why I vote the way I do (take two): thoughts of a Christian Democrat

Four years ago, one week before the election, I wrote a blog post about why I vote the way I do. I think it might be time to bring that out again, with a few updates for 2016.

~~~~~

It's a week until the election, and I am so looking forward to "election season" being over. And I don't even watch television and am thus not subjected to political ad after political ad after political ad. Ad nauseum, indeed. And this year, one week out, I'm not only just ready for this election season to be over, I'm feeling deeply anxious about the outcome.

Four years ago I took the time to articulate some of my political perspectives, and most of those perspectives remain the same:

I am a Christian, and I am a Democrat. These past four years I've had an increasingly difficult time identifying myself as a Christian, simply because of the baggage that comes along with the term. Yet I know there are plenty of Christian liberals out there (and I am so very grateful to organizations such as Sojourners that give a very articulate voice to those of us who believe in God and also care about social and environmental justice), but I know that many liberals think that Christians, in general, tend to lean toward the (far) right, and that many Christians, in general, tend to think that liberals are wrong/misguided/unChristian.

But there are those of us who identify as both Christian and liberal, and our voting decisions stem directly from our worldviews and our religious beliefs. Yet I know that my conservative friends also make their decisions based on their beliefs. And we both think we are right, and that the other side is wrong. And in 2016, this divisiveness has intensified significantly from what it was four years ago.

Again, I ask: what has happened to respectful conversation, to a safe place in the middle where we can meet, discuss, learn from one another? I hear negative comments from both sides. I hear anger and desperation and despair from both sides. I hear self-righteousness from both sides. When did this happen? When did we become so disconnected from each other? When did we stop looking for the common ground? When we shove all the political doublespeak aside, we are more alike than we are different.

So I thought that, perhaps, I would just share a little bit about why I vote the way I do. I am not a theologian. I am not some political expert. I don't want to write 5,000 words on My Political Perspective, or anything like that, but simply open a window into the mind of one Christian liberal in the US of A.

Social Justice
This is the primary reason that I vote the way I do. Time and again, the Bible commands us to care for the poor, the orphan, the widow, those less fortunate. The command to care for the poor is mentioned more often than just about anything else. And it seems to me that that the Democratic Party, with its focus on affordable health care for all, programs to support families in poverty, strengthening our public education system so that all children have access to a good education, and taxing our wealthiest citizens at a higher rate (particularly at a time when income inequality is incredibly high--right now 38% of the wealth belongs to 1% of the population), does a better job of caring for those who are most disadvantaged in our country. I find it helpful to remember, especially this year, that I need to think beyond only myself when voting--that we all need to consider what is best for the greater population, not only about what is best for us. (Joel Schreurs, a former classmate of mine who is now a pastor, wrote an excellent blog post about this very idea.) FDR, in his second inaugural address, put it this way: "The test of our progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much; it is whether we provide for those who have too little." And so I try to vote for the candidates who have more than their best interests in mind--and who seek in particular what is good for those citizens who have the least: single parents, veterans, immigrants, those with disabilities, the elderly, the poor, women, children.

Women's Rights
Four years ago this had become a huge issue in the election, and in 2016 it has come even more front and center, not least because we have a strong likelihood of electing our first female president. The issue of women's rights is, naturally, of great importance to me. I've long believed in gender equality. I've long been frustrated with male and female stereotypes. I believe that all people, no matter whether they are biologically male or biologically female, have feminine and masculine qualities, and that, when it comes down to it, people are simply people, and no one should be looked down upon because of her (or his) sex.

I am so grateful to see more and more women running for office--so grateful that I was able to vote for an equal number of qualified women and men on my ballot this year. I am so grateful that a highly qualified, tough, and intelligent woman is running for president. I am so grateful to have had a female pastor at my little church until just a couple of years ago (and I have absolutely nothing against male pastors--it's just that I've had male pastors all my life and was glad to experience something new). I look to Genesis, where God created people in God's image, male and female. I think of how Jesus reached across the gender divide (so much larger in that time and place than it is in ours) to treat women as equals. I am so grateful to have a husband who cooks and cleans and does the dishes right along with me, and sees me (and all other women) as equals.

All that to say that I also believe, then, that there is absolutely no reason that a woman should be paid less than a man for doing the same job. There is absolutely no reason that men should have say over women's bodies. There is no excuse for rape. There is no excuse for domestic abuse. There is no excuse for so-called "locker room talk" (which is an insult to the millions of men who've had many conversations in locker rooms and have never used the kind of language used by one of our presidential candidates). So I will vote for legislators who support my right as a woman to make choices about my body. And, unfortunately, the word "choice" has become synonymous, in this situation, with the word "abortion." I do not like abortion. NO ONE likes abortion. But in a world where some men do not respect women, where some men think that they can do to women whatever they want, where comprehensive sex education is not offered everywhere, where some women and men have not been taught about the intricacies of their reproductive systems, where the cost of contraceptives can be cost-prohibitive, where some men have not learned how to be whole, where too many women haven't had the opportunity to see themselves as strong, beautiful, capable people--in this world, in light of these realities, I strongly believe that the decision of what happens to a woman's body should be left to that woman and not decided by the government. And rather than simply voting for a candidate because he or she is against abortion, I am interested in voting for candidates who look to the underlying causes of abortion--the underlying causes of "unwanted" pregnancies--and working to rid our society of these underlying problems. Abortion is the tragic result of much deeper and insidious issues. (For a deeper (and more articulate) conversation on this issue, Jim Wallis of Sojourners has recently written an excellent and thoughtful piece.)

This comes around, again, to social justice--to taking care of the poor. Too often (not always, not in the cases of all conservative candidates/legislators) those who are "pro-life" seem to me to be more "pro-birth" than "pro-life"--wanting to abolish abortion, forcing even victims of rape to keep children conceived in violence, but then being uninterested in providing support for these women and their babies after birth. These women (and, for that matter, all people) should have access to good healthcare for themselves and their children, to healthy and plentiful food, to homes, to the opportunity for a good education. And I will vote for candidates who will work to put (and keep) these programs in place.

. . . A Moment of Gratitude
We live in an amazing country. When I think of all we have here--so many rights and privileges, so much freedom, so much beauty--I am deeply grateful. And even though I'm not wealthy (though I am by no means poor), I am more than happy to give a percentage of my earnings to the government for the roads I drive on, the parks I enjoy, the schools that educate our nation's children, and programs that keep the poorest in our society able to feed and clothe themselves and their families. I would be even happier to have far fewer of my tax dollars go to our defense budget, and happier still to have my tax dollars go towards a universal healthcare system.

I wonder sometimes what's happened to America in, say, the 70 years since World War II. The citizens of this country united then for a cause. They gave up things like sugar and gas. They planted Victory Gardens. They were willing to live with less to support a cause bigger than themselves. Sadly enough, I cannot imagine such a thing today. There have been kerfluffles over laws that prohibit soda from being sold in cups larger than 32 ounces. The folks upset about this law probably wouldn't be too willing to give up sugar or gas or anything else. Wouldn't it be something, though, if we were willing to give up some of our luxuries (and to see them for what they are--luxuries rather than necessities)? Can you imagine if we Americans were willing to give up certain exotic foods, drive less, use less water, for the good of the planet and all the living creatures who live on it? What a difference it could make . . .

And that brings me to my third (and, for now, last) topic:

Environmental Issues
I wake up, sometimes, at night, and worry. Did you know that our brain chemistry is different in the middle of the night (around 3am in particular) than it is during the day? It predisposes us to worry--we don't see things as they are; reality is distorted. (My 2016 self needs this reminder--I've definitely been waking up worrying about the possibility of a completely unsuitable, sexist, racist, immoral person being elected president.) I worry about the world that I will grow old in. I worry about the world that today's children will grow up in. Fact: we are using up our natural resources at an alarming and unsustainable rate. Fact: we are poisoning our oceans and our air. Fact: we are causing a mass extinction of species. Fact: human activity has caused (and is causing) a drastic warming of the planet, and with each year that passes, it becomes more and more unlikely that we are going to make the necessary changes in time to mitigate disaster.

Fact: we are not caring for this earth as we should if we want to continue to live on it.

Sadly, neither Republicans nor Democrats go far enough in terms of sustainability. What I would love? If we began a rapid shift from using coal, gas, and oil to more sustainable energy sources. It's bad enough that the extraction of these non-renewable resources pollutes land, water, and air, and worse still that it has caused global climate change. What scares me is that we--not just Americans, but all of humankind (particularly the wealthiest and thus most resource-using) on this planet--cannot continue to live the way we do. We need to change, and change quickly.

I believe that those of us who are Christians should have a special interest in caring for this planet. This was the overarching theme of my master's thesis:  that environmental activism should be a particularly Christian activity, not dismissed as an unChristian activity. Through my work at the Montana Natural History Center, I've been learning more and more about the brilliant intricacies of the natural world, particularly the flora and fauna and landscape of western Montana. There is such beauty in this world, such beauty in the balance and rhythms of nature. From snowfleas (tiny arthropods that live in the soil), with their ability to stay alive in the cold because of an anti-freeze substance in their bodies, to larch trees, those fire-resistant deciduous conifers whose needles turn gold in the fall, drop off, and then leaf out in the brightest green imaginable in the spring--I see constant reflections of a Creator who loves and delights in this physical world. And I believe with the core of who I am that Christians are called to work for, care for, and protect this creation, from snowfleas to larches, from coral to whales, from polar bears to phytoplankton, and the air and the earth and the water, too.

So. Despite the fact that neither major political party goes far enough, Democrats are definitely ahead on supporting alternative energy such as wind and solar and biofuels, which are viable, proven technologies, and are already changing our energy dynamic; agencies like the EPA; new fuel-efficiency standards for cars, etc. Unfortunately, many conservatives are resistant to the truth that global climate change exists, and their legislation mirrors that resistance. I want this planet we call home to be healthy--not only for me, but for my children and grandchildren and far, far beyond. I want us as human beings to learn to live in balance with the rest of the natural world. I want human beings to steward the earth as we are called to do in Genesis, to care for and respect the non-human creation that God loves as deeply as God loves us. I don't want any more Frankenstorms or Katrinas or intense droughts or long, drawn-out fire seasons or melting glaciers or rising oceans, and I will vote for legislators who acknowledge the severity of the situation we as a global community are in, who are working to make changes that will mitigate--and, I hope, begin to reverse--our seemingly-headlong rush to ecological devastation.

Yes, I wake up early in the morning and worry about these things. I am tired of worrying about them--which is part of the reason that I'm finally (re-)writing this blog post. Writing is a form of action, and it is time for me to act.

Wendell Berry, one of my favorite writers (who is also a Christian, and an activist, and, in all he does, is a constant inspiration to me), wrote a poem that I gratefully recall in those times when "despair for the world grows in me":

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

And in that freedom, in that hope--in that peace of wild things that comes from a loving Creator God--I live my life, I make little daily decisions to try to make the world a better place, I act (not enough, but I try, step by faltering step), and, every election, with hope and prayer, I vote.

fruit

One of the things I love most about summer is fruit. Fresh fruit.

In the summer, I can eat fruit without that nagging guilty feeling, without mentally calculating the long miles a banana or apple has come to find its way into the fluorescent-lit pile at the Orange Street Food Farm.

In the summer, I can walk out my back door, take a few steps through the yard, kneel in the garden, and gently lift the soft, serrated strawberry leaves to find the heart-shaped fruit beneath.

In the summer, I duck under the long, spiny canes of raspberries and blackberries, hunker down against the fence, and fill bowl after bowl with magenta and purply-black thimbles of fruit.  The sweat drips down my face and the spines leave pale scratches (and, occasionally thin spiderwebs of blood) on my skin, but the raspberries taste all the sweeter for my small toil.

In the summer, I race the fat eastern fox squirrels for the handful of cherries our little cherry tree produces--dreaming of the day when it will bear hundreds--pulling them off the stem before they're fully ripe, spitting the pits into the grass.  (I think the squirrels still ate more than I did.) (There's always next year.)

In the summer, because we want more cherries than our young tree can produce, Greg and I take an afternoon to drive north a couple of hours to the eastern side of Flathead Lake, where dozens of cherry farms line the shores, the fat globes of fruit calling out to be picked. We strap on well-used cherry picking buckets and wander among the trees, plucking pounds upon pounds of cherries, hearing the satisfying thunk-thunk-thunk as we pile them on top of one another. Later that evening, or perhaps the next, we'll spread out old sheets on the living room floor, choose a movie or two on Netflix, and, armed with bowls, quart-size freezer bags, and cherry pitters, pit our 40 or 60 pounds of cherries, staining our hands a deep purple that will linger on our fingertips for days.

But the sweetest summer fruit in Montana is the huckleberry. Oh, huckleberries. Though botanists have tried to propagate them outside of the wild places they thrive, thus far they have had no luck. So those who want to taste those tiny purply orbs of perfection must seek them out in their habitats (or pay a pretty penny at the Farmer's Market...but where's the satisfaction in that?).  Today Greg and I sought them out along a trail in the Bitterroots at 6,000 feet, where they nestled among lodgepole pines and provided dappled shade for the pale pink pipsissewa flowers scattered like stars on the forest floor.

In the summer, we walk amongst the pines and firs and larches, eyes constantly scanning for the dusty purple fruit that peeps bashfully from under bright green leaves. At first it seems that there's not much to be had--a few huckleberries here, a few there. But then we hit the jackpot, low bushes that are covered with, weighed down by, their fruit. We settle in, fingers plucking greedily. But after awhile, the motion becomes meditative, the quiet of the forest seeps in, and we settle into a silence broken only the buzzing of insects or a crackle of twigs as we shift position. Our Nalgene bottles fill slowly, our fingers become reddish and sticky, and our taste buds thrill with the occasional bursts of sweetness when we toss a huckleberry, or six, upon our tongues.

In the winter, these scenes flash through my mind when I go to the freezer for a bag of frozen cherries, or raspberries, or huckleberries, to put in a smoothie or bake into a crumble. I savor the taste of summer on my tongue, just for a moment.

beautiful and terrible

It's a lovely wintry afternoon. The snow swirled down this morning, just long enough to lay a thin covering over the mud and brown grass. Though I hope for more, soon, today that fine white dusting is enough. A little bit of snow, a little bit of grace.

My uncle is dying. He is riddled with cancer, stomach and esophagus and bones. It was very unexpected, has happened very quickly. His 65th birthday is in March, when he planned to retire. But his work, and life, are ending sooner than anyone thought. 

He is surrounded by many people who love him, family and friends and the people from his church, where he's been the pastor for nearly a decade. Today most of the people from his congregation filled his home, singing hymns to lift him, encourage him, be light to him and his family. Be a little bit of grace to go with him on his way. I look through the pictures and posts on Facebook, experiencing it all from a distance: Montana is my home, but it is very far away from most of my family. Right now it feels too far.

One of my friends attends my uncle's church and was part of the service at his home today. She told me it was a "beautiful and terrible moment all wrapped together." 

Cancer is terrible. Death is terrible. Lives ending are terrible. But the grace in all of this is that somehow, despite the awfulness, there is beauty, too. This is beauty: my Uncle Archie being surrounded by people who love him, people who are gladly ministering to him after all his years of ministering to them. Though he wished for more years, more time, Archie says he is at peace.

As these hard days pass I find all the little pieces of my daily life taking up more space. The steam rising from a cup of hot tea wafts slowly through the air, shimmers in the shaft of sunlight coming through the window. The four white swans on the icy pond at the wildlife refuge seem magical, otherworldly, as they spread their bright wings in the sunshine. The barest sliver of new moon hanging in the blue-green twilight glows more radiantly than I would have thought possible.

On Friday I walked to work while listening to an On Being podcast with Carrie Newcomer, a wonderful folk singer-songwriter. She talked about light, and about darkness. She talked about thresholds, being in that liminal zone between old and new. And she sang several songs, including one called A Light in the Window. As I walked and listened, the thick fog that lay settled in the valley began to lift, and golden sunbeams sliced through, sharp and bright.

Standing here on a new threshold, 
I can see a light, 
There's a light in the window. 

And the world is made of stone, 
And the world is made of glass. 
And the world is made of light, 
And it's moving very fast. 

We pass from mystery to mystery 
So I won't lie 
I don't know what happens 
When people die. 
But I hope that I see you walking slow, 
Smiling wide as a sunrise grows, 
Drop my map with a thousand folds, 
In the distance I see it glow, 
There's a light, there's a light 
There's a light in the window.

I will miss my Uncle Archie's laugh.
I will miss his jokes, his quicker-than-lightning wit, his presence. He is a big person--not only in physical size but in personality, in heart, in spirit.
I will miss his kindness, his thoughtfulness, his intelligence.
I will miss his bear hugs and the ever-present twinkle in his eye, his booming voice, and his way of seeing the world that pushes beyond what is immediately before us to the depth and complexity that lies beneath.

He is on the threshold, about to embark on the next mystery.

I hope that I see him walking slow,
Smiling wide as the sunrise grows.

In the distance I see it glow,
There's a light, there's a light
There's a light in the window.

lift up your hearts

I've been taking a yoga class for the past several months--nearly a year, now. I've had a home yoga practice for years, but it's been a long time since I've participated in a class, and I was a little nervous about it. But it's been lovely. I go once a week, on Monday mornings, and it's been a calming, centering beginning to my day and my workweek.

In my home practice, meditation can be difficult. I find myself constantly looking at the clock, checking how much time has passed. Sometimes staying in one position for seven or eleven minutes gets uncomfortable. I have a hard time clearing my mind--somehow, when I try to quiet it, all these niggling thoughts well up, fighting to be heard. But in class, meditation becomes easier. I feel no need to look at the clock, because Harriet will let us know when to stop. She encourages us to let those distracting thoughts well up, to acknowledge that they're there, and then to simply let them go. I am learning.

Since my first experience with yoga nine years ago, I've considered it to be one of my spiritual practices, even committing to practicing it daily for Lent a few years ago. So up until this past fall, it's mostly been a solo practice. But since I've begun attending this class, I have rediscovered the delight of a communal practice, and as the months pass, the more I come to see--and appreciate--the similarities between my yoga class and the services at my little church.

Part of the liturgy in our church services goes like this:

Pastor:  Lift up your hearts.
Congregation:  We lift them to the Lord.

It is a spiritual lifting, a lifting of heart-as-soul, heart-as-self, opening our souls/selves to God (or so I always think it to be).

In my yoga class, Harriet uses the same phrase. We are doing a pose--one of the warrior poses, perhaps, or eagle pose, or triangle pose--and she will say, "Lift up your hearts."

It is a physical lifting:  we lift our chests, our physical hearts, breathing deeply, expanding our lungs, opening up all that space inside our ribcage.

And yet.

As I physically lift my heart, standing, quiveringly balancing, in the yoga studio, I feel a spiritual lifting, too, a centering, a lightening.

And as I spiritually lift up my heart, standing in the pew at Our Savior's Lutheran Church, I find myself physically lifting my heart, breathing deeply, expanding my ribcage.

Pondering all this, I remember anew that we cannot divide physical from spiritual. Physical acts are spiritual. Spiritual acts are physical. Perhaps it is easier to see this in a place like a yoga class or a church service. Communion, for example--so obviously both physical and spiritual. Meditation, too--a quieting of both body and spirit.

But what about the rest of our lives? I wonder how we would act differently if we had in mind, at all times, that our physical actions have spiritual repercussions. That eating is a spiritual act. That watching television, going to work, driving a car, are spiritual acts. That things like meditation and prayer--and self-criticism, and anger--affect our physical health. That all our actions are multi-faceted.

This all seems so obvious, yet I know I too often forget the truth of it.

Perhaps that is part of the beauty of spiritual practices, be it yoga or church or salat or walking in the woods: they remind us of the inextricable connection between body and spirit. They help us reconnect spirit and body...and in so doing help us become more fully ourselves.

At the end of each service, Pastor Jean stands at the back of the church and calls out, "Go in peace and serve the Lord!" and we all respond, "Thanks be to God!" and file out, renewed.

At the end of each yoga class, we all sit quietly, heads bowed, palms pressed together in front of our breastbones, and Harriet says, "We share the benefits of our practice today with all beings everywhere, and send them peace. Namaste." And we all repeat, "Namaste." ...and go into our day, renewed.

impressions of Uganda

Colors: red-brown and all shades of green. Green of banana leaves, grass, corn. Mango and papaya and avocado trees, their leaves deep and lush. The green of a landscape that does not have winter, of trees whose leaves fall from dryness, not cold. Green that dazzles eyes accustomed to wintry grey and brown, a rainbow of verdant shades in all directions.

The green overlays red-brown earth, a deep and perfect complement. The clayey soil yields itself up to be shaped into bricks, stacked into walls, covered with tin or thatch, and low homes scatter themselves along every road. Wherever the lush growth has been cleared away, rust-colored earth shows beneath, in yards, on hillsides, in the unpaved roads bumping every which way over the land.

Bright flashes of flowers gleam from the green--trumpet flowers, bougainvillea, enormous purple penstemon, bright white frangipanis with their butter-yellow centers, and hundreds I can't name. And the people, too, are bright flowers moving among the green, along the ruddy earth, dressed in yellows and purples and reds. Women walk along the dusty roadside, wearing bright stiff fabric that shimmers in the sunlight. Soccer jerseys abound, in red and yellow and black, as do crisp white or blue or grey button-downs. Many buildings are left their natural red-brown, but others are painted in vivid hues, and I understand the myriad billboards (and buildings, and walls) promoting Sadolin Paints: Colour Your World.

Smells: the acrid aroma of burning trash, of diesel engines running . . . but beyond the cities and roads, the scent of rich, humid air, humus, green things growing and decaying back into the red earth. Breezes that smell of water, the freshness of air swiftly moving above the vastness of Lake Victoria. The scent of cooked meat, chapatis frying, a panoply of foods.

Sounds: in the city, a cacophony of horns, tires screeching, large trunks bu-bumping over speed humps and potholes, music blaring from clubs and cars. Away from the masses of humanity, the humming buzz of insects underlies all other sound. Hadada ibises squawk their name raucously: "HaDAda! HaDAda!" Red-tailed monkeys chatter in the trees, leaping from branch to branch, causing the limbs to sway, dip low, then spring wildly up again with a loud rustling of leaves. In the distance, a dog barks, or a bass beat thrums. 

In the jungly forest preserves, silence reigns at first, but for slight rustlings here and there as birds flutter down to land on high branches, or insects click their way along. Cool shade lingers beneath the canopy, and our footsteps crackle leaves and twigs. Tracking chimpanzees, we pause for long minutes, hoping to hear their calls, but the jungle is hushed and dim, the only sounds our quiet breathing in the humid air. We are in a deep green womb, listening to our hearts thrumming, sensing the hidden life all around us. We walk the paths slowly, listening, listening. Suddenly, wild chattering bursts out only a few dozen yards away, and we walk quickly along the path to where a family of chimps argues loudly high in the trees, leaping from branch to branch, sending leaves swirling down to where we stand below. Their raucous calls fill the air, and I can hardly believe that all was silence just a few moments before.

costumes and face paint

October 31st:
Rain today, only the second rainfall we've gotten this month. Grey clouds roll across the sky, and drops splash against my window, darken the asphalt. When the clouds lift, the mountains are pale with a new sprinkling of snow. In the afternoon, sunlight flashes golden beneath the clouds, brightening the swirls of leaves on yards and streets. I run through the dappled sunlight up Mount Sentinel, whose tawny grasses gleam copper. Beneath me, the city stretches out, streets dotted with bare-branched trees, though some yellow leaves still brighten the landscape. My shadow falls black against the gilded hillside, chasing me as I run back down the mountain.

In the neighborhoods, families are already beginning to make the rounds. Small children dressed as pumpkins and princesses, superheroes and celebrities, carry bags, buckets, or pillowcases, their parents standing back on the sidewalk as the children run forward to ring one doorbell after another. At one house, a father kneels down on his front steps, matches in hand, lighting candles for the jack-o-lanterns. I pass houses with spiderwebs tangled in tree branches, skeletons hanging on the door, or gravestones in the front yard, hear delighted shrieks and laughter, watch the streets come alive. I wonder at this strange holiday, when so many of us wander through our neighborhoods, reveling in our and each other's creativity, putting on another identity for an evening, knocking on the doors of people we don't know, receiving gifts. I wish we did this more often.

November 1st:
It's First Friday in Missoula, which means that hundreds (thousands?) of people are out and about downtown, exploring galleries, admiring art work, drinking free wine. We decide to dress up (it's still practically Halloween, after all), and wander on down. It's still early in the evening, and we are nearly the only ones dressed up, but people are appreciative, especially of my father-in-law Bill, who is wearing a spectacular Gandalf costume. A little girl dressed as a ladybug points at us and laughs. A group of college students hoot and holler from across the street, and one young man runs across to us, shouting, "Thank you for saving Middle Earth!" and urges malted milk balls on us in gratitude. A bus full of costumed people drives by, and they reach out their hands to give us high fives. One couple is convinced that Bill is Jesus, despite his long, white-haired wig and beard and tall, pointed hat. At the Naturalist's Mercantile I get my face painted--flowers and green curlicues and leaves and glitter--and leave feeling like an elf or a wood nymph.

November 2nd:
We walk downtown because it's el Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, and it's one of Missoula's best parades. Dusk falls as we walk up Higgins, and I can hear a band starting to play at the far end. While we wait, I watch the streetlights change from green to yellow to red, over and over again, casting their shifting light over the warmly-bundled crowds lining the streets. Then, appearing out of the night, come huge black-and-white painted banners, raised high, of skeletons and spiders and roses. Then three gradeschool girls whirling glow-in-the-dark hula hoops around their middles as they walk slowly down the street. Jugglers tossing glowing clubs. A huge metal cart with six-foot-high wheels with white roses on the spokes, pulled by a man dressed as some black bird of prey with a wicked curved beak, and sitting atop the cart, a woman in a flowing dress, holding a long stick that she uses to teasingly prod the cart-puller as the crowd laughs.

It begins to rain, a drizzle at first, then harder, and umbrellas bloom up and down the street, but the parade continues without hesitation: a Chinese dragon, with a huge, brightly-colored papier-mâché head and a dozen or more bright papier-mâché body segments, snaking its way back and forth down the street. A large group of dancing, snazzily-dressed men and women--top hats, black suits, flowing black gowns--their faces painted like skulls, white and black and red. They carry a sign: the Dead Debutantes. School groups come by, with children of all ages holding large circles of paper decorated with colorful, painted pictures. One father holds the paper circle over his child, shielding her from the rain. A couple of women pass out blood-red carnations to the crowd; a man gives out soft white bakery rolls in crinkling paper bags; later, a girl hands out small white sugar skulls. A high school band moves into view, all the students dressed in white shirts and dark pants, with painted-skull faces, the paint smearing a little in the rain. The music stops; they pause in front of us, and in the silence the several rows of students ahead of the marching band begin a synchronized dance: back and forth, side to side, jump! Swing the hips, turn around, sway, feet shuffling and tapping against the asphalt. Pause. Breathe.  As we begin to clap a rousing march sounds from the band, the brasses playing out triumphantly, and the tapping feet move forward and away.

The rain glints beneath the streetlights, and I feel a few drops trickling down my collar. To the west, the sky is clearing, and the last hint of light paints the horizon a deep blue-green. As the marching band, the last act, moves down the street toward the dance party in Caras Park, the crowd begins to disperse; we say goodbye to our friends as the rain lightens, lightens, and stops, and we walk home through the cool damp air, hearing the continued celebration and revelry in the distance.

first frost, morning run

I hear the rain pattering on the roof during the night, know I will wake up to a grey fall morning. When my alarm buzzes me awake, I venture from my warm bed and shiver into my running gear, opting for the full-length leggings, as well as headband and gloves, then step out my back door into the chilly damp air. The rain has stopped, and there are hints of blue sky in the northwest, though fog has settled in the valley’s crevices. We had our first fall frost last night, but our backyard, protected on all sides by fences or plants, is a little micro-climate—the air near the ground stayed just above freezing, and even our heat-loving pepper plants made it through the night. But our most enthusiastic squash plant, the one that climbed up and over the lilac bushes and dragged them down with the weight of its tea-kettle-sized fruits, did not fare so well; its huge leaves are drooping and withered.

I run my now-familiar route—east down our alley, across Park Street, down the alley behind the fire station, instinctively avoiding the larger stones underfoot and the rain-laden bushes that reach out, dripping water. My breath condenses in the air. East on Burlington. South on Thames, east down the alley that comes out behind Dairy Queen. Long lines of traffic roll down Higgins, but the cars stop for me almost instantly today, and I barely have to pause before dashing across, faster than my usual pace. By now I’ve settled into my breathing pattern—breathe in, one-two, breathe out, one-two, breathe in . . . breathe out . . . . This has become my favorite (and hardest-won) part of running, this ability to breathe easily, not gasping, my lungs smoothly drawing the air in and out as my legs propel me forward.

I continue zigzagging my way east and south, down streets and through alleys, hearing the occasional staccato bark of a dog defending its territory, leaping over a puddle here, around a muddy patch there. I turn east once more, onto Sussex, running down a block that lacks boulevard trees and reminds me of the wide streets in the town of my childhood. Just a few blocks ahead rises Mount Sentinel, its outline barely emerging from the swirling pale fog. Its shape darkens, solidifies, as I run closer, and I am, as always, surprised by how high it looms above me, the strength of its presence.

South again, across South Avenue, and up the Sentinel trail above the golf course. It’s steep, and I slow to a brisk walk, pulling the air deep into my lungs, feeling the stretch of calves and quads and hamstrings. When I reach the gate that marks the end of the private land, I pause, as always, to look out over the city. Thick fog pours into the valley from Hellgate Canyon, covering most of the university neighborhood and trickling west, though most of Missoula is clear. Up the slope to the horizon, the tawny autumn grasses are covered with a fuzzy layer of frost. To the west, Lolo peak is invisible behind low blue-grey clouds. My eyes are drawn by a beam of morning light to the south that suddenly gilds a house set high on the hillside. For a brief, radiant moment, I am held by the fog, the frost, the sunlight.

Then the sun rises farther and the light falls past the house to the hills beyond, and I feel a drop of sweat trickle down my cheek and the cool-wet air against my skin. I turn, slowly, and the gravel crunches beneath my feet as I run back down the hill, descending into the fog.