Dwell in Possibility

Growing up in rural Vermont in the 1960s and 70s was not for the faint of heart. The winters were long, cold, and unforgiving, followed by a spring that was muddy, cold and unforgiving. I've often told my children the stories of how my brother Raymond and I literally walked to school in feet of snow (for the record we did have shoes). So as a NYC-born kid transplanted to the wilds of northern Vermont - dropped into a place with party line phones and little to no TV - one of the few ways to survive months of tundra-like weather was to be creative in how I amused myself, because I was going to need to do it for long long periods of time.

Despite, or perhaps because of, this remote upbringing, one of my fondest memories as a little girl was of someone reading to me. There's pictures of me silently sounding out the words; I remember being impatient to be able to do it myself. Words anywhere were fair game: not only books, but the back of cereal boxes, comics, displays at the hardware store, announcements posted at the Town Hall or the local grocery. Eventually I graduated to bigger books, the complicated inserts in drug sample boxes (my dad was a pharmacist), artist and floral displays (my mom ran an art gallery and flower shop), the encyclopedia (26 volumes!), the dictionary. Especially for those of us in remote cold climates, words were an inexpensive escape. In the 70s many of my friends (and my brother) turned to the growing presence of TV, but to this day I'm not tempted by the small screen. I could - and still can literally wile away months of cold with book after book after book while buried in blankets by the wood-stove. (For the grammar geeks out there while vs. wile is argued here).

So jumping ahead some 50-ish years, it's no surprise that my first blog is premised on the idea that words can lead to any possibility. The original phrase comes from an Emily Dickinson poem, where she argues that poetry provided for the better possibility than prose (you can read the full poem and some analysis here). Personally I'm not going to take sides. Prose or poetry or podcasts. Blogs or books. It's all good to me.

Words have always held the promise of possibility, the option that something amazing, or horrific, or magic, or heroic or _____________(you fill in the blank) could happen. The ability to dwell in possibility is such an important part of my life it's literally tattooed on the side of my foot in my daughter's handwriting (and yes...years of long-distance running have resulted in ugly feet).

A reminder that much is possible..

Like many gifts, the exposure to ideas is both a blessing and a burden. As an adult I've been surrounded by super smart people, many of whom (Chelsea Summers, Frank Murphy, my niece Christie Matheson) have published their own missives. Those who know me best know there's nothing I enjoy more than dinner, drinks, and in depth discussions of books, movies, and politics. Equally, I don't suffer fools gladly, and I have a special frustration for people who are deliberately stupid (more on this in a future blog).

And the best part of the ability to dwell in possibility is that you can do it anywhere. My friend Shannon and I occasionally feel the need to run long road races so we can debate the infinite. My posse of girl friends - the Honey Badgers - have hiked up small and giant mountains for DAYS, spent hours in line at the National Toboggan Championships, or countless other adventures, and yet have never shut up about our reading lists, the state of world affairs, how to raise chickens or children or grow a garden or a business or......

The ability to dwell in possibility has taken new shape over time as technology has emerged. In the past few months I've started limiting my writing on Facebook as many of us have the feeling that anything of import was getting drowned out. Information overload can engulf even those of us who thrive on new ideas, and I've been shifting my idea consumption elsewhere to avoid my brain exploding. I hope you'll add your voice to my musings in this space as we bounce our thoughts around the stratosphere. Here's to the possible in 2019. Thanks for joining me.

#dwellinpossibility