Exploring is what I like best.  I am happiest when I have my camera and can take off to some place I’ve never been before to see what there is to photograph.  After a few months of dreary weather and not much to delight the camera lens, it was great to get out on the road.  “I need to get away,” I emailed my friend Dan.  “What about Canada?” he typed back.  Music to my ears.  Exploring is delightful anywhere, but going to a foreign country, albeit only 150 miles from Duluth, is doubly exciting.  “Got your passport?”  Dan asked me before we took off.  “Yup, you?”  “Check,” he replied. And with that plus a bag of Cheetos and a couple Snicker bars we headed for the border.

It was one of those days when the lighting was perfect.  Usually I am lucky to get five good photos on a shoot like this, but this time was a bonanza–so much so that I will do a series of three separate posts.

We were exploring some abandoned elevators.  Growing up on a farm in North Dakota I am familiar with grain elevators; they still are the tallest things on the prairie, jutting up into the sky like square space ships.  When I was in third grade our class went to the top of one of them, and as the group was listening to the elevator manager I wandered over to an open window–a big hole that gaped open to sky above and the field below–with tractors looking like toys–and I wanted to jump out to see if I could fly.  This is when I developed a fear of heights that I have worked on overcoming ever since, even climbing over an 11,000 foot pass in the Sierras.  I’m much less afraid now, but I was happy to explore on the ground on this trip while Dan took his camera to the higher places.

There are always ghosts in these abandoned places, and sometimes they show up in photos.

I have written before about John Denver—here, before I deleted everything in a fit of determination to stop writing about my life for the world to see. But, I missed sending out these messages to you, whether you are in Amsterdam or San Diego or Australia, or working underground in Cuba to make goddamn sure you have access to the world. Carry on!!

Part of my problem is that I am a coward about love. And when love goes wrong or relationships fail I internalize and withdraw from the world. But, perhaps love is meant to be like this. John Denver, no stranger to failed relationships, has been my spirit guide since the 60s. He continues to show up in my life in the most unexpected ways–perhaps while driving down a remote road, radio screeching some kind of news, and then a wolf trots across the road just as the radio plays “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” Or when, ten years ago, I encountered a man in Cuba who loved JD’s music like I do, and despite all the political bullshit between our countries, JD continues to remain a peaceful link between us. In January, as we sat together eating pizza in a lovely Havana restaurant the night before I was leaving Cuba, E suddenly looked at me and sang, “I’m Leavin’ on a Jet Plane…” Nothing could be more poignant than that.

What I mean about being a coward in love is new knowledge for me. I have always thought I was courageous in love–two divorces, several plunges into lust, a few forays into chaos with unavailable men…well, I thought those relationships equated with having courage…to survive all that and still teach about it? I am a professor of communications, after all. I should know; I should be brave.

Today, during a long conversation with my friend Mary Ann, she said, when I asked her to give me some insight into how I might have a more meaningful life, “You are a coward in love.” And then she went on to relate to me the prophecy she read in her book, Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much, for March 24, that featured Zora Hurston, a black Harlem Renaissance writer who lived from 1891-1960, speaking about gratitude:

You love like a coward, don’t take no steps at all. Just stand around and hope for things to happen outright. Unthankful and unknowing like a hog under an acorn tree. Eating and grunting with your ears hanging over your eyes, and never looking up to see where the acorns are coming from.

I loved that, just loved that. I laughed like a schoolgirl with her dress caught in a fence at recess, trying to outrun the boys.

So I thought I better open up my heart MORE…UGH, how hard is that?? Hard. I went in the bedroom and looked at my old JD album covers in my bookcase, with his goofy glasses and beaming smile, and then I decided to be very open and rearranged some photos–one of myself and E, next to JD’s smiling face in my bookcase, hoping to send good energy out to E, JD, and the world. Gratitude, get it?

Then I thought I better put on some JD music while I tackled 95 students’ papers, so I fired up Jango Internet Radio and typed in John Denver, as I have dozens of times. You never know what will play, but usually it is something like Country Roads or Annie’s Song. Today, the rather obscure song, Sweet Surrender, a song I know well, popped up first thing. I sat there, stunned…..”lost and alone on some forgotten highway, traveled by many, remembered by few. Looking for something that I can believe in, looking for something that I’d like to do with my life…”

So, John, I hear you and I wanted to post your music today in gratitude for how you have made our world a better place. I especially wanted to post the Sweet Surrender You Tube fanciful video of animals, airplanes, and love that brought tears to my eyes when I watched it.

I hope every one of you clicking on here will find your own courageous direction in love. I am no longer going to be a coward in love–thank you Mary Ann and Zora Hurston for reminding me about it. And like JD says, There’s a spirit that guides me…” Thanks, JD, Live on, we love you forever.

And in the spirit of love around the world, here is one of John’s most beautiful love songs, For You. John, there has never been a more beautiful voice than yours.

The weather has been lovely, like May, with temps in the 50s and 60s.  All of our snow has rapidly melted.  Days like this are rare here on the shore of Lake Superior, where winter can stubbornly hang on and on.  I have seen snowstorms in May and I have hiked in 95 degree temps.  Not everyone likes to live here because of the trouble these discrepancies present.  You have to like change, and you have to be resilient.  When I went to Hawaii I was bored to death.  Every day was the same: hot and humid. Here one day can be 30 degrees and rainy and the next 70 and sunshine.

Living on the shores of the big lake one has to only drive to the other shore (either Minnesota or Wisconsin) to enjoy a completely different climate, depending on how the wind is blowing off the lake. Lake Superior’s waters are around 40 degrees all the time, so if the wind blows over the water in the summer it is our air conditioner; when it blows over the water in the winter it can create huge storms like we witnessed a couple weeks ago, or it can bring early summer.  And if the wind is stuck blowing towards the opposite shore, then we might have summer temps in the mid-eighties which for us is sweltering because of the 70% humidity.  Not too many of us need central air conditioning, but “when you need it you need it” as Duluthians are known to remark. I can attest to that.

This week my travels have taken me to both the north (Minnesota) and south (Wisconsin) shores.  It is crazy that they call it north shore and south shore when in actuality Wisconsin is east of Minnesota, and Canada, not Minnesota is north of Wisconsin. Just try to figure out our streets in Duluth: they often follow the lakeshore but are designated east and west even though you are traveling on a north and south (sort-of) trajectory (Highway 61 North goes to Canada, but as you drive that road you keep seeing, one after another, streets that say 36th Ave. E; 50th Ave E.).

I found a beach I had not visited before.  Father Baraga’s Cross, an hour or so up Highway 61, has been a local Minnesota landmark for a long time, and I remember visiting it when you had to walk a little trail and it was a wooden cross that jutted up and faced the lake. Now it is all professionalized and touristized and the best part of it all was my visit to the beach where I was all by myself with my camera.

The beach at Wisconsin Point is much more isolated and a long way from highway traffic.  You never know what you will find when you go on an adventure.  I was also all alone on this excursion except for a pickup of fishermen who had their fishing rods sticking up like antenna from the box of their truck. This is the Superior entry and because Duluth also has a shipping entry off the big lake, we are called “The Twin Ports.”    This is the Coast Guard icebreaker Alder, having just come from breaking ice in the Duluth harbor and now headed to the Superior entry to break ice.There hasn’t been any real ice all season on the big lake, but the harbor has been frozen. Our shipping season will start soon when the

St. Lawrence Seaway will open up for our ocean ships to visit  us.

The Alder sounded its horn as she signaled to come into the channel.  Some of the crew were in shirt sleeves, a rarity for March on Lake Superior. I followed her as she made her way towards the ice. My camera didn’t like the western sun, but you get the idea.  I was lucky that my visit coincided with the Alder’s route.  Later, when I headed back into Duluth over the Blatnik Bridge, I could see the Alder had made her way into the Duluth port again. Life on board is not always this easy for the crew.  A couple years ago there were a couple “lakers” stuck in the spring ice and the Alder was working nonstop to try break them free.

I was happy to find these ice formations.  Imagine the waves from the 68 mph winds we had in our storm earlier.  The force of the big mother (when mamma ain’t happy ain’t nobody happy) threw debris and eroded the beach. I would have loved to have seen it over here, but alas, traveling over the Blatnik Bridge in a blizzard is not recommended, even by us crazy ones.

Sometimes, you can see the most interesting formations.  Like this baby polar bear, and this strange puzzle.

The ice was four feet deep in places, at least 15 feet from the shore. In places I could get down to the beach and there I searched for “fairy tears,” the bottle glass that gets polished  and thrown up on beaches.  What a wonderful day to explore and rejoice in the energy of the lake.  Thank you “Mother Superior,” queen of all the lakes in the world.

Before our group left Baracoa, our Cuban friends hosted a party for us with great food and Havana Club rum. Just as it was getting dark and the moon was making its stories on the ocean, two guitarists began playing lovely tunes. Some of us even did a few salsa steps, being careful not to fall into the nearby pool. Goodbyes are always difficult, especially when you are not certain if you will be back again.  But Cuba works its charm on everyone, and at this moment some of my friends from the tour are already making their way back on a bird watching trip.  Here in Minnesota, I have the memories of Baracoa and my photos to remind me I was there.

On days like today, when the glare of the white snow makes my eyes sting and it seems that the garden will be crushed to death by the weight of the ice that rests on top, I like to remember Cuba.  Looking outside my window at the brilliant blue sky, I can fool myself for a moment about where I am.

As we ended our evening in Baracoa when it was close to midnight, suddenly the guitarists began to play the wonderful Beatles song, “Let it Be.” CLICK HERE.  And our voices, English and Spanish, magically blended together to harmonize on the words. And for a moment, in the darkness, and surrounded by friends, we all believed that “There will be an answer, let it be.”

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