When the Sun is North of Here.

I’ve been sick. I don’t often get sick, and when I do it isn’t for very long. I was sick for one day last winter. Before that, I don’t even remember. This time the illness was different. A cruel lover, at first I enjoyed it. I don’t sleep much. Getting 12 hours of sleep was great. Soon it became too much and other, less polite, complications emerged. I was pretty much bed-ridden.


Apparently, I have two illnesses at once. The first is a virus called CMV – to make a long story short, it is a form of mono. The second, and less polite illness, is some kind of intestinal bug. The bug can be treated, and hopefully my will start to be digested again.

Regardless, the blog has been quiet because I don’t think that people want to hear about lying in bed all day. However, one nice thing about lying in bed all day is that it gives you time to think. Granted, most of the thoughts have been along the lines of “curse my damn colon”. But, some useful thoughts have come to the fore.

In particular, I have noticed the sun.

My bedroom has a sunroof. It is nice, except at mid day when it bakes my room and gives no shelter. Normally, I am not here for that, so it is of little consequence. However, when there is nowhere to go, it is noticeable

A few days ago, something whispered in my mind – “That sun is coming in from the north”. So it is.

I haven’t really hidden the fact that I don’t love Quito. It is loud, polluted and crime ridden. In short, it is a city. I grew up in one and I feel no need to live in one again. But something else, something deeper, has bothered me about this place.

I was raised by a man who had an undeniable sense of place. My father understood Long Island in a way that few ever will again. We used to tease him—he saw potato fields and forests in places that are now strip malls and tract housing. He knew the history of the place. He knew that that the Native Americans would go clamming in the estuaries and salt marshes—today an activity that produces a luxury item—in times of famine. He knew about the Loyalists that populated the Island during the American Revolution and the different techniques that the Long Island baymen used for harvesting food.

The first time I ever really felt a place was in Edinburgh. I had been studying the Celtic Holiday, Imbolc. It was, and still it, the start of spring in that part of the world. To me, early February is not spring. It isn’t even close. But, after a long morning of thinking of nothing but the Celtic start of spring, I headed into a cold Scottish afternoon. On my way home, past the Meadows, the first snowdrops were coming up. I understood. It was an intuitive understanding—the type that words are useless for.

Somehow, in that moment, I got the place. I understood Scotland in a way that I think my father understood Long Island. I knew that spring had begun, and I knew in some way what Imbolc was about.

I’ve carried that moment with me. In upstate New York I read Iroquois mythology, learned about the ecology of a place that measures snow in feet. I loved it there. In Ireland, I knew the myths as well as anyone. That field was where Cú Chulainn made his stand against the armies of Ireland, and over there is where the Mórrigan mated with the Dagda. Even in a place as ecologically devastated as Ireland, there is a sense of place.

Then there was Montana. In Montana, I took it a step further. Understanding Montana was more than just reading some stories and doing some bird watching. To be certain, I learned about Old Man Coyote and read about the ecological significance of alpine snow pack to the low lying sagebrush ecosystem. But I also discovered the importance of ceremony. In my studies of anthropology I had an intellectual understanding that ceremony cements a relationship with a place, with other people, with the divine, in a way that nothing else could.

Before long, I was sitting in tortuous sweat lodges and standing in the hot sun with wounds in my chest. It wasn’t snowdrops in Scotland. It was long, slow and hard. I still don’t get it. I wish I did. I think some of the guys at the sweats got sick of constant questioning. I belonged to that place in a way that that is hard to explain. There is nothing supernatural about it. It is just…

Well, it is kind of like soul – if I have to explain it to you, you will never understand.

So now, the sun is in the north. There are tall majestic trees with bark that seems to be peeling away. There are grasses that are as tough as any I have ever seen – I imagine that someone must have once used them for rope. The mountains are stately and cloud veiled and the birds… well, if anything can keep me here, it is the birds.

I could go on – great fruit, colorful music, and a rich and vibrant culture.

But none of it touches me. I think about elk moving in the Lamar Valley, wolves in tow. I dream of eagles, not condors. For the past week, I have dreamt of bison coming to me, and I know I will be better soon.

Now I question what to do with this place. Do I try to connect to it? There are surely great Incan myths and I can see the natural beauty from my own back yard. Can I ever adjust to a sun that lives in the northern sky?