Surrounded by Wonder

The mist rising from the shore on a chilly morning, the glow of the last light of day on the peaks rising from sea level, the thrill in our eyes as the first snowflakes fly.

Every time I walk into my favorite local coffee shop, I am re-struck by the surreal mural on the wall over the baristas and the pastry case. A painted dream scene incorporating the original inhabitants of this land. A couple lie on their backs by a fire on a beach, steaming cups in their touching hands, the deep rainforest towering above. The light of the fire and five full moons illuminate huge devil’s club leaves. A circle of spruce trees reach for the sky. At first glance you might miss the totem bear duo and a woman wearing a spruce root hat gazing up at the moons in the lower right hand corner. Even more arresting are the words carefully painted there:

“…perpetually awaiting the return of wonder…” - L.Ferlinghetti.

This quote is in fact not direct but a summation of the chorus of the poem, “I Am Waiting" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the late great poet and founder of the legendary City Lights bookstore in San Francisco. I am awaiting perpetually and forever a renaissance of wonder. This poetic masterpiece was written in 1958, but it speaks to the uncertainty of these times. For this essay I’m focusing on the wonder.

It is a wonder-full morning in late November, despite the piercing cold Taku winds marking the shift from Fall to Winter. As customers chat over their scones and cappuccinos, late autumn sun streams on the hard wood floors and tables of the Rookery Cafe’.

A bespectacled man is cozied in a corner table with his sketchbook and journal. His white tousled curls match his artist’s smock. Then I recognize him, Arnie Weimer, the painter of the mural; the first person I met from Juneau in November, 1992 on the ferry that brought us up the Inside Passage to our new home. We exchange good mornings.

Later, Arnie will share his goal with the mural he created in 2012: to spark wonder, and questions like, “Do the five moons denote the movement of time? Is the woman in the spruce root hat the matriarch of the bear clan? I wonder what she sees from her mysterious position in the darkness of the rainforest? And what about the figures drinking coffee and warming their hands by the fire from their cozy position of wonder?” Turns out that with wonder in mind, he recently completed another mural, for a hospital in St. Cloud, Minnesota.

I ask him about the drawings before him, along side his coffee cup. He shows me unmistakable images, in crisp black sharpie, the avalanche chutes of Mt. Juneau looming over downtown, then a watercolor at the corner of South Franklin and Main streets, people dashing about.

This is far from the first time Arnie’s rendered such works. “I just can’t stop,” he admits. “That’s not a bad problem to have,” I reply. “Heck, every time I’m downtown, or anywhere else around here, I’m like a tourist whose never seen the flank of a mountain in just the right light, or the water off the dock reflecting the promontories of Douglas Island. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve taken photos of the same thing.”

As I write, the rain has melted away the snow of late November, giving way to ice-slicked streets. The opposite of Thanksgiving week, when I was thankful for clear skies and the first real snow of the season.

The day before turkey day I took a walk behind our Douglas home to Gastineau Meadows, where the views open across and down the Channel. Unexpected sun peeked through the clouds and shone on fresh fallen snow. I was surprised that it was enough to ski on. On my “music to make pies by” public radio show that evening, I talked about the way the light brought out the fissures of Mt. Juneau, the frozen waterfall through the avalanche chute on Mt. Roberts, and the dreamy summit of Mt. Hawthorne.

My son was listening. He texted me a photo he’d taken when he happened to be working on Mt. Roberts at the same time I was gazing at it from Gastineau Meadows.

Thanksgiving morning we joined our grandtwins and their parents at Sandy Beach. The incoming tide lapped on the snowy shore, the peaks across the channel mirrored on the still water. The boys sat in their snowsuits as if on a summer day, just fine with fluffy snow in place of sand.

The day after Thanksgiving I headed out to frozen Mendenhall Lake with my nordic skis. A foot of fresh powder glistened in the sunlight, the receding edge of the icefield surrounded by peaks that take my breath away every time. As I set out alone by a cleared square for a hockey game, a friend of my kids skated over. He warned me to be careful. You know you’ve come full circle when your kids friends are telling you to be safe.

Soon enough my friend Jan just happened to show up, the two of us glad to ski together. Jan broke trail on her wider Karhus that they don’t make anymore. I happily glided behind. We turned around at the moraine and flew back into the setting sun on a living postcard.

Wonder returned. Exponentially.

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Peace and Love, Katie B.