A change of direction

Years ago, when I was a child, crossing the Arkansas River and then the Mississippi River generated a wanderlust that made my feet itch and my soul long to see what was up river as well as down river and I wanted to see both at the same time. The joy, the longing, the yearning to see what mysteries were here and there that I had heading east I now have when I am going west. I cross the Arkansas a couple times when I go west, once in Fort Smith and once again in Oklahoma. The thing is, the river no longer holds the lure that it once did. Now my longings and wishes are for mesas and snow capped mountains and cacti (even when they aren’t in bloom), for miles and miles of miles and miles with nothing but scrub brush, dirt and rocks, for sunsets that are beautifully painful to watch, for stars that are so close they are touchable, sigh, for the southwest. My travel compass has switched poles, from east to west and my joy is traveling anywhere west of Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas…So, if this were blogger, I would favorite New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, Idaho, Montana, Washington, Oregon and California.

Time again

Surely, a couple months have not passed since I last posted...surely? But, seems to be so. In that time, many things have happened and nothing of any earth shaking importance and I am grateful for that. I did make a run for the western border and made it as far as eastern Utah. That was quite a treat.

My chariot of choice.

Canyon de Chelly: the beginning

Canyon de Chelly

Date
I began this as notes about Sierra Club trip to Canyon de Chelly, the stories our guides told and the people I met. The stories and myth are an extremely important part of time in the canyon and I will weave them later, but now, in my egocentric way, I want to explore a particularly personal experience and the consequences of those moments.

Moab, UT: a few days after the trip to the canyon.
The creamy white moon is egg shaped; its smooth light waves around and about the red cliffs behind the camper creating a white night. Tomorrow the egg will mature and become a more balanced circle. This night is cool, but gently cool, merely a suggestion of what is to come. The sun crossed the equator today and fall officially began. The rain this morning washed grit and grime from the sky and removed the haze from the air for a while.

The canyon

I’ve appreciated red rock canyons, gigantic mesas, and impressive valley views many times over the years, but the trip to Canyon de Chelly was more, much more than my usual way of knowing something simply by observing. This time, I participated in and with the canyon and it altered me in deeply pervasive ways. Of all the canyon experiences, and there were many, the one I want to explore first is the climb up the Yei’bi’chi trail. Twenty of us went up that trail and most made it with little difficulty or fear. I was not one of those.

Yei’bi’chei: I think it literally translates from Dine’ as “the trail of the gods” and now I know why. It was a trail that challenged me to the very core of my being, a hero’s journey, in the Joseph Campbell sense, and the challenge came as a complete surprise.

When I applied for the trip, I was asked if I could physically make an ascent or descent of several hundred feet in one day. My response was “Sure, no problem. Wonder why they even asked.” I am in pretty good shape, so I had absolutely no qualms about my abilities. The thing I didn’t know was that the changes in elevation described in the trip packet would sometimes be intensely vertical rather that a series of gradual switch backs. As I learned this, I came to understand that, contrary to the old adage, ignorance is not always bliss.

The trip began mid-day on the canyon rim. We met with the owner of the land used as access to the rim. He greeted up at the opening of his sweat lodge that is situated close enough to the edge of the canyon to provide an awe inspiring view of sky and canyon walls. After receiving his blessing, we began the descent to the floor of the canyon. The trail meanders around huge boulders and rock formations, between scrub and through slippery sandstone washes. Layers of red, orange, brown, and cream told the story of the erosions that created the canyon. The floor was in view most of the way down and was splotched with shades of green. What an introduction to the beauty and mystery of Canyon de Chelly!

Day 2
The second morning, we left our beautifully secluded grassy camp site near Bear Trail and Baby Pee, walked past a number of ruins, saw the rock where the people attempted to outlast Kit Carson’s invasion, and walked around the point that divides Canyon del Muerto from Canyon de Chelly. And then, and then, we continued walking. A rusty fence ran along the road and we passed through a place the fence was down, walked near an abandoned hogan, and began to gradually leave the valley floor. The rock wall in front of me was beautiful, a deep orange red. I drank in the color.

The trail wound gently up and through scrub cactus and assorted bushes stubborn enough to survive the cycles of heat and drought, snow and floods. I expected to follow the bottom of the canyon wall and walked easily through the sand and loose rock. When we reached the wall, we began to pick our way across the base.

It was tough going. The sandstone was slippery and, in some places, the only way to make any progress was to plaster my back against the wall and skittle along sideways, but then I felt as if I was going to topple forward. We stopped for water and I slid down the wall to rest. Some of the others pulled out cameras and maneuvered for shots of the valley, which suddenly seemed a long way below. After a while, the line began to move again, and I followed, thinking that we would surely be off the rock and back in the bottom of the valley soon.

We came out of the shady side of the wall as we oonched around a bend and suddenly there was nothing in front or behind me. We were out in the open and the folks in front of me began to go steeply upward, their boots filling narrow ledges that seemed way too small for my boots.

I followed. The valley had been receding, but now the pace was alarming and I was suddenly consciously attempting to breathe deeply to dissipate the panic that was growing proportionally to the distance to the valley floor. Surely, if those others could do this, I could.

A little more of the story

We continued up and around, pausing again for water. The sun was hot and the humidity must have been below zero. My shirt was wet under the backpack but everywhere else the dryness of the wind evaporated the sweat as it formed. After this stop, we didn’t go much further when, suddenly, or so it seemed to me, the folks at the head of the group began scrambling straight up the side of the canyon. Up the rock! I was stunned.

When it came my turn, lemming like, I began to climb. I had no idea how far up I was going to have to go or just what I had gotten myself into.

The first thing I discovered was that the hand and toe holes were very small and my boots were very large. I could find no place I thought my feet would fit much less stay. The ledges where I was supposed to find purchase protruded only an inch or so (or so it seemed to me) and that was waaaay to narrow. The hand holds were basically non-existent...at least as far as I was concerned. To add to my distress, I had something over a half-gallon of water in my pack, my lunch, rain gear, hand lotion, sun-lotion, bug spray, camera and extra film, my journal and pencil. The weight of the pack was a constant reminder that there was nothing but air behind me and nothing secure for my hands to hold. I felt as if I were consistently being pulled backward toward the valley floor.

I managed to climb for a while, maybe a third of the way up. Then I came to a step that was about knee high. It required putting my left foot in one of the toe holds and lifting all my weight with that leg and the little bit of pull I could get from a hand hold a considerable distance above my head. There was virtually nothing on which to rest my boot to stabilize my step and I have a historical lack of upper body strength, so to pull myself up with my arms wasn’t going to help much. Swallowing and gathering my courage, I tried the step, but couldn’t make it.

I could see or think of no other option and yet I didn’t believe I could lift my body that far. I was exhausted. My legs were jelly and my heart was determined to climb out of my throat.

I looked out across the valley to the wall on the other side. My gaze slid down the wall to the hogan we passed on the way to Yei’bi’chei. It was a small speck on the valley floor, a dollhouse miniature, hazy from the dust and distance. My ears roared, my head felt funny and for a moment, the world went dark.

I knew in that instant that I could easily die right there. Well, not so much in that exact place. It would be below, far, far below. I would probably die before I even hit the ground.

“This is it” I thought. “I cannot go any further. I can’t make the step without falling and I either manage to make the step or...”

TJ had been just ahead of me. I suppose she knew this was a difficult place and she had sidled out horizontally to a semi-level rock ledge even with me, but several yards to my right. She was standing upright, tall and easy in her boots, looking out at the valley below and talking about the beauty of the other side of the canyon.

“Trust your boots and lean into the rock,” she called.

“Yeah, sure,” I thought. “Easy for you to say. You’re younger, stronger, and you’ve made this climb several times, even done lots of other rock climbing.” She looked so at ease, so confident. How did she get to where she was? There was no ledge in the rock from me to her, not even a tiny one.

“Just come over here and take a break,” she said.
“I can’t” I replied.
“Sure you can, just lean into the rock and trust your boots.”

I knew if I paused too long I would never be able to make it. Fear would consume me and the bit of energy I had left would be gone. And if I went to where she was and looked down again, the one tiny particle of determination left to me would slide down to the canyon floor. Besides that, I was sure I couldn’t get to where she was.

I put my head down on my left arm, the one that was resting, head high, on the wall. It was probably not actually that steep, but I felt I was standing upright with the front of my body smeared against the face of the rock. I really had only two choices. I either let go and fell intentionally or I had to try the step one more time. I knew it would be only one more try, so I had to gather every thing I had within me and somehow make that step.

How can I explain the stark primal terror that I was on the rock? It was distinct, crystal clear and sharp edged. There was not one molecule of me that believed I could make that step. I thought of my children, my grandchildren. I couldn’t seem to think past them. Clinging to the side of that rock, about a third of the way up, I discovered I was afraid of heights.

This wasn’t my first experience with a challenging climbing situation, but this time was different.

Years ago I climbed a trail in the Smoky Mountains that went straight up, or so it seemed at the time. Lightening popped and sizzled and thunder rolled all around me as I reached the summit. Thick clouds obscured the valley below and the air was so charged, the hair on my body stood at attention. I only sat there, clinging to the weeds and small bushes, a minute or so and when the rain began, the trail back was soggy and slippery.

“Was I afraid then?”
“Kinda, a little I suppose.”
“Is the difference a matter of age? The difference twenty years of life can make? Forty-ish then, sixty plus now?”

I don’t believe age is the discriminator; maybe it is more a matter of quality and quantity. That hike in the Smokies was vertical. I scrambled on my hands and knees much of the way. There were distinct elements of risk, the lightening and the steepness. And, although I would have argued to the contrary until Yei’bi’chi, that trail provided an element of protection. There were trees and shrubs and rocks and bushes that offered a sense of shelter. If I fell, I would tumble and roll for a long time and probably break more than one bone, possibly even my neck or back, yet more than likely, I would survive. The lightening provided another element of danger, but it wasn’t constant. It was intermittent, and held an element of chance. It might not strike me. That is the difference, the “probably” and the “might not.”

On Ye ii beichi there was no “might not” or “probably.” Once I began the climb, I was exposed, hung out, so to speak. There was no margin of error. If I lost my footing, if I slid, if I fell at all, I was a “goner.” It was a yes OR no situation. There was no room for grey, it was black or white. I either lived through it, made it to the top, or I fell to my death, hundreds of feet before my body quit bouncing and sliding on the sheer rock face.
I wouldn’t even leave any permanent marks on the rock. I would not alter it at all, yet I would be altered totally and completely. My entrance into the next cycle of being would be immediate. After a flash of stark terror, would I have a moment of sheer release and relief? With the pain of skin shredding from my body and bones being re-arranged, would I shout a triumphant primal scream to welcome the transformation, meet it with a full embrace of acceptance or would I cower before the conversion? How I accept the rush and swirl of change in the face of its inevitability?

I’d like to think I would release and meet it with resignation. No, I hope the sense would be more than resignation; I would hope to meet it with courage and acceptance, as a new experience, one that as surely as I was born into this reality, I will leave it.

Would the fear fall away? Would I shrug on my way down and be grateful for the love and experiences of this cycle? Would I have an instant to feel regret that my family and friends would choose to mourn my passing, spend some of their precious time feeling sad and missing my physical presence? I don’t know.

Canyon de Chelly

More of the little story:

I am still not sure how I did it. Just plain hard headedness I guess. After what seemed to me a very long time, I did manage to make that next step, but that was not the end of the challenges. Above that place of decision, there were places I would have cried if crying hadn’t required so much energy. Well, that’s not exactly true. I was so far past crying that it only occurred to me after I managed to get to the top.

On the face of the rock, there were a couple short stretches of metal rod handrails. Also, just often enough to tease me and yet give me some hope, thick braided metal rope lay lank and rusty, draped here and there, anchored to some place higher than I could see. I clung to these small encouragements with the tenacity that only abject fear can generate. Each time I trusted one with my weight, I wondered if it was really anchored or if it would let go as I heaved my way up. The exertion of climbing was enough to take my breath away, but climbing laced with terror made me gasp like a fish out of water.

Come to think of it, that is a good analogy. I was a fish out of my element and I could barely breathe. I was gasping and grabbing at every thread of inner strength and determination. I would have given up at the place where the step was so big and my pack so heavy except I knew going back down was not an option. If I couldn’t see where to put my feet and hands in front of me, I certainly would not know how to back down. And there was no way for me to get off that blasted rock except to get to the top or fall.

With the distance of time and geography, it seems paradoxical. The moment of decision surreal, yet it was so vividly real. No flashing of my life before my eyes, no questioning of the decisions that brought me to that place, no bargaining and promises to do great things or be something amazingly useful if I survived. Just the thought of how it would affect the lives of those I loved if I wimped out and gave up.

And I am thankful. In the truest sense of that word, I am full of thanks to the Mystery of existence for allowing me to do what seemed like an impossible feat. Gratitude flows through my being for Father Sky who kept my body pressed against the rough face of Mother’s rock in spite of my abject fear, the weight of the day pack, and the incessant pull of gravity luring my body back to the ground.

A Blessing

A Blessing Exercise From Lorian:

One: I bless myself, my sovereignty and freedom, and the incarnation of my spirit into the world.

Two: I bless where I am and the spaces that hold me and support my life. May I create and hold environments of love and blessing for others.

Three: I bless all life around me in all its forms, Life is the Commons of which I am a part, the community with which I am in partnership. May my incarnation bless the process of incarnation itself, that its sacred intent may be fulfilled in the richness of this living world.

Four: I bless my activity and work in the world. May the inner and outer gifts of my life be a blessing to all beings everywhere.

A Muse

Another "Little Story"

To call a collection of words an essay seems presumptuous. What I offer is more akin to a "little story." I love to arrange words in an attempt to convey feelings, thoughts, wonderings and wanderings. So, with that in mind, I offer another little story.


A MOVING EXPERIENCE

They love the house. The house of my little girl dreams with its stone fireplace, bank of windows that open onto a stone washed patio and large flat grey rock steps connecting the patio and yard. And the view! Down the hill the lake shimmers and shines, working diligently at the job of reflecting the moody colors of the sky.
I’m packing the books, boxes and boxes of books. How did they all get here? One at a time I suppose, sometimes in stacks of three and four. All must go. All must make their way up the stairs and into the truck to go somewhere else.
I had no idea this would be so hard. I made the right decision. Selling is the logical thing to do. And I don’t want to.
This house was not ever home, not in the same sense the others weren’t. I never actually lived here, every day, day after day. And yet, I lived the moments here so very fully. I bought it a couple years ago when my son was in the process of opening a business here, a restaurant, an Italian restaurant. He and I know little about the restaurant business, how much food to order, who is capable and acceptable help… what recipes, what wines, what what what….and, before he even finished the remodel to the wonderfully old building in the historic district, his partner and he agreed to disagree. When the partnership dissolved before the place even opened, my son went on with his life and I found a renter for this house. He was a sweet man who, unfortunately, held the belief that paying rent was not necessary.

The red bird couple hops along the deck railing. He tilts his head from side to side. Lilly stands on point at the window, her back legs quiver ever so slightly from the fierceness of the stance. All 13 pounds of her is wound to capacity or maybe a notch past capacity. The birds are oblivious to the intense interest from the inside. Or are they? They hop cautiously side to side down the rail, picking up sunflower seed as they go.
The lake is now a steely gray puddle. The lack of rain diminishes its circumference daily.
Christmas carols blare from the stereo. Christmas again.
I don’t want to move. My heart hurts. There is a ferocious battle waging between my heart and my head, the Cartesian dilemma once again: Cogito ergo sum. Thinking reins supreme. It is what separates me from the beast of the field and the birds of the air or so I suppose. When taken at first blush, many of the books about the newest concepts of reality seem to propose that thinking, or at least the vehicle of awareness that allows us to know we think, is the basis of all reality. Consciousness, according to many physicists and philosophers, is the defining characteristic of the Kosmos. It is the matrix from which all arises. I take issue with this, even though I do make most of my choices with what I label logic rather than emotion.
Sometimes, my assumption is that consciousness, thinking, and awareness are the same process. There could be much quibbling about definitions, and each can be approached as one aspect of the same whole, an aspect of the Mystery. Or each can be isolated, examined as a singularity. My argument with this worldview is that it, once again, anthropomorphizes the mystery that is participation in the Mystery. When human characteristics are pasted on the unfathomable and inexplicably unanswerable questions, it results in the diminishing of the myth. It distills the ocean of Knowing to a puddle of knowing.
A friend recently told me he has never known another woman who is so ruled by her logic. I answered, “I am off balance. To allow my head, my logic to rule my life has been as problematic as to approach life from the other side.”
Where is the balance? How does one live with logic and with heart? Either can be a tyrant. And, at the moment, my heart is winning the battle. Logic is whimpering from the assault, but the deed is done, the offer accepted, the closing date set.

Stretched out on the floor along the windowed wall, I wonder, “In a different reality, if I visit a parallel universe, what should I do? What should I have done? Give me an answer? What is the best choice? What is the right choice? Is there a “best,” a “right?”
“No.”
“No.”
The answer is “No.” I must make the choices. I must experience the consequences. I must choose the “yes” and the “no.”
But I want to know that what I choose is the best!
There is no “best.” The only way best is part of the process is in the concept that all is best. Every choice, every breath is the one chosen for that moment. It is the best. Why would anyone ever intentionally choose to do less than their best? Even to choose to do poorly is sometimes the best choice for the situation at that particular moment.


This in not what I want to hear from my inner explorations, so I muddle on.
How many times in my life has head won over heart? Large and small victories. Which is the leader? How to effect a balance when so many decisions are not amenable to both/and?
Love and duty? Love and commitment? Love and …

The sun is making its slide toward the horizon and darkness will soon possess the land, here anyway. I have no answers. Maybe I have no questions. Maybe everything is simply the process of question and answer.

A picture is worth...

Info about essays

One of my intents for this blog is to use it as a space to play with one of my passions, the creation of essays. No matter how long I work with an essay, it feels like a "work in progress." This could be from my lack of self-confidence about writing. It could be because each essay is part and parcel of my life, my thoughts, my wanderings and wonderings and the experiences that are my reality. My approach to essay writing reflects my philosophy about life/living. For me, existence is not a closed loop that ever reaches an end, but more of a spiral looping that may pause for a while, then continue in an endless flow of energy.

So, I would love for anyone who reads an essay and feels the urge to respond, to please do so. To write in a vacuum with no outside input is, by definition, limiting, so, any thought, feeling, idea or different way of expressing the concepts will be appreciated. I am particularly interested in feelings that arise as you read the essays. Words are so very powerful. They hold such a variety of meanings, depending on the worldview of the person reading and because of that wonderful ambiguity, I hope to expand my understandings of the world around me by exploring it through your eyes. Namaste.

Snowy day: an essay

The weatherman said it wouldn’t be a significant snow event, just a 30% chance of a light early morning dusting. I hope he doesn’t loose his job.

It is a wet Arkansas snow, the temperature 34 degrees, just cold enough and humid enough for the snow to make it to the ground. It is piling up on fence tops, crawling over the edge of the patio, blanketing the grass, and bending supple young pines into obeisance. A baker’s dozen of small gray, brown, and black birds are bustling, busily snarfing up birdseed scattered on the concrete patio, barely out of reach of the snow. They are moving with the intensity of survival, their small round bodies poofed to roundness to insulate them from the cold.

Suddenly, every one is still. As if flash frozen, heads turned this way and that, not a feather, not a beak moves. Like the children’s game of Swing the Statue, each bird is captured in a pause frame of non-movement. I am captured by their pause and immediately aware of my own breath. I too, freeze my physical movements, but my mind is on full alert and busy with questions.
“A predator?”
“No, they’d fly.”
“Dead? Somehow poisoned?”
“No, they would fall over.”
“A moment of hibernation to conserve their small ball of feathered energy?”
“I don’t know.”
Why? Why is every one of them absolutely still? We are in suspended animation, the birds and I, suspended in a momentary flow of non-movement, a moment of being, doing, being for what seems like a very long time in bird time- a minute or so in human time.
A sparrow on the small white table finally moves and, with a very slow, deliberate peck, picks up a seed. She seems to be in a trance.

Stillness again.
No one else moves. The bird world is stalled, standing completely still.

After a few more moments, one on the concrete bobs its head, but slowly, as if the action feels foreign, new and unusual or maybe it is returning from an altered state of bird consciousness. Could they be awakening from a collective dream of sunny and warm breezes and abundant food? Or maybe they are participating in a collective dream so fearful it paralyzes the whole gathering?

Stillness again.

One by one, the birds begin to move, a head turned, a tentative step sideways. Slowly, an unseen force seems to seep through the group and, as its momentum increases, each bird is eventually affected. Within a few seconds of gaining group movement, they all lift away from the patio in one swoop and I am left with only the questions.

The only thing constant is change

As life so often does, duties and responsibilities change. My mom-in-law is experiencing some challenges that are influencing the way we who love her are spending our time. She has fallen a number of times in the last few months and is having memory/cognitive challenges too. It seems that the dementia contributes to the falls and the falls, in turn, affect the dementia. So, from my journal:

January 18, 2011 Tuesday Mildred’s (Night five)

She is sure she can dress herself, except when she tries, she can’t. I suppose if there were no one to help, she would eventually get something on her body. She tries to walk with a coffee cup and it slops and drips across the floor as she totters and sways to a chair, reaches to set the cup down and it wobbles, coffee sloshing against and up the sides of the cup, sometimes managing to crawl out. She begins a turn to sit down and doesn’t quite rotate enough to align her bottom with the bottom of the chair, drops heavily onto a corner and tries to right herself by pulling on the walker, if she happens to have it close.

I can do this. The assorted feelings that arise are surprising me. I feel as if I am wasting my time, yet, I felt somewhat at loose ends before she became such a time consuming part of my life. For several weeks I came twice a day, mid-morning to help her dress and have breakfast and late afternoon to help with supper. In between I went on with the things I love to do, yet they were just different versions of what I am doing now. I slept until about 8 because many nights Mark works late and I don’t want to be up earlier and awaken him. Coffee and a book or the computer until he stirs or until midmorning; by then I am dressed and head out to the post office and other business errands.

Here I am up about 8, make coffee and stay quiet until I hear her walker move, then hover until she makes it to the bathroom and back to bed or to the lift chair in the den. Once she is settled in the chair, I take her a cup of coffee that is so weak the bottom of the cup shows. She drinks the coffee colored water and sleeps for a couple hours before she is ready to make the trip back down the hall to the bathroom and to her bedroom to dress. This is not a quick trip. It takes a while to accomplish. Then she baby steps back to her chair for her preferred breakfast, a cookie or a piece of deli cake. Some mornings she feels like coming to the table for breakfast, mostly she stays in her chair and I serve breakfast on the lap tray Gaye brought down. Yesterday, breakfast was bacon, apple sauce, and a deli cookie. She told me last night, after she’d eaten half a bologna sandwich, egg custard pie, lemon cake and a coke that she was eating a lot because “everyone told her to eat a lot so she could regain her strength.” I offered veggies and or fruit, but she didn’t want any of “that.” After she ate, she was miserable because of reflux. If you make it to 85, I suppose you should eat what you want no matter how Innutritious it is or isn’t.

Try again

Steel grey light wraps the trees and stretches across the lake to the low hills dimmed by twilight and outlined by a band of snow along the shoreline. A few small birds are cleaning up the last seeds I scattered early this morning and one of the resident squirrels is examining the ground to see if there is at least one more sunflower seed. Cold is the guiding word for the day. The thermometer didn’t make it past 32F and will go even lower later this evening, so what is left of the snow will linger a while.