03.13.19
Zurich, CH, March 13, 2019
This alternative narrative broke off in October 2017…and I followed one to the left through the woods that led to a town where the tap water comes from the lake, which comes from the snow from the Alps. I feel like there's always at least three narratives in life but we like duality and either/or. I know they're easier. The idea of ‘choosing one thing over another'. Maybe we like the general moral statistics of ‘aiming toward’ instead of digging in and painting ourselves into corners, but I've seen a great many things accomplished by digging in, setting roots, or standing one's ground. Maybe I just haven't found that reason. Maybe people dig in different ways. Maybe some people just like fresh air and the smell of pines. I couldn’t say for certain, only that suddenly more narratives appeared before me. There’s always the option to plod along, maintain, and stay afloat. There’s always victim-hood if you want that route, but it's rather boring…it’s more like a revolving door where you keep bumping into yourself and pretending to be frightened. The other option is to face it, whatever it is, to go headlong into something that you haven’t even got the proper language for, to tie your shoes and figure it out. How do you do this without a solid vision though? So many times I’ve surprised myself. There’s been a feeling in my chest that has propelled me forward and sideways, even backward on occasion…but it’s been next to impossible to create something without a coherent vision…a little flame that I’ve protected…sometimes defiantly, sometimes defensively. This lantern that illuminates and casts shadows and adds dimension to a flat world and weaves a good story. In October, the path split into three. I could see my options clear as day. The diagnosis wasn’t good. At best, she had a thirty percent chance for a full recovery and then, what quality of life would she have after that? I saw the unknowns barreling down around us, one month from retirement…fit, healthy, happy, ready to finally build her dream cottage up the highway with Randy. It’s been nine months since since I received the news in Chester, California…and it’s not her death that renders me so. It’s the moment I empathize with what we she must have felt from the diagnosis to the end. The shock, the hope, the heartbreak, the bitterness. It still gives me nightmares and I’m still processing. We’re all still processing. The narrative split…and I’m here in Switzerland after the trail instead of somewhere else. I’m sure I could have remained in the Sierra; somewhere along the trail...I'll probably return some day…walk down the grassy bank lined with trees where geese walk around at Cascade Locks across from the hiker tents…sit on the rocky pier with the town on my left and face the Bridge of the Gods in the afternoon of some future summer. When we came through my hair was longer. My skin was taught and tan. I felt contentment on a level I’d never known those six months. Despite the fear…every time I got enough service to call home. Despite everything. I knew exactly what I was there for. In October 2017 I saw the three paths: Plod along and pretend that life events are completely out of one’s control, that you just ‘roll with the punches’ and go along to get along. I could have capitulated to the horror of what we were all faced with…hidden in a corner and cursed the universe…and to be fair, there’s always elements of the three, but without thinking I found myself mobilizing. I found a reserve of energy so unique and timeless; in fact one that had always been there. Unguarded, unassuming, and completely unconcerned with how it might be perceived. Isn’t that the great fear? You get out there and become yourself, find completion and wholeness…you claim your authenticity and your right to live on your own terms…and then someone you admired greatly turns around and calls you an irresponsible hippy idiot to your face. Woe is me. Woe are we…to have such occasions before us. So there I stood and there lie the trail. And on the trail I became quite aware that there was no real ‘turning back’. I’d had enough. I’d had enough pretending for two lifetimes. I only saw a woman who strove in the face of everything with three children for years. Who finally found herself and her calling. Who put herself through school and gave back this knowledge through teaching…who, when there was nothing and virtually no support, created something out of nothing. I will never officially live down the teenage diatribes and tantrums…but we did have the trail as much as the trail had us…and we had this time, while time had us.
It’s almost 11 am in Zurich. We’ve been on some long walks through the woods surrounding the city, changed phone plans, figuring out a few things at the US Consulate…Whereas the other day I found myself lost in the snow, perplexed by what I’d gotten myself into, wandering back on my own tracks, and asking strangers for help, I’ve been here nearly a week and things are settling. Jet lag is a mind/body experience and my stomach is still upset but my feet are on the ground.
In my pack is a small leather satchel that Randy made. It’s soft and well-worked, tied at the top with another leather string and a Native bead. Inside are my mom’s ashes and a lock of her hair. I am to take this little bag somewhere high in mountains under a fine tree and say goodbye. Again. Somehow. Any time I’m faced with uncertainty I step back…all this beauty. This gift. These moments with other souls…experiencing some sort of separation just for the chance to experience the joy of selfhood in the middle of what we call light years. All those fridge-magnet cliches…”No really, life is PROFOUNDLY short. No, I don’t think you’re reading this fridge-magnet correctly: “Do you know how short and unpredictable life really is? I’m saying the longest and not-so-long-lived among us have virtually the same experience.” And what do we remember? The fine-tuned aluminum/formica inlay of the office desk? The rounded edges of a new MacBook Air that perfectly appeals to my sense of natural aesthetics? Will I be so enchanted that an algorithm picked me out of one of thousands of potential consumers? Or will it be the musty smell of the Mountaineer’s Lodge in Steve’s Pass…or the last conversation I had with my mom? Damn...all I want to know is that it was tried and true.
This alternative narrative broke off in October 2017…and I followed one to the left through the woods that led to a town where the tap water comes from the lake, which comes from the snow from the Alps. I feel like there's always at least three narratives in life but we like duality and either/or. I know they're easier. The idea of ‘choosing one thing over another'. Maybe we like the general moral statistics of ‘aiming toward’ instead of digging in and painting ourselves into corners, but I've seen a great many things accomplished by digging in, setting roots, or standing one's ground. Maybe I just haven't found that reason. Maybe people dig in different ways. Maybe some people just like fresh air and the smell of pines. I couldn’t say for certain, only that suddenly more narratives appeared before me. There’s always the option to plod along, maintain, and stay afloat. There’s always victim-hood if you want that route, but it's rather boring…it’s more like a revolving door where you keep bumping into yourself and pretending to be frightened. The other option is to face it, whatever it is, to go headlong into something that you haven’t even got the proper language for, to tie your shoes and figure it out. How do you do this without a solid vision though? So many times I’ve surprised myself. There’s been a feeling in my chest that has propelled me forward and sideways, even backward on occasion…but it’s been next to impossible to create something without a coherent vision…a little flame that I’ve protected…sometimes defiantly, sometimes defensively. This lantern that illuminates and casts shadows and adds dimension to a flat world and weaves a good story. In October, the path split into three. I could see my options clear as day. The diagnosis wasn’t good. At best, she had a thirty percent chance for a full recovery and then, what quality of life would she have after that? I saw the unknowns barreling down around us, one month from retirement…fit, healthy, happy, ready to finally build her dream cottage up the highway with Randy. It’s been nine months since since I received the news in Chester, California…and it’s not her death that renders me so. It’s the moment I empathize with what we she must have felt from the diagnosis to the end. The shock, the hope, the heartbreak, the bitterness. It still gives me nightmares and I’m still processing. We’re all still processing. The narrative split…and I’m here in Switzerland after the trail instead of somewhere else. I’m sure I could have remained in the Sierra; somewhere along the trail...I'll probably return some day…walk down the grassy bank lined with trees where geese walk around at Cascade Locks across from the hiker tents…sit on the rocky pier with the town on my left and face the Bridge of the Gods in the afternoon of some future summer. When we came through my hair was longer. My skin was taught and tan. I felt contentment on a level I’d never known those six months. Despite the fear…every time I got enough service to call home. Despite everything. I knew exactly what I was there for. In October 2017 I saw the three paths: Plod along and pretend that life events are completely out of one’s control, that you just ‘roll with the punches’ and go along to get along. I could have capitulated to the horror of what we were all faced with…hidden in a corner and cursed the universe…and to be fair, there’s always elements of the three, but without thinking I found myself mobilizing. I found a reserve of energy so unique and timeless; in fact one that had always been there. Unguarded, unassuming, and completely unconcerned with how it might be perceived. Isn’t that the great fear? You get out there and become yourself, find completion and wholeness…you claim your authenticity and your right to live on your own terms…and then someone you admired greatly turns around and calls you an irresponsible hippy idiot to your face. Woe is me. Woe are we…to have such occasions before us. So there I stood and there lie the trail. And on the trail I became quite aware that there was no real ‘turning back’. I’d had enough. I’d had enough pretending for two lifetimes. I only saw a woman who strove in the face of everything with three children for years. Who finally found herself and her calling. Who put herself through school and gave back this knowledge through teaching…who, when there was nothing and virtually no support, created something out of nothing. I will never officially live down the teenage diatribes and tantrums…but we did have the trail as much as the trail had us…and we had this time, while time had us.
It’s almost 11 am in Zurich. We’ve been on some long walks through the woods surrounding the city, changed phone plans, figuring out a few things at the US Consulate…Whereas the other day I found myself lost in the snow, perplexed by what I’d gotten myself into, wandering back on my own tracks, and asking strangers for help, I’ve been here nearly a week and things are settling. Jet lag is a mind/body experience and my stomach is still upset but my feet are on the ground.
In my pack is a small leather satchel that Randy made. It’s soft and well-worked, tied at the top with another leather string and a Native bead. Inside are my mom’s ashes and a lock of her hair. I am to take this little bag somewhere high in mountains under a fine tree and say goodbye. Again. Somehow. Any time I’m faced with uncertainty I step back…all this beauty. This gift. These moments with other souls…experiencing some sort of separation just for the chance to experience the joy of selfhood in the middle of what we call light years. All those fridge-magnet cliches…”No really, life is PROFOUNDLY short. No, I don’t think you’re reading this fridge-magnet correctly: “Do you know how short and unpredictable life really is? I’m saying the longest and not-so-long-lived among us have virtually the same experience.” And what do we remember? The fine-tuned aluminum/formica inlay of the office desk? The rounded edges of a new MacBook Air that perfectly appeals to my sense of natural aesthetics? Will I be so enchanted that an algorithm picked me out of one of thousands of potential consumers? Or will it be the musty smell of the Mountaineer’s Lodge in Steve’s Pass…or the last conversation I had with my mom? Damn...all I want to know is that it was tried and true.
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