The Power of Collaboration (and how it Relates to the Pitch Perfect Movies)

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Teague Alexy, collaborator extraordinaire.

I admit it. I’ve watched Pitch Perfect 1 and 2 movies. Pitch Perfect 1 helped me escape from a hard time. The humor is truly funny and the singing – well, it just makes you want to walk around performing acapella and dancing all day. I just watched Pitch Perfect 2 and it’s got me musing about the value of collaboration.

In the movie, one of the lead singers of the “Bella” college acapella group ends up collaborating with one of the newest members to create an original song, which not only impresses her music industry boss, it helps the group win the world acapella competition.

This weekend I was privileged to be part of a book launch and music event that was a collaboration between 10 or so local authors. The lead author/singer (Teague Alexy) could have held the event by himself, but he chose to invite others to participate. He even took a chance on someone like me – a local novelist and poet who he just met a week ago (but we share a publisher.)

He held the event in an independent theater in downtown Duluth. Attendance wasn’t huge –a lot of events competed that night – but I’m sure it was larger than if he had been the only one performing. The range of styles of the authors was refreshing and mind-expanding, and I met several new ones.

Earlier in the day I had a conversation with an established author. We talked about how being an author (even one with a hard cover book published by a state university press) doesn’t mean you will rake in the dough. We agreed that the lifestyle is the reward, not the profit.

The night of the performance, I could have been sitting around home banging away at my computer or doing dishes, but instead I joined a bunch of other writers and we shared our work with an audience. The power of collaboration was evident then, and I’ve seen it at operate many times in the past in my day job, when organizations work together to strengthen the reach of their programs and projects.

I truly believe that organizations that try to protect their turf by outcompeting the competition are missing a great opportunity. I just want to say that if you’re an author, don’t be afraid to share the limelight with others – it will be to your advantage. Likewise if you’re an organization.

It takes a village to make a good book launch. And if enjoying Pitch Perfect 1 & 2 is wrong – if collaborating is wrong – I don’t want to be right.

Duluth Does the Day of the Dead

All Souls Night 2015 007
At the risk of having you all think I’m extremely morbid, (since I just wrote about obituaries) I am going to write about All Souls Night in Duluth, also known as the Day of the Dead. It’s a community event that, although somber, is an expression of joy and remembrance for our ancestors.

I’ve wanted to attend All Souls Night for a year or two, but it never worked out until this week. Part of the event is held indoors and part outdoors on a chilly northern November evening. After applying colorful skull makeup at home, my friends and I arrived for the indoors part in time to hear a local singer and choir perform. Then there was a ceremony to honor the dead. Most touching was when audience members called out the names of the departed. Their offerings were recognized with the ring of a bell.

Tribal belly dancers came next, honoring the dead with their sinuous and graceful movements. Then it was time to head outdoors for the Funeral March for Bad Ideas. A jazz brass band led the hundred-plus people around the block along with stilt walkers, and several huge puppets that depicted death and rebirth: fish and moose skeletons combined with a monarch caterpillar and butterfly.

We gathered in a pavilion and held a ceremony to burn pieces of paper upon which the audience had written their bad ideas from the past year. Some were funny (like “Donald Trump”) and others were more personal. My friends and I were getting cold, so we left after the spiral dance, missing the music that continued indoors.

I was impressed by the range of ages of the crowd. There were more children than I was expecting for an event that deals with death. But I suppose it is good to have the next generation learn about honoring ancestors.

I was also surprised to learn this has been going on for eight years here. Candlelight and singing amid the clutter of our lives. . . .

My Obituary

I was digging through an old grocery bag of papers and artwork from my school days when I found a news story that detailed my death. I must have written it for English class. Here it is:

Another schoolwork bag find: my shadow portrait from sixth grade.

Another schoolwork bag find: my shadow portrait from sixth grade.

Marie, 16, died today after saving five girls from drowning. She was lifeguarding at the YWCA girl’s camp, Camp Wanakiwin. The girls were having trouble swimming to shore from an airplane that crashed in the lake near the camp.

Said one of the rescued girls, “She was going back to the plane to get a sixth girl when the plane blew up.”

Marie had completed her sophomore year at (specific school name deleted to protect the innocent). Her anatomy teacher said that she was witty and smart. “I used to give her a hard time,” he said. “Her presence will be sorely missed in school.”

Marie was one of the top swimmers and cross-country skiers at (school name), holding the city titles for 100-yard breaststroke and girl’s senior high cross-country skiing.

The funeral will be held at First United Methodist Church, 10 a.m., this Wednesday.

I’m sure I wrote the story tongue-in-cheek (delusions of grandeur, much?!), but it gives a glimpse into the things that were important to me at the time: mainly, my lifeguarding class and athletics. My anatomy teacher was my favorite because he was always cracking jokes and made learning fun. And what better way to leave this world than in an effort to help others, combined with a big explosion!

Later, after I became a mother and wrote a relative’s obituary, I wrote a serious obituary about myself. Motherhood and my relative’s death reminded me of my mortality, and the journalist in me wanted to know that the last words written about me would be somewhat accurate. That obituary has been lost to the winds of time, but I recall it focused on my career and role as a mother.

Lately I’ve been considering taking a stab at another one. Not to be morbid, but because I’m not sure that my kids or relatives know enough to do it justice. I mean, think about it. Good obituary writing is an art. And for some people, it’s the only time they’ll ever get in the newspaper other than their birth announcement. I’d really rather have my obituary say more than I liked knitting and was a good speller.

I’ve saved a couple of friends’ obituaries I thought were well written. But I suppose that even after I rewrite mine, I’ll have to update it — sort of like a resume or a will. Things change the longer you live. Accomplishments that were important to you in high school no longer matter as much when you’re in your fifties.

From my past efforts I know that writing your own obituary causes you to take stock of life. It makes you ask: Is what I’m doing really important? (To yourself or to society.) Is this how I want to be remembered? Do I need to change something?

Who will write your obituary after you die? Do you think they’ll get it right? Does it matter or is it all vanity? It’s something to consider.

The Spot Where my Phone Used to be

The spot in question.

The spot in question.

So I got rid of my landline phone this week. I have never been without an old-fashioned phone in my house. But the only calls I ever received on it were telemarketing calls (even though I’m on the “Do Not Call” registry), and over the past few months, I’ve been preparing for this change by updating my phone number to my cell number with all the organizations that need to know.

Plenty of people I know have done this same thing and survived. But what if I forgot to notify an important organization? What if someone local is trying to reach me and doesn’t have my cell number? What if cell service goes out and I simply MUST make a call? What if I need to call 9-1-1 and they can’t locate me correctly through my cell signal?

It will be okay, right? Right??!

I do not need Halloween to be scared this month. I only need to look at the spot where my phone used to be.

The Purge (or When a Trip to the Dump can be Good for the Soul)

Image courtesy of St. Louis County, Minn.

Image courtesy of St. Louis County, Minn.

Today I got rid of some dead weight and made a new friend along the way.

It was time for fall cleaning, if you will. I got rid of some household hazardous waste (fluorescent light tubes and used snow blower oil) and detritus accumulated over several years — both mine and my parents.

My family moved our aging parents twice in the past several years — from their home to an assisted living facility, and from there to another facility in a different town. I kept some of their things on the chance they might need them, but now that it’s been several years and they live out of town, I realized that ain’t gonna happen. So it was time for a purge.

How it works at our self-service dump is you tell the attendant what you’ve got in your (car, truck or trailer) load and they assess you a charge. Then you drive up a hill. Below the hill are large dumpsters either for metals, cardboard, wood, or miscellaneous waste. You park on the dumpster hill and then toss your junk down into the appropriate container. After that, you drive down the hill and loop back to the entrance to a shed where electronics are collected.

The last time I visited the local dump (now called the more politically correct “Materials Recovery Center”) was about a year after my divorce. I loaded all the junk my ex (who was sort of a hoarder) left into my then-boyfriend’s truck and we made a date of going to the dump. Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it!

Let me tell you, throwing your stuff into the dumpster abyss is a rush. You’re flinging off your old world to make room for the new. It can get addicting. My boyfriend and I laughed as we did it — the feeling was so freeing. This time, I felt rather sad because some of my parents’ discarded items meant their lives would never be the same, but still it felt good to get the stuff cleaned out of my house and garage.

And I made a new friend in the form of the lady attendant who assessed my load. We happened to have the same type of vehicle, so while I was showing her the stuff in my trunk, we talked about the merits of our cars. I paid and when she came back to give me the receipt she asked more questions about my car.

I thought having a dump worker who wasn’t a stressed out robot was a nice change of pace. But the guy in the truck behind me did not. He yelled at the woman to hurry up. Ignoring him, she replied to me, “It’s my job.” (With the unspoken, “And I can do what I like to make it bearable.”) We exchanged a few more words and then I went on my merry way up dumpster hill.

After my cathartic dump (smile), I waved to her as I left.

So, that’s life in northern Minnesota. We make friends at the dump and get our kicks tossing stuff away. What can I say?

Try visiting your local dump someday. It could be good for your soul.

Boston may be Strong, but Cambridge is Fit

Jogger approaching (wearing spandex) along the Charles River in Cambridge, Mass.

Jogger approaching (wearing spandex) along the Charles River in Cambridge, Mass.

I meandered over to Cambridge, Mass., last weekend for a national science writers convention (believe it or not, there are such gatherings). My hotel was on the Charles River, with Cambridge on one side and Boston on the other.

Cambridge 2015 008Boston University, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and Harvard all have boathouses and yacht clubs on the Charles. I awoke every morning to instructions yelled from coaches to rowers, and to the sight of sleek single and multiple sculls skimming the water. (How’s that for alliteration? Couldn’t help it.)

Cambridge 2015 023I was able to take a long walk by the river. Besides the rowers and sailboaters, what impressed me on my stroll was the shear volume of runners, bikers, and walkers. And every one of them was wearing spandex no matter if they were short, tall, wide, narrow, young or old. I, however, did not get the spandex memo, so trod along in my jeans and canvas jacket.

Morning, noon, and night the asphalt trail along with river was crowded with exercisers. Although Boston is known for its post-marathon bombing emotional strength (Boston Strong!), Cambridge will be forever burned into my mind for the fitness of the people I saw during my walk and from my hotel window.

If you ever travel to Cambridge, don’t be like me. Get the memo. Pack your spandex.

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My Politically Correct Pin

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Perhaps you own something that’s so politically and socially correct, it’s almost funny. My thing is a multi-colored fish pin (pictured here) that I bought in New Orleans many years ago, when Hurricane Katrina was only a gleam in the weatherman’s eye.

I can’t remember what store I bought it in, but I do remember it was made from recycled Mardi Gras gowns and television set wire by homeless, disabled (and probably starving) artists. Now, since Katrina, I can only imagine what kinds of politically and socially correct trinkets must be for sale in New Orleans.

Since I work for a water-related organization, I have opportunities to wear my pin sometimes, and to expound upon its virtues when asked. But mostly, I just like how it looks. The whole correctness thing is just a side benefit. Do you have a similar thing?

Bobcat Fog

Fog

Buddy and I went for a walk along the lake in the fog this evening. I love fog. It’s so . . . atmospheric. Makes you feel enveloped, safe in a wall of mist, moving mysterious through the world. Of course, Lake Superior was gray, too – water and sky indistinguishable, quiet.

As a fog-lover, I live in the right place. The dynamics of the lake and the hillside in Duluth make for a larger than usual number of foggy days.

During my walk, I was reminded of the Carl Sandburg poem about fog – how it comes in on little cat feet. He wrote that about Chicago – seeing fog in the harbor. But cat feet just don’t cut it for Duluth. Our far north fog is less domesticated, a bit more dangerous. If I were to write a haiku about fog in Duluth, I would describe the fog as coming in on bobcat feet.

My Good Deed for the Day/Week/Month

The ring-necked pheasant I transported last week. Photo courtesy of Wildwoods Rehabilitation Center.

The ring-necked pheasant I transported last week. Photo courtesy of Wildwoods Rehabilitation Center.


When I was growing up, my mom used to encourage us to look for helpful things to do for others or the community. Sometimes it was picking up trash along a roadside, sometimes it was giving directions to lost tourists. Opportunities to help are all around, and she wanted us to be aware and take action when we could.

Last week my opportunity came when a local wildlife rehabilitation center was looking for someone to transport a female ring-necked pheasant to its “forever home” a couple of hours away. I just happened to be going that direction, so I volunteered to have an avian passenger along for the ride.

The pheasant was found by someone’s dog. She had wounds on her side and her foot was clenched into a ball and not usable. The center fixed her up with two weeks of wound care and an orthotic to open up her foot. They suspect she was being used to train a retrieving dog. Pheasants are an introduced species and are not commonly found in this area.

A farm sanctuary that specializes in domesticated birds and deer offered to take her, so that’s where I came in. I picked her up in a carrier from the center and put her in the back seat. She must have liked listening to my book on CD because I didn’t hear even one literal peep from her the whole trip. I met the farm people at a highway exit gas station and we made the transfer.

Yay – good deed done. My mom would be proud. Sometimes opportunities for these deeds are few and far between, but keep your eyes open and you might be surprised by how many come to your attention.

“H is for Hawk” Book Review: The Value of Animals Apart from Us

A northern goshawk. Image by Norbert Kenntner.

A northern goshawk. Image by Norbert Kenntner.


I gave this memoir five out of five stars on Goodreads not because I agreed with everything in it but because I found it thought provoking and well written. It’s the story of Helen Macdonald, an Englishwoman who is dealing with the death of her father.

To help her get through her grief, Macdonald decides to train one of the most difficult of hawks: the goshawk. She names hers Mabel. She contrasts her experience with that of Terence White, author of the childhood classic, “Sword in the Stone,” and an avid falconer who wrote about his experience in “The Goshawk.” I listened to the audio version of the CD, read by the author in her classic British accent.

So many things to say. Where to begin? To start, it’s ironic that Macdonald chose to deal with death by training an avian killing machine. It’s kind of like dealing with a job loss by helping other people get fired from their jobs over and over again. But this technique worked for Macdonald, who wanted solace by forming an attachment to an animal, and by coming closer to the wild.

However, by the middle of the book, I found myself thinking how unfair it was to burden the bird with the owner’s grief and mental health issues – both for Macdonald’s and White’s goshawks. I mean, they are birds, not people. They are separate beings, but both authors are so caught up in themselves they don’t see this. It’s a lesson I learned years ago from living in the wilderness, and something I suspect most people, who are used to having animals around as pets or for food, don’t have an opportunity to realize.

Macdonald’s attitude of animals being defined in the world by the meanings given to them by humans came to light in a section where she attended an art exhibit about California condors. She says, “I think about what wild animals are in our imaginations and how they are disappearing, not just from the wild but from people’s everyday lives – replaced by images of themselves in print and on screen. The rarer they get, the fewer meanings animals can have. Eventually, rarity is all they are made of. The condor is an icon of extinction . . . How can you love something, how can you fight to protect it if all it means is loss?”

My argument is you fight for endangered animals because they have value apart from us. It’s perhaps the ultimate hubris to think the world revolves around us and our meanings. Most wild animals don’t need us to survive. In fact, they would probably do much better if humans were out of the picture. And why did the condor nearly go extinct in the first place? From human actions (poaching lead poisoning, etc.) It seem so unfair for humans to cause these problems and then to complain that thinking about these animals is depressing. What’s really depressing is what we do to some animals.

Toward the end of the book Macdonald finally realizes that people are more fitting agents for emotional support than animals. While animals provide great solace, they are no substitute for a pair of human arms around you. And she realizes that animals have intrinsic value apart from humans.

She writes, “Of all the lessons I’ve learned in my months with Mabel this is the greatest of all: that there is a world of things out there – rocks and trees, stones and grass, all the things that crawl and run and fly – they are all things in themselves. We make them sensible to us by giving them meanings that shore up our own views of the world.”

Right on. She says she learned with Mabel how to “feel more human once you have known, even in your imagination, what it is like to be not.” She could have ended the book there and I would have been happy but she continued on with White’s story, which at times, overshadowed her own. I could have done without much of the detail of his story and the book would have been stronger for it. I also found myself getting tired near the end from hearing mini dramas about how she was always losing her hawk. But I still gave it five stars, so it these things must not have bothered me too much!

One thing I thought was funny was how, once Macdonald started using antidepressants, she described the hawk as looking much happier, too. I think this was when she was still caught up in the hawk being an extension of herself.

And I was happy to see that Macdonald delved into the “conversation of death” described in Barry Lopez’s book, “Of Wolves and Men.” This is an exchange that happens between wolves and their prey that either triggers a chase or diffuses the hunt. If you’ve read my novel “Eye of the Wolf,” you know that I delved into it, too.

As I was thinking about writing this review, I came across a quote from Henry Beston (“The Outermost House”) that sums up my philosophy and what I think Macdonald was trying to say with her memoir well:

“We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals…. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.”

Agree? Disagree? Am I some psycho loony? (Smirk.)