sometimes the best thing is to howl

My dears,

One thing I shared at Val’s memorial on Saturday was this very abridged list of just a few of the things I learned from Val, or that we learned together.

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I spent fifteen years in the orbit of Val Garrison, friend of my heart. I learned a lot from her, and we learned so much together. Here are just a few of those things:

From Val I learned:

How to prune a branch at an angle, just after the junction of branch and twig.

To pinch back your petunias if you want them to keep flowering.

To put rice vinegar and sesame oil on kale.

To put peanut butter on pancakes.

I learned to my amazement that if you are bold and compassionate and interested enough to ask people real personal questions, they might just answer.

I learned that this is how we put our pants on (…put our pants on, one two three).

That if you feel like throwing something, tortellini are satisfying.

Together we learned how to fight honestly, fairly, kindly. And we figured out that the key to good fighting is to remember to do the butt dance.

I learned not to make responsive noises in conversation when you are interviewing someone and recording it.

That it is important to call your friends and your parents often.

How to make really great popcorn. (Cook it hot in good oil, and dose liberally with salt and nutritional yeast.)

That there are infinite uses for a good hickory whackin’ stick.

That raw oats, peanut butter, and honey stirred together and warmed up in the microwave are actually not that far from a cookie.

I learned to clip my fingernails under cover of the loud sounds of the dishwasher or a garbage truck.

We learned, and helped each other remember, that no matter how sad or how tired you are, it is always a good idea to go outside.

Val taught me how to tell a raven from a crow.

To recognize fresh bear scat.

To remember that when you have just seen fresh bear scat, you should start being noisy.

That the best soup when you have a cold is miso soup made rich with tahini.

She helped me — and all of you helped her — learn to love these people, right here, today. That they will not be perfect, but when you need it, they will hold you up.

That if there are no words for how you are feeling, sometimes the best thing is just to dance. Dance in your kitchen, dance in your backyard, dance down the street. Dance all by yourself. Lift your hands in the air and dance. Wiggle your flippers and shake your tush. Look your friend in the eyes and dance.

Although sometimes the best thing is actually to howl.

From Val I learned that just because you are vegetarian doesn’t mean you can’t eat your mom’s wilted-lettuce-and-bacon salad.

That when somebody teases you, go toward the teasing, not away from it.

That if you don’t know the name of any gizmo, you can always call it a shmackety.

And if you can’t remember the name of a person, you can always refer to them as “Bucket.”

Val had a genius for naming things. Seems like the trick was to free-associate and then to commit to the first good name that comes to you. That’s how her truck ended up Ricky-Ticky-Trucky and her bass became Buttercup. We never did get a good name for the Van.

The philosophy of Woof: that it doesn’t matter how mangy and goofy-looking a dog you are, you still get to woof your woof. Just get out there and woof it.

Together we learned that the only way you will know if a place can be your home is to live in it.

That if you hear some intriguing squeaky noises in the woods, and it turns out there’s a half-fledged baby great horned owl on the ground making them, probably there is an adult owl on a branch over your head, glaring at you and preparing to rip your toupee off.

Also, don’t eat slugs. They will make your tongue numb. (Actually we both learned this from Tuley.)

I learned with Val to announce the upcoming bumps on a hilly sidewalk, because when she was pushing me uphill in my wheelchair she couldn’t see the path ahead and was trusting me to navigate for us both.

On road trips I learned that if Val suddenly and enthusiastically pointed out an interesting sight — she was probably trying to keep me from noticing a historical marker on the other side of the road. Because if I saw one I would want to pull over and read it.

Together we learned that a big tent is roomy but not necessarily warm.

Val taught me how to spot a coyote on a hillside.

She taught me how to stand on the deck at night and howl like a coyote, so the whole coyote family would yip back.

How to cook tempeh to make it delicious.

That cottonwood sap is one of the best spring smells there is.

That you need to pack your passport for a trip to Eureka, in case you want to get some Canadian ice cream.

To resist the gloom of the Pacific Northwest by stringing “happy lights” around your home.

That spinning in circles can engender a real change of perspective.

Val taught me:

To talk about my ideas. To bring them into the air and the light.

That grief is a grandmother. That we should let her hold us, and trust that we will be transformed.

To be gentle with my little human self.

To wonder about the stories of strangers, the lumpy and the unbeautiful, and to regard them with curiosity and compassion.

She taught me that it’s good to go to the ocean now and then, to stand looking out at that endless horizon, to take a minute to assess your verticality.

And Val taught me to let everything in, and let everything out. To let the world flow through you and change you. That one way or another, you will be okay. And it will certainly be interesting.