Sunday, September 26, 2010

Birthday Wishes

Tomorrow is the last day that Frances will be three. We had a small celebration yesterday with friends and will do something on her actual birthday, the day after tomorrow. I have always celebrated my kid's birthdays as milestones for them and of course for me as well. But this one is hitting me sideways and I am feeling a touch of sadness as I watch my little baby turn into a decidedly big girl.

It all happened so gradually. Just the way the crease in her thigh slowly disappeared, like a swell on the ocean, fading to nothing until all signs of it are lost. I can still see the spot where her fleshy leg dents in ever so slightly, but maybe even that is just my imagination at this point. (No one else can see it when I point it out.) I find myself relishing the way she says certain words the wrong way like breftik for breakfast and intreding for interesting. Any day now those will disappear as well.

So as I continue this week of celebrating her birth and the fact that she will be turning a big four years old, and as I am filled with satisfaction with the job she is doing of teaching us how to raise her, I am also allowing a little grief, a little sadness to be present as well. It is necessary to let go of all the sweetness that they outgrow and welcome the new sweetness that they grow into. I have so much to look forward to, which I know from engaging with her older sister on new levels all the time. But, there is a but...and part of it is just the baby fat that I will miss. Part of it is the funny words. Part of it is the incomprehensible but stunning writing that she does. And part of it is just childhood itself. A passage that has a beginning, a middle and an end.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Reentry

I am lying in the bathtub, soaking my muscles in hot, salty water, knowing something has changed but unable to say exactly what. What happens when I spend three days in the forest, precisely? What was happening when I laid in a field thirty years ago, staring at my feet? Even at sixteen, I knew in that moment that I was changing and I took a picture of my feet to mark the place in time when I recognized it. I still remember it when I look at that snapshot, now a middle aged woman. I still see in that color photograph that there was a part of me that wanted to be recognized, wanted to be acknowledged, wanted to be seen and heard and felt. It was the part of me that was completely and utterly happy to be lying in a field under a perfect blue sky. The part of me that wished I could stay there all day and night instead of having to be back at the barn to do chores in time to get cleaned up for a big dinner. I wanted to stay in my horse-smelling jeans and cowboy boots forever. I wanted to sleep in them, outside, in the grass, with the horses who were grazing next to me.

Instead I am part of the civilized world. Born and raised in the city, I still call myself a city-girl and though I have always fantasized about escaping it, I also wonder how I would fare. I lie in a bathtub after an arduous hike up a steep hill, relaxing tired muscles in a large white bathtub, in a big house. Tonight I will sleep in my comfortable king size bed with my husband. We will remark about how nice it is to be home and joke about cutting a hole in the ceiling so we can see the stars like we did last night and the night before.

I left some part of me back there in that magnificent landscape. The one we took in with big gulps of breath as we hiked down a switchback trail that hugged the face of a mountain, descending a thousand feet in a mile stretch. Pristine wilderness, mountains covered by trees and divided by a river stretching out for days. The kind of wilderness you have to drive a long way down a desolate road to get to the edge of. And then hike in for many miles down steep trails and across rivers and open meadows and through burned out woods to get to the camp. The kind you fall in love with every step of the way because it is so damn beautiful, so clean, so magnificent in it’s untouchedness.

But what happened there? Did I bring some of it back with me? Of course I did. I have the feathers that were presented in a great pile for me to pick a few from. I have the square shaped piece of granite. I have the small chunk of wood that termites carved their tiny hieroglyphs into. I have the images, carefully recorded on data machines and in paper notebooks, of the snake in the river, the black dragonfly being eaten by the yellow spider, the coyote that crossed our path, the bear that huffed behind a bush, the trees turned to charcoal by forest fire, the hawk and the eagle, the butterflies and the birds. I brought all of that out with me, carried like the garbage we made and picked up on the trail, packed it out like a good hiker. But there is something, still, that I don’t quite get my hands around. If the wilderness is where I find myself again, why does it feel like I left something of me behind?

Monday, September 13, 2010

Me + Owl = Truth

An owl was hooting in the distance when I started out on my hike this morning. The owl carried me up the hill, my body weighed down with thirty extra pounds, the hoots lifting my spirit up the path. Owl = Mother and I have been thinking a lot about her the past day or two. She is pushing through all the distractions, all the projects and telling me, it is time to write this story. Just an hour a day is all I need and it will be written. Get out of the way now, it’s time. And the owl kept calling me up that hill, each step a proclamation of my physical strength, my determination, my discipline. All expressions of my love for myself and all that I am connected to, but it starts with me in my center, my heart, my core. Love.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

In Training

I have never trained for anything in my life. I mean, physically trained. But for the past week and for five more days I am considering myself in 'training' for a big hike into the wilderness. In five days I will be carrying thirty pounds on my back for twelve miles through rough terrain. Rough by my city-girl standards anyway. A lot of the trail is steep and when it's flat it's on soft sandy ground, which is even harder. Or at least that's what it was like when I did this same hike nine years ago. It's surprising how well I remember it but it left a deep impression because it was one of the hardest things I've ever done. I had to stop about every half mile or so (okay maybe more!) and rest which drove my partner (then a new boyfriend, now my husband of eight years)a little crazy. He has done this hike many times in his life and he can do it in about half the time it took us, but he was patient and sweet last time. We'll see how he handles my slowness now that he knows me better. I remember singing a lot to keep from freaking out about how much pain I was in. Everything ached and I struggled to keep my mind off it. Maybe now that I meditate daily, I will have an easier time with that. I will let you know.

Nine years ago, even though it was super hard, it was also one of the best things I have ever done. We didn't see a soul for the entire four days. We were out there all by ourselves and we had some amazing experiences. But I told myself, next time I have to prepare myself. I have to train. So that's what I'm doing, hiking at dawn most days, two or four miles up a steep trail near my house. I have new hiking boots and I can't wait to do it again.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Leaving the Comfort Zone

Today my early morning hike was darker than usual. I had been woken up by the sound of rain in the night and as I got out of my car it was still drizzling, the low cloud cover keeping visibility very low. I was wishing I had a flashlight as I stepped onto the trail and glad there was a woman behind me with one on her forehead, and a dog. But I didn’t wait for her and a few steps up the path a pair of large wings came flapping out of the darkness, crossing my path in a disorganized lift off, causing me to gasp and jump. It was a case of mutual fright and I had to laugh at myself a little for being nervous about hiking in the dark. What was I afraid of? An owl? Well, okay, I guess there are bears and mountain lions around and I could possibly run into one and frighten it into attacking me, but what were the chances? That dog behind me would scare them off. Next time, a flashlight.

It was lovely climbing up the path even though I couldn’t see and was hugging the hillside a bit, not wanting to accidentally step off the cliff side. The light behind me was just a flash, here and there, the way distant lightening can be before a storm. They were taking their time and I wasn’t, so it was more of a comfort than anything else, knowing she was behind me with her light and her dog.

The mist was thick and the morning was still just an idea with barely any signs of life coming to. The crickets were still going and the birds were still waiting for something, so it was dark and misty and quiet. I kept waiting for it to suddenly get light but it wasn’t like that. Today started off real slow.

I couldn’t go too far because I wanted to get back before the kids woke up, especially Grace, since it was her second day of school. Amazing how quickly she got comfortable in her new class with a new teacher and all new classmates. She asked me not to hike on her first day and I didn’t but she didn’t seem concerned about today, so I guess it’s more for me that I want to get back early.

I turned around just shy of the halfway point, which is about a mile. It’s a pretty steep trail, switching back and forth up the hill so it’s a good workout for me no matter how far I go. I heard the rooster, the lone rooster who resides somewhere down at the bottom and who I hear every morning, usually around the same time as the birds. But today he was the first one calling and it was a good two or three minutes before anyone else joined in. It was brighter now and I could see well, but the light was still taking it’s time, just easing in to the sky and onto the sand colored path. The fog was still so thick there was no view at all. Just two days ago there was a marine layer that covered all of the city but it didn’t reach up this far so as soon as I got above it, it was like ‘my city was gone.’ I was on a cliff overlooking an ocean of fog, the sunlight raking over the cloud cover the way it does from up in a plane. But today the bushes and trees were just gray silhouettes, peeking out of the mist like a delicate sketch or a faded old photo. It was beautiful. The mist was also extracting the life from the plants and soaking the air with it so every turn brought new aromas of cedar, sage and desert musk up into my nose. Like the plants whose branches would leave a trail of water on my pants as I brushed by them, I was covered in mist too.

A few birds started to show themselves as I got lower on the trail, but it was still too dark and misty to see any color in them which made telling what they were a little hard. So I concentrated on listening instead and found I could pick out one call among the cacophony. It was an acorn woodpecker, the same kind I saw yesterday when I picked Grace up from her first day at school. It was in a tree in the parking lot and it saw it make the call I was hearing now. I am learning.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Hello Sun

Since we got back to LA a few days ago I have continued a new habit that I discovered while we were on our very long vacation in Vermont. That is, the practice of waking up before dawn and going for a walk or a hike or a bike ride to watch the sun rise.

In Vermont there was a spot where I could walk to see the sun actually rise over the distant mountains. But often I would go out on the lake instead, take a canoe to the middle and just watch the sky change colors.

I mentioned this to my neighbor, who often greets the day from his surfboard and his response was, “that’s a real game changer.” No kidding. After just a couple of weeks of getting outside before dawn, my whole life feels different. It’s not just the exercise, or taking some time alone first thing in the morning, though both are part of it. It is literally greeting the day as it starts that seems the most profound to me. It fills me with gratitude, just for being alive.

Now that I am back in Pasadena, I have started hiking up the mountain near my house to watch the sky fill up with light. I take pleasure in being the first car to park outside the gate and start up the trail while it is still pretty dark. I don’t bring a flashlight because I know it will be light enough in few minutes. At first there are no birds singing and the loudest sound is my feet hitting the dirt. But just as the light begins to filter through and the bushes along the path are starting to be articulated, the first bird song will start. And for a few minutes it is only one but soon there are too many to count and I start to see dark shapes fluttering here and there.

As I get through the lower trees and start to gain some altitude, the cityscape is still dotted with street lights. But by the time I am half way up the hill, the street lights are out and the sun’s low golden light is starting to crawl across the valley. I keep looking back over my shoulder to measure it’s progress and enjoy the changing colors. If I am going to the top, sunlight will have filled the valley by the time I get there. From up there I can see in all directions, but more mountains keep me from seeing the sun yet. The colors are still lingering, pink and baby blue, and a thick layer of smog is still settled over downtown. Ah pollution.

Another hour later and I am home, a three hour hike behind me, ready to start anything, be anything, do anything. I feel great!