Category: Mother Earth

Labels = Imposter?

Who is the real Karen Lea Anderson Peterson?

Some thoughts in response to a friend’s lament of losing one’s youth.

“Quite a coincidence that after your comment on youth passing us by, I saw on YouTube a movie called Naked, High and Free: Life Inside Taylor Camp. Maybe you’ve already seen it but it’s about a bunch of hippies dropping out in Kauai and making and living a life there, clothes optional. It was really cool to watch and it made me realize that as much as I thought of myself as a hippie, I never really did drop out. Then a flood of thoughts came about other ways in which perhaps I would not be considered a hippie, or any such thing on which you could place a label”.

Here are some thoughts on my life in no particular order:

I didn’t really protest the war (Vietnam) except in heart and of course, speaking out against it at every opportunity, but I didn’t go out to march. That’s never been my thing and I still don’t participate in marches as deeply as I feel that all war should end.

Another idea, which many associate with being a hippie, is free love. I wasn’t a participant in free love. Though I believed, and still do, that one should love who one loves, not dependent on gender, or any other criteria, marriage included. I didn’t even really believe in that. So why have I always thought of myself as a hippie?

What is hippie philosophy and/or lifestyle anyway? I guess mine was more intellectual in that I was against consumerism and yet I am a consumer. As far as my political views, I guess you could say I am a liberal because I’m certainly not a conservative but I’ve never been political. I’ve even considered myself apolitical. I haven’t ever participated in political activities of any kind. I never lived on a commune or in a community, not even in an urban environment.

I guess I grew in understanding that organic gardening and consuming organic foods were important and I did grow my own organic gardens, beginning in 1969. I read about self-sustaining ifestyles but I never actually did that. We raised chickens and goats and even owned and butchered two steer. We also owned a couple of horses.

I cooked on beautiful wood cook stoves and we heated with wood. I made my own bread, I ground my own flour and coffee. I made pickles and canned fruits and unsuccessfully made wine. I shunned plastics and non-organic materials in clothing and packaging to the extent that was possible. I’ve understood and protested (verbally) against the use of fossil fuels and polluting our environment. I’ve spoken/ voted against the use of pesticides and herbicides in food production and against industrial meat production.

I learned to weave, crochet, embroider, quilt and spin my own yarn and sew. I made some clothes for the children and I even made my own wedding dress.

Speaking of children, I gave birth to my first child but did not raise her. I have written that story in other blog posts. My second child was born in a hospital in the days before it was common to have a natural childbirth without any intervention. I had to fight to have my baby in the room with me for the 3 days that was required internment. I breastfed for 2 years. My third child I had at home and again breastfed for 2 years.

Before settling down and having children, I used weed and psychedelics to expand my mind and decidedly not to party. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy music and light shows and good times with friends, because I did. But as the years went on, more and more people were using drugs, not to necessarily expand their minds and their lives but more liberally defined as recreation.

I studied and practiced Midwifery but without formal training and without certificates or degrees. I would not now call myself a midwife, though I did deliver tens of babies. Without the real training that I should have had, I am fortunate to say that I never lost a baby.

I taught aerobics for years and this also without the formal training that I should have had. Eventually I was trained and did hold a certificate.

I read, but not extensively, Eastern philosophy and dipped my toes in psychology and sociology. I had fully rejected Christianity early and was looking for alternatives to spirituality * thanks to forays into experimentation with LSD and mushrooms.

I believed, and still do even more vehemently now that I have a greater understanding of our history as human beings and more specifically as Americans, in equal rights for every man and woman and child and shunned racism and other negative and evil “-isms’  But I never physically marched against them or took part in a written campaign against them or participated in any other activity against hatred  and inequality.

So what is this label that I have put on myself for so many years? I think if I was to be really honest with myself, I would have to say I was never really a hippie by the strictest definition of what a hippie is. I suppose it would be wise of me in all honesty to not take on any label, whatsoever. I suppose I can only say that I was aware of all of the movements and agreed with all of the movements to one degree or another, even dropping out.

My spiritual seeking was really very shallow. I would say, I read a few books but I didn’t really delve deep into meditation until the last 25 years. I didn’t go on retreats in India, like many of us did at the time and not even to local gatherings with other seekers. And even now my practice is a mishmash of what I choose to participate in and not even socially. I don’t belong to any groups. I prefer my independence. I guess the closest thing one could say is that I have formally been trained in Transcendental Meditation but I don’t even practice that purely. I’ve only been to two TM retreats.

And even though I have been educated as an historian, I don’t believe I can call myself an historian. If what it means to be an historian is to have published books and perhaps been an educator. I have published a lot but I haven’t published a book and I don’t teach on one particular genre of history. I might lay claim as an ethnographer. As that was and still is a major activity of mine.

My real expertise, if you can call it that, is in the preservation of history in physical form. The preservation of documents, photographs, publications, artfacts, etc., etc., has been my passion. My career in research, documenting, describing and giving access to those materials, was my field of expertise, and in this field, I am not an imposter. But in nearly everything else, I am, if I claim to be the conclusive and precise definition of those things.

Yes, I was a professor at OHSU. That is true based on the three/four criteria of research, teaching, publishing and serving on committees. Of that, I can lay claim, as well.

But if I were to be quizzed on what I learned in 11 years of University training, I would fail miserably. Only in the field of archival management would I exceed expectations.

But in all other areas of my life it would not be unreasonable for people to point a finger at me and cry: “IMPOSTER”. You be the judge if you want.

And now that I am an old woman, what do I say of myself? Generally, when people ask me about myself, I say I’m an old hippie but I wonder now if that is really an accurate label? If I shun labels, maybe I can simply say that I’m an old woman who lived her life the best way she knew how. I have loved and have been loved. And there’s not a soul on Earth that can dispute that, not even myself.

A Spring Day. I cannot miss a moment of this.

A most glorious day.

Blue skies with magnificent white clouds floating by,

Sometimes obscuring the sun, leaving a chill in the air.

Sunlight illuminates every color of green. Overwhelmingly green.

Every flower blossom exudes fragrance on the air,

Passing by just to give a whiff, of pleasure.

The mottled ground, shadows of quivering leaves.

The Bush Tits flitting, where else? In the bushes.

I’m mesmerized. I cannot move from this chair.

What if I miss a moment?

I Miss Winter Already

I miss winter already.

I miss the dark and brooding skies,

As I look up through bare branches hanging overhead.

I miss the mist and the cold wind against my face,

And pulling my coat and my scarf a bit closer around me,

And my hat tightly down over my ears.

I miss the hard, hard rain,

Soaking through my pant legs and my boots.

Although it’s barely spring,

I miss the long nights of storms blowing through from the east,
Rattling both shutters and awakening my fears.

I miss finding comfort in piles of quilts and wool.

Even the soft light of spring seems too harsh, too bright.

I’m not ready. I’m not prepared for what is exposed in this light that comes even through clouds.

Though there are a million other beautiful things about spring,

I miss winter already.

Mid Summer

August 6th approaches.

It’s heavy and hot.

It’s midpoint summer in our hemisphere.

Ever so slowly we tip…

We tip away from the sun.

For less daylight.

As daytime heat soars,

The night air cools.

Still time to swim and eat outdoors.

The Bad Sheep Wild Blueberry Socks

Winter’s Wooliness

The Wild Blueberry, Bad Sheep socks are done. I only wish this photo did the color of the deep blue justice. It doesn’t begin to capture the color.

Even though we are a full month away from autumn, I’m anxious to put these babies on. They will look amazing with my Birkenstocks.

Now, I’ll go back to working on my Magnolia sweater. It’s been sitting all summer while I waited for more yarn to arrive. The kid silk came from Latvia. After months, it finally got here. Now to try to figure out where I left off.

I’m glad I had these beautiful socks to work on, as well as some other projects, like another pair of socks for Hannah and Nori and a hat for Jesse.

Now I want to find some woolly DK self striping sock yarn in autumn and winter colorways to make some more socks. A girls gotta have a simple project on the needles too for when one needs a break from knitting a lace pattern.

The late summer weather is beautiful and pleasant, though we’re looking at some heat coming our way for next week. I’m loathe to let summer go as I wait patiently for cooler weather and fall color.

It Was a Surprising Summer Storm

We had a thunderstorm last night with pouring and pounding rain, bright white flashes of lightning and booming, rolling thunder and wind blowing the trees sideways. It blew by. It lasted for just under 20 minutes.

I counted the first burst of sound and flash of light that woke me from an uneasy sleep, just like Mom had taught me to do. “One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand.” It was right over head as it headed west. I quit counting at seventeen one thousand… it was traveling across the midnight sky.

Then just as suddenly as it began, all was quiet again. The trees stood still and the undisturbed darkness returned. The smell of wet pavement blew in my open window as the drops of rain fell on the warm streets.

When I woke this morning, we’re back to the heat with bright sunshine. The sky is light blue with high fluffy clouds thousands and thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of feet in the air.

The light is a soft, muted golden yellow. Even the air itself, as if it were visible, shimmers. I think because of the slow and gradual transitioning to autumn, and the extreme heat we’ve suffered, the leaves are starting to turn on the trees and fall to the ground.

What a sight to see and remember in this late August time.

How Heavy is the Garden

It’s a hot start to July.

The garden is heavy.

The day lily’s bow towards the porch and face up to the sun.

The climbing roses pull-down the trellises.

Those roses that climb the lilac, have bent the branches to block the door.

A million apples pull and arch the columnar,

And the espalier reaches for the ground.

While the jasmine, heavy and fragrant, lies upon the grass.

While Lying in the Hammock

It’s just past noon on the summer solstice.

For days it’s been cool and raining.

Everything is just a bit damp.

While the temperature is climbing,

The hammock is calling.

I answer the call and lay down,

and I gaze upwards.

The sky is so blue it’s an impossible shade of purple.

The leaves are every shade of green,

From black where little light can reach,

Under the dense branches,

To chartreuse where the leaves shine against the sky,

Almost translucent where sunlight amicably tries to penetrate.

I think I’ll just lie here for a while.

After all, the warmth and beauty are mesmerizing.

Ode to the Old Lemon Tree

Today, I’ll make lemon pudding, I thought. I’ll squeeze the fat fruit. I’ll scrape the bright rind. I’ll stir the cornstarch and sugar together with the zest then I’ll pour in the juice. I’ll stir in sweet milk and when it begins to thicken, I’ll add in the creamy butter.

Then there came a memory like they are wont to do.

A lemon tree stood alone in the yard, scarce of leaf, bent and rough of bark, unexpectedly laden with fruit.

That old tree brought me joy on days when I tired of rice and onions. I’d go to gather the flawed, dimpled, sun-like yellow fruit to make pudding.

All I needed then was sugar, an egg, a lemon and cornstarch to stir until thickened. Lemon desserts aren’t lemon to me unless they make my jaw hurt from the tartness.

Now that I have the luxury of butter and milk, it doesn’t diminish the sweet and tart lemon pudding I made when I was poor… more poor than I am now.

The old lemon tree is far away but I’m sure it still stands. Why would anyone dare to cut down such a bountiful tree. But then who knows for sure what others might do. At least in my memory it still stands.

Now, I buy lemons from the bins at the store, the same store where I buy the butter and milk. I don’t know where any of them have come from or how far they’ve traveled.

I’d prefer anyday to go out and gather lemons from the old lemon tree. I’d fill my pockets with the warm fruit, heavy with juice and make the simple pudding that makes life good.