to this moment.
The spark has always been inside of me. I’ve rallied and marched and donated and learned. I never stopped. It just has been lying a bit dormant for a bit — that passion to do more and make this planet more livable for future generations.
Proof of this love for Mother Earth is in the first project I took on as executive editor of that magazine I told you about. As soon as I took the position, I knew the first issue of the magazine was going to be in honor of the 50th anniversary of Earth Day.
And just like that, I was back. It only took half a lifetime. But here I am.
I am doing everything in my power to make this dream a reality. I am a journalist. I am a storyteller. I am a photographer and ideas girl. I make stuff happen. I live to learn and run on passion.
There are so many things we could all do to turn this ship around. All hands are needed on deck. Now.
The trees need us. The animals are begging for help. The earth is literally on fire. And our kids are watching. And they are scared and pissed off. As they should be.
So here I am. A journalist AND a climate activist. A mom AND a concerned citizen. A student of Mother Earth.
Teach me. Guide me. Put me in my place.
All photos (C) Kasey Grau Jackson.
advice from a mediocre student (my pretend graduation speech from a dream last night)
Hello. My name is Kasey Grau Jackson, and I’m a storyteller.
I’ve lost track of how many years it’s been since I started writing speeches for other people. Today, I figured it’s time I deliver my own. What the hell. Live a little. Here we are.
It’s a beautiful sunny day, isn’t it? And here I am, on a pop-up stage in front of all of you — a sea of shiny, happy faces.
You guys are totally oblivious, aren’t you? You have absolutely no idea. You’re all high on energy drinks and life and, for a few of you, somewhat-illegal substances, I’m sure. I can tell some of you are giddy. Some of you are relieved. And yep. Just as I thought. Many of you look downright stupefied. That’s normal. I get it. I completely understand.
But you really don’t get it. Not yet, anyway.
Life is about to happen to you in ways you never dreamed. And it’s all because of you.
And for that reason, we’re here to celebrate you.
So congratulations to each and every one of you. You’ve done it. And congratulations to every one of your family members and friends who are in the crowd tonight and even to those who couldn’t make it. They were your support system and they deserve a round of applause. Shall we?
You’re the latest class of graduates at one of those colleges people like to tell themselves they could’ve gotten into if they actually tried or wanted to. Seriously. This is like a postcard, isn’t it? And you got to live here. Breathe the air here. LEARN here. This is an unbelievable moment, right now. Here we are.
Better yet, here you are. You did all the work. I’m just up here to tell you it’s over. Or it’s just beginning. Or all of the above.
I, myself, went to a much less manicured — but let’s be honest, no less fun — university where I had all the chances to succeed and chose to take the path of least resistance. I can tell you this now, because you’re done. I wouldn’t want to give you the impression that such low standards are okay to set before you were finished. That would be ludicrous. But now, I can be honest. Because you’re graduates now. Or at least you will be once I finish this speech and you flip your tassels. For me, well, I could’ve done much better in my college years. I could’ve studied and gone to class. That would’ve been a start. It probably would’ve helped. Alas.
So for me to be the one standing before you today has left me a bit gobsmacked, to say the least. But hey. Here we are.
I want to share a story with you. I am, after all, a storyteller.
You and I have something in common.
I might be old enough to be your mother or even grandmother, but we still have something in common.
And that is … we are graduates.
We put our minds to something and we did the work and we made it happen.
You’re going to find there will be days you don’t want to do any more work. There will be countless days that you question the work.
Keep going.
Ask the questions. Push yourself. And if you do nothing else, be uncomfortable.
As soon as you feel like life is comfortable and you’re cruising, set a new goal. Run like hell. Because it’s not living if it’s easy. And you need to kick yourself in the butt right then and there and learn something. Do something. Make change happen. Be bold and creative. Be loud. Be the you you always wanted to be.
Because you’re graduates.
And while I didn’t do my best when I was just starting college, I eventually came around and figured it out. I ended up becoming a journalist, just as my eighth-grade self knew I needed to be. It turns out I was doing the work all along, since pre-teen years. I just didn’t know it. That work would lead me, eventually, to this stage right now, in front of you, via several jobs in newspapers and magazines and nonprofits and the government. My path took me to 20 countries, where I was able to document mission-driven projects that changed the lives of countless people all over the world. I’ve met dignitaries and celebrities and can tell you about the time Jamie Leigh Curtis grabbed my arm and squeezed it and called me “Pittsburgh.” I can tell you about the time my passport took a ride of its own from Geneva, Switzerland, to Paris and back again without me. I guess it was longing for its own adventure.
Just as many of you are, right now, longing for adventure.
And it’s about to begin.
Congratulations to you for sticking with it. For setting a goal and meeting it. For hanging in there when it seemed like the world was falling in.
You did it. And now you will go out into the world and do it all again.
And you will promise me to be uncomfortable while doing it.
Thank you.
not good enough
The U.S. Navy Blue Angels fly over Greenfield, Indiana, during the Crossroads Air Show on October 28, 2023. iPhone. Me.
How do you convince someone you can do something if you don’t have proof?
I put myself out there recently for something big. Something I know I can do. Something I feel pulled to do in such an extraordinary way that it has consumed my “free” time for months now. I’m doing it in my sleep, that’s how much it’s on my mind.
But it doesn’t matter what I know I can do if I can’t convince others I can do it.
Alas. The selling of oneself is a conundrum.
Or maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe I don’t need to convince anyone. Maybe I just do the thing on my own, without anyone else’s help. Maybe I don’t need someone to validate my experience and talents.
Maybe it doesn’t matter that they assume I’m not good enough.
I know I am. I know I can do it. I know my limits and I haven’t hit them yet.
Not even close.
***
My youngest and I were in the car driving home from school the other day, my mouth going a million miles a minute about how “the Blue Angels flew over our house for several hours this morning and I’m so sad you missed it and I bought tickets to the Crossroads Air Show and, wait, this is a Boy Scout-sponsored event so how didn’t we know about it if you’re so close to becoming an Eagle Scout and holy hell! they were so loud that the house shook and the dogs didn’t know what to do and Chris (my boyfriend) slept through it while I danced like a kid drunk on too much sugar on the back patio while the neighbors and I ooooooohed and ahhhhhhhed as the planes just kept on comin’…”
… when just as we were about to turn onto our street, just a few yards from our driveway … WHOOOOOOOSH!
And there they were again. Out of nowhere.
The Blue Angels.
The F/A-18E Super Hornets.
And then they were gone.
“Oh my gawwwwd, I wonder if Lt. Amanda Lee is up there right now! She’s the first woman to fly with the Blues! Ohmygawwwd. They were so low! Did you see that? Holy hell. That’s insane. You got to see them! Ohmygod you got to see them!”
I look over at my son because I’m losing my damn mind.
His mouth is wide open.
Once he is certain the planes are out of sight for good, he looks over at me. We’re now parked in our driveway. I laugh a bit too loudly and do a happy dance behind the wheel.
He got to see them. Holy hell, he got to see them gooooood. They were right there.
I tell him, again, that I bought tickets so we could see them even closer at the Air Show … and we’ll be going in two days.
Even closer? He’s wondering, as I am, how we can see them even closer when what we experienced just now was four military jets low enough that I would’ve bet the stars that we could reach up and tickle their underbellies.
He’s still smiling as he heads toward the front door and I run/skip/jump to the backyard, where I find my neighbors across our yards, a husband and wife who both have their phones aimed the skies. We’re all listening to the humming in the distance and trying to guess from which direction the Hornets are approaching.
***
I remind myself of this moment. And of the moments that happened two days later as my son and I stood, fighting off the bone-chilling cold as we strained our necks to stare straight into the gray sky, tracking the blue and yellow jets as they performed their choreographed dance above.
Yes, it takes teamwork. The most amazing, breathtaking teamwork anyone could ever imagine.
It takes dedication and passion and strength and stamina and excellence.
It takes giving it your damn all and not knowing if you’ll ever make the elite team.
It’s going out there and giving it your best because the best is the only way to get this job done.
I’m not giving up. I’m in for the long haul.
I’ll practice all the steps and figure out the choreography because I know I can do it and I will be excellent.
Just trying is not good enough.
I’m going to make the damn team.
I can do this. I’ve been doing a version of this for more than 25 years. And I’m not stopping anytime soon.
Watch me as I go.
***
P.S. I don’t own a “real” camera anymore. At least not one that is able to capture great images of jets flying close to the speed of sound. So, I used my iPhone and told my kid I’d do my best. The photos aren’t too shabby, given what tools I had at my disposal and the crappy Indiana weather. Proving, again, that we can pull off way more than we think we can sometimes. More often than not, actually.
The Blues over Indiana. Photo by me with an iPhone 14 Pro Max. Those suckers are quick.
busy people
Have you ever heard that if you want something done, you should ask a busy person?
It’s true. I speak from experience. I have so many balls in the air and I still reach out to catch or bounce a few more into the air.
Every. Single. Day.
I just signed up for four classes so I can learn more about organizing, fighting disinformation, what to say and not to say and how to speak about politics to people who don’t care or don’t agree.
I am reading two books at the same time, which I never do.
I also finally broke down this weekend and purchased a writing app and wrote three chapters of a book I hope will someday be held in hands of people all over the country. Maybe beyond.
Two of my kids needed help this past week with their resumes.
I also found time to cook a meal from scratch (bolognese for the win!) and baked banana bread (also from scratch).
Being a mom means being busy and bouncing all the balls.
So yeah. If you need something done, just ask. I’ll keep the other balls in the air while I help you catch yours too.
discovering
My son and I visited Mounds State Park in Anderson, Indiana, yesterday for the first time and were left speechless.
There’s not much one can say when surrounded by the beauty of nature in a place where people gathered 2,182 years ago. It kind of takes your breath away.
It was not what we expected at all.
These mounds are nothing like the Etowah Indian Mounds State Historic Site we visited in Georgia several years ago in that these Indiana mounds were carved into the ground to create a sunken, circular or figure-eight-shaped ditch. Mounds State Park contains some of the finest examples of earthwork and mound building in the state, according to the park’s website. The mounds were built by the Adena and Hopewell cultures around 160 B.C. ~ that’s where the 2,182 years comes from ~ and were used for ceremonies, celebrations and observations of solstices, equinoxes and other stellar events. The signs on site state a tomb was excavated from the site, so we do know there were at least a few burials there.
I love to explore the world ~ and exploring our own “backyards” is even more important. Learning about where we come from, where we live, and the people who came before helps shape and inform us and is so incredibly important.
Standing above the circular ditch, it’s hard to believe that humans dug this huge area with likely not much more than sticks. The trees tower above, and we learned the state is slowly removing these stately giants in an effort to return the land to what it would have looked like at the time the Adena and Hopewell people were there. The trees now inhibit the view of the open sky. So to offer visitors an idea of how the area was used to chart the seasons and the passing of time, the trees are being removed.
You can see some of the felled trees, massive in size and gathered along one of the trails.
It’s easy to feel small next to them.
It’s easy to feel small in nature.
But it’s also not uncommon to feel bigger than ever.
At least for me, being in the middle of the woods is calming and at the same time energizing. I want to do big things. I want to hug trees and save the planet and conquer all my fears. I want to lie in the grass and gaze at the stars. I want to do it all.
I am inspired by these stories of great successes and unbelievable feats. I am hungry to learn more about the native people who lived and loved this land before us.
There are no mistakes, a friend always tells me. So it seems absolutely perfect that a week from today, we will celebrate and honor Indigenous Peoples’ Day, honoring those who first shaped and built this nation.
I look forward to learning more and to surrounding myself with the beauty and vastness of this land. I hope you will find time to stop and think of those who came before us as well.
Antiques & broken things
A former coworker and friend passed away a few days ago. So, I went to an antique store.
As is often the case with me when sadness or anxiety floods and fogs my brain, I turn to pretty things. Sometimes I venture outside to look at the sky and trees and flowers, hoping for a bunny or deer. Other times, I turn to pretty, shiny things that have a story to tell as I try to lose myself in the curious corners of dusty shops.
As I did this past weekend.
I bought a lovely journal with matching pens as a birthday gift to myself last week. But instead of writing, I strolled.
I have a Pyrex problem. I also apparently have a glass problem. All colors and shapes. The older, the better. If there’s an original lid, I am a mess. Puddle. Why, I have no idea. I love glass.
This adventure into the wonderland of antiques drew me to a certain glass bottle, complete with a rusty topper. A quick Google search and I discovered an entire world where a short-lived brewery rose and fell and shared a name with its founder, F.X. Blumle. The town was, and still is, called Emporium, Pennsylvania, which is located about 3 hours northeast of where I grew up. I never heard of it before this past weekend.
As I held the perfect bottle in my hands, I pictured the place where it saw life, a small town in the middle of nowhere. What was life like there in 1878, when the brewery began? Any thought of old things takes my mind to Europe, where antique stores take on an entirely different meaning. 1878? Ha. That’s child’s play. It’s not uncommon to find things in the antique shops on side cobblestone streets dating from the 1500s and older.
Ahh, Europe. Lots of pretty things.
Which, right there in the shop, thinking about Europe, made me tear up. I’m holding the bottle in my right hand and wiping tears away with my left.
My friend.
She was from France. Like, REALLY from France. And if anyone knew about pretty things … well, yeah. She did.
Antiques and tears and broken things like hearts, all in an antique shop in a small Indiana town in the middle of nowhere.
missing.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua.
My mother calls me on my birthday every year at exactly the moment I was born: 4:26 p.m.
It’s a thing.
This has been a thing for as long as I can remember. I get the “Happy birthday” wish only once the clock hands spin around and drop on the precise location to mark the time.
This is how I knew something was wrong.
It was the morning of September 19, 2013. I believe it was around 9 a.m., but that part I don’t really remember. It doesn’t matter at this point. Because I got a call that day, on the morning of my 40th birthday, from my mother. So I knew the second the phone rang and MOM popped up on the screen that it was not going to be a happy birthday at all.
“Hi, Kase. I’m sorry. I’m not calling you to wish you a happy birthday.”
That’s all she needed to say. In fact, she didn’t even need to say that. My voice trembled as I said, “I know.”
Because I did know. I knew before she even said it because she never calls me the morning of my birthday. She always makes me wait.
“Gram died this morning.”
That was 10 years ago.
When I turned 50 a week ago, the first thing I thought of when I woke up was my Gram.
So much has changed. She has a great grandson she never met and a great granddaughter who is an amazing young woman who’s going to do big things. She already is. All of her great grands are awesome and headed for greatness. I blame her in the best way.
You see, one of the most amazing things I learned since her passing is that the egg that would become me and grow into this 50-year-old mama was once INSIDE OF HER as my mom developed in her womb.
So my Gram literally is the reason I’m here. In so many ways, I have her to thank for my empathy, my urge to tuck complete strangers’ tags into their shirts and to serve my community. She taught me the value of service and kindness. She was a beautiful soul.
I’m 50. She was 50 when I was born. And if I can do half of what she accomplished in the next 40 years, I, too, will leave a mark on this beautiful planet. I can only live each day with kindness and love. It’s what she would do.
My Gram as a young girl.
Hilda Breakwell Roberts. 1923-2013.