"There is no easy ground here, in Alaska."

The title is taken from something a fellow named Greg says while he is hunting goat in Alaska.

I just made 12 more handmade envelopes for my final thesis project book. First there is the printing of the paper; then developing the pattern on cardstock; then tracing it and using the t-square; then cutting it with the exacto knife; then using the bone folder to score the folds; then cutting the slit; then folding so everything aligns; then gluing the flaps to the front.

While I am doing this, I have the tv on. I don't watch too much of it but I listen. I found a show on the Discovery channel called "The Alaska Experiment." They have sent mere middle America people (like me) to remote locations in Alaska. Minimal supplies, minimal tools, deserted fishing cabin, a tent. Slim resources for untrained, uninitiated accountants and secretaries, teachers and cab drivers, in one of the most unforgiving environments.

As I watch it, it makes anything I am doing for my book seem easy. Here I have heat and air conditioning, refrigeration, grocery stores, lights. So if I am spending hours over a cutting board, and using a needle to sew together my signatures for my book, if my fingers cramp and band-aids cover my paper cuts, then I am still just taking it easy.

I know the people in the Alaska Experiment will get snowed in. I know the father who is there with his two daughters will get snowed in. That Tim, Allen, and Jasmine will get snowed in. Jeff and Elizabeth are at Icy Bay. The salmon run is over for them. The tides are against them for clamming. Also they need firewood but there is nothing to cut but driftwood.

Meanwhile in another location, pudgy Greg is climbing a mountain to hunt a goat. He's winded, weak, thighs trembling. But he has to get a goat to make it through the winter. Over and over, he thinks he can't take another step; doubts he will have the strength to get back down the mountain; has only learned to shot the gun yesterday. But he doesn't stop. He can't. He has to live.

This is how we live. All of us. It's just that there, in the Alaskan wilderness, it is evident what is necessary. But we live here, in the fog. We can't see what is real, what is essential. Our fog is a fog of distraction; television, ipod, magazines, gossip, traffic, chatter, chatter, chatter.

I long for the quiet place and I fear the quiet place. In the quiet place, the thunder of your heart can beat out thought. Without thought and only the heart, I don't know what would happen. But I bet the people in the Alaska experiment will discover that. Maybe I will learn from them.

(this post was originally created on April 29th)