A Metaphor for Anger in America: Paint Pots at Yellowstone

As any visitor to Yellowstone National Park will tell you, it's nearly impossible not to marvel at the variety and beauty of the hydrothermal features the park offers. The variety extends from Old Faithful who erupts with almost two hundred feet of steaming water and grandeur every 35 to 120 minutes to the relatively water-starved and subdued mud pots which provide endless entertainment with their random symphony of burps and gurgles.  

Watching these features and getting lost in my own little world as any self-respecting introvert would do, I couldn't help but think that many of these hydrothermals speak metaphorically to the problems that we have with anger and frustration in America today.  Many people have heated opinions about politics, policies, rising costs, housing, overwork, underpay, and a myriad of other issues, some so much so that their true colors are largely masked by their anger:

Like the mud pots, others seem pretty mellow and even keeled, but their persistent, low-key, rumbling suggest that they could go sideways at any moment:

Still others, while still heated and passionate in their views, somehow manage to keep their true colors shining bright and beautiful through their negative emotions:

A select few manage to transform all that heated energy into something stunning and lasting -- a legacy:

Given the selection of paint pots, I prefer to strive toward these later models.  Stay invested, remain engaged, feel passionate, experience anger... but do it without it getting in the way of loving and caring about people, no matter what their paint pot may be.

Because I am definitely one prone to steaming over things to the extent that my true colors disappear underneath my anger and frustration, this is easier said than done.   Sigh.

And now back to admiring the geysers and hydrothermal bouquet without overthinking them... that's a piece of advice that Old Faithful was kind enough to give me:   

Simple Pleasures

 

Yesterday morning (12 October), I slipped (or partially collapsed, depending on your perspective) into the driver's seat of our 2015 Toyota Sienna and began the long drive to Clearwater, Florida from Whidbey Island in Western Washington State.  

While I have made this drive many times in a minivan loaded with (too?) much stuff and (too?) many animals, it never ceases to amaze me that the endless to-do list that accompanies closing up one house and departing for another actually comes to an end.  And here I was.  The October 2024 departure had begun. We were headed to Pinellas County, Florida, so recently traumatized by Hurricanes Helene and Milton (technically Milton was a Him-icane, but I don’t think these storms care much about pronouns).   

Accompanied by a bout of unseasonably warm and beautiful weather, my sister and I drove down the road and meandered onto the Whidbey Island ferry, headed to the mainland.  After a plethora of traffic lights, we merged onto one of the crowded commuter routes toward Seattle and headed eastward onto Interstate 90 away from Seattle and over the Cascade Mountains via Snoqualmie Pass.  The weather begged us to make a stop to gawk at 268-foot Snoqualmie Falls so we obliged, not feeling particularly hurried on the first day of the drive. 

Unfortunately, in a fit of weather-induced optimism, I had the misguided thought that I could take Willow (our rescue dog) through a weekend throng of tourists to see the Falls and all would turn out OK.  My (misplaced) optimism didn't last long as Willow became increasingly nervous with one car after another, one person after another, and one dog after another.   Not surprisingly, the “stroll” ended when she completely freaked out and made an almost successful attempt to slip out of her collar and disappear into the wilderness, never to be seen again.  

With the simple pleasure of viewing the Falls at length successfully submarined, we returned to Interstate 90 and headed east once again. Crowds of many living beings and a reactive dog -- bad combination.   Lesson learned.  

Moving east brought us across the desert-like landscape of Eastern Washington and just over the state line to Post Falls, Idaho for our first night on the road.  The very friendly desk clerk informed us that an entire marching band was joining us for the evening at the Post Falls Sleep Inn and that commotion and chaos were to be expected.  

Whew. The simple pleasure of a peaceful evening had been successfully averted.  Who needs peace and quiet anyway?

After a decent but short night’s sleep, I reluctantly rolled out of a strange but warm and comfortable bed, put a collar and leash on Willow, and headed out for a morning walk.  I was delighted to see that in front of the Inn was an abandoned railroad track that had been converted into a long, wide, comfortable trail for walking. The possibility of peace and quiet loomed in front of me. I looked both ways on the trail, saw no one, and struck out to the east in search of the simple pleasures abounding in the beautiful Sunday morning.  

It was chilly enough to wear a heavy jacket, but not so much that my exposed hands, eyes, or ears had anything to say in protest.  The gentle chill allowed me to wake up and return to the land of the living slowly without any of the (many) things that annoyed night owls in the early morning.  

On both sides of the trail, two-foot tall grass had gone dormant and straw-like in the drought conditions of the Western summer.  The swatches swayed back and forth in the gentle breeze as there were no cares in the world. It’s a good thing that grass can’t read a news feed, lest their bliss be interrupted with the grim realities of the modern world. 

In the distance, the mountains and their many resident conifers rested, seeming to take a deep breath in their last meditation before the snows arrived and smothered them with blankets of winter white.  

As I gradually returned to the land of the living while breathing the crisp chilly air, I relished these moments of being along and relaxed. Not only because they had been largely lacking over the past month in the chaos of getting ready, but also because the simplicity of the moment pushed the complexities of the world away for just a little while.  

Usually a bundle of spirited and zig-zagging energy, Willow also seemed to sense the simple pleasures of the quiet morning.  She seemed to have little to no interest in pulling my shoulder out of its socket.  I thought for certain that our peace would be broken when she spotted two horses in a nearby pasture.  But no manic bark fest ensued (presumably because she couldn’t figure out what to do with these large, never-before seen creatures). We continued in our walk, uninterrupted.   

For almost a half an hour, the morning embraced us as we walked easily down the trail.  I reluctantly turned back only when I spotted a deer in the distance before Willow and her eagle eyes did the same.  We would have pulled off an equally enjoyable return trip if it had not been for the two pit bulls gone crazy over the sight of Willow.  This included one of the two dogs pulling out of its collar in an effort to have a close encounter of undetermined consequence with Willow.  Fortunately, the brain cells in Willow's head over-rode her crazy dog self (an infrequent occurrence), and we escaped the pit bulls (and their angry owner) without any bites, blood, or unexpected visits to the vet.   

Nevertheless,

Just thirty minutes.  Just a basic urban trail. Just an ordinary day.   

Just simple pleasures.  

Just exactly what I needed.