There were moments when she felt no pain. No pain from recent bodily injuries. No pain from heartbreaks of the past. No pressure and throb from stress. No emotional upheaval. No bereft of loss. No memory of embarrassment. No lingering thought of failures behind to threaten the brilliance of future success. Yes, there were moments when she felt no pain. Most frequently those moments came when she was surrounded by beauty. Because beauty heals.
A slippery slope is rarely what you think it is. Rarely a place where you stop and dither and over-think and chose your path knowing that it is or is not a slippery slope. No. A slippery slope is just any ordinary trail like every other ordinary trail you have ever hiked that suddenly, without warning causes you to lose your footing and stumble. The last time I had a memorable fall on a hiking trail was coming down Gold Star at Colorado National Monument. That time, on a very innocuous portion of the trail, my feet rolled on pebbles and my arm landed on teeny tiny cactus. The year before that, I was on a presumed dry portion of Clunker and I slipped and my entire backside got plastered with bentonite mud. I am pretty sure these are not the kinds of falls and stumbles the public health interviewer is asking about when she says to someone over sixty, “How many times have you fallen in the last year?”
*****
I was hiking on Monday – something I do as often as possible – maybe 6 or 7 days a week – sometimes twice in one day. It was hot – hotter than I would have liked – but then, it is summer and even though I was at 8,000 feet in elevation we were enduring a heat wave. It was not a new trail nor was it new to me. I clipped along at my usual pace seeing no one until two runners passed me beside the wetlands. I continued through a mini alpine jungle and began the descent that would take me through a run-off, seasonably dry. Still nothing unusual except the heat of the day – although it should be noted as the heat increases, dirt and scree seems to become looser, more apt to be volatile. Mid-stride my foot skated on a small piece of rock. I went down, not to my face or to my butt but folded up like an accordion. My toes curled so tight as my balance reflex kicked in that I felt a sudden, bright pain in my big toe – a pain I haven’t felt since I lost a toenail in childhood. At the same time the elastic to the left and under my breastbone snapped. Wait! Elastic? Do I have a tendon running horizontal under my lowest rib? Whatever it is, I heard it and felt it. I felt it right in the same place where I sometimes feel a niggling little flutter as I try to drift off to sleep at night after planking for 10 seconds extra – and it’s not my heart. Well, I was certainly able to continue my hike and enjoy lunch in a beautiful place and make my return hike, but I walked a little slower and somewhat gingerly as I went out to the Opera House that night because my left toes – three of them – were starting to exhibit pain. I enjoyed an 8 mile walk along the river on Wednesday without pain. Sleeping at night has not been a problem. I prop my legs so the sheet does not rest on my injured toenail. I wake in leisurely fashion in the predawn light and stretch and wiggle my digits and appendages gently. Like a good chiropractic or masseuse apprentice, I explore the most worn discs and tender ligaments and muscles of my body before rising to greet the day. The area under my rib cage is definitely more tender than it ought to be. I spent some time online researching organs and ribs and rest and recovery. It’s time to go to the grocery for healthful food.
When I want to go to town, I walk in. Being the busy tourist season, employees that work on Main Street have to park up by my place anyway so I probably can’t park any closer. I live on 9th Street, but I usually walk a block or two out of my way to cross Third Avenue at a 4 way stop. It is safer that way. Not many drivers know the speed limit on Third Avenue is 25 miles per hour. Oh, I know, pedestrians have the right-of-way. But what good does it do if the car in the first lane stops considerately for you thereby luring you into the path of the second lane where the driver has no intention of stopping?
So today I walked into town. I crossed at the 4 way stop on 8th and made it safely to Main where I choose always to cross at a traffic light. I know from experience, barring any impatient left-hand turners, I can make it safely across the street once the countdown starts – even if the number is already on six. But not today. Not even setting out on 10. There will be no running today. Also no lifting, which is why I didn’t take my kayak out in the middle of the week. I slipped on a slippery slope on Monday and I need to recoup. Anyway, I walked to the store and got carrots and beets because those are supposed to be good spleen food and just plain healthy. But I didn’t get red beets – I got yellow – because even though I am not a worrywart, I don’t want to have a heart attack thinking I have internal bleeding. Self-diagnosis can also be a slippery slope.
She spent a lifetime raising young musicians. And when I say a lifetime, I mean all her adult years. I guess you could say for the 21 years previous to adulthood she was only raising one young musician – herself – but that would not accurately account for her parents’ hand in the business. Anyway, she raised three – musicians that is – three to whom she gave birth (this story is not about the hundreds of students whom she raised to love music) and she watched them fledge and fly away and continue forward with the music business because each of them, at the approximate age of 16 began to play with bands; marching bands, rock bands, punk bands, reggae bands, celtic bands, worship bands; every kind of music one could imagine. Likewise, these young musicians began to be independent, to learn more from the big wide world of music, less from the mom who gave them birth and especially they learned from the School of Hard Knocks and paying your dues. So it happened, after they were grown from home, that whenever she passed a street musician – which was usually when traveling to San Francisco or Pike Place or other colorful and cultural locations, she was careful to tip the musician – a little change here, a dollar bill there because she was never flush with money. And each time she dropped the money in the hat, she thought of her kids; wished them well. She hoped that someone, somewhere that day was dropping some money in the hat or jar or fishbowl for her children who were making a way for themselves with music.
***
He was born three weeks early and came out using his lungs and with the ability to grasp and grip objects. His parents sang a cappella harmonies while his mother nursed him. A few days later he could roll over. Before the age of five weeks he was pushing himself up to a standing position in his mother’s lap. This in itself seemed precocious. But the amazing thing was, he was pushing himself up, bouncing, keeping accurate time to the rhythmic crooning of a traveling black music evangelist. Six months later she boarded a city bus in San Antonio with this little man child held securely in her arms. She was only 19 and a little skittish of the big city, strange surroundings, people and customs different from hers. An old woman with a large and worn shopping bag occupied the seat behind causing her to think of all sorts of fairy tales with old hags. Across the aisle sat a young Puerto Rican looking desperate and hungry, she knew too much about Westside Story. She tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, to melt into the bus interior. But Baby would have none of that. He squirmed until he was turned to face the Puerto Rican. He stuck out his little cherub face and coughed politely. No result. Determined, Baby coughed again. The young Puerto Rican man finally looked up, whereupon Baby beamed at him and then turned his attention to the weathered woman behind to begin the social process of introduction again. Working the crowd. That was 47 years ago. To her certain knowledge, that child has been a consummate showman and performer ever since. He loves people. He reads the crowd.
Child number two had to be rocked to sleep standing up, the one who watched the patterns of the LED music readout on the stereo over her shoulder to make sure the music was not stopping, only advancing to the next song. This made sense. This child was born to parents who worked in radio and had a mortal fear of dead air time. She was the dancer who moved her arms gracefully to the music before she could walk, the toddler who sat at a piano keyboard and attempted delicate arpeggios instead of pounding. As a young adult she was the drummer, the mandolin player, the songwriter and the one woman show.
Child number three was born using his lungs and never stopped. Always self-contained, mindful and confident, he knew what was expected of him and delivered on stage by the age of five. His pitch was as sure and accurate as that of his older siblings. He was able to engage adults in meaningful conversation at a young age. He toured the world with a children’s chorale, sang for weddings, and soloed on the concert hall stage before entering high school. As a young adult he knew his path and located himself in music hubs, playing concurrently with as many bands as possible.
***
So now, when she plays the Saturday and Sunday morning gig at the French Bakery, she thinks of her kids. She thinks how encouraging they are – all three of them- how excited for her that she has this unencumbered opportunity to play live music, enter this world they have survived in and loved for decades. She thinks of her oldest child when she makes eye-contact, smiles and acknowledges each guest that comes through the door while she continues to play. She is pretty sure she learned that habit from her son. She thinks of her daughter and a one-woman show as she keeps the music humming without benefit of drum or guitar fills for a few solid hours. When happy guests tip her handsomely – and when they don’t, she thinks of the seasons her kids were busking on the streets to survive. She recalls the street musicians she has tipped over the years. And she wishes, she wishes she had tipped more – tipped it a little further forward!
While it is true she was thinking too much again – as was her habit. It was also true she kept putting one foot in front of the other – plodding but steady – continually moving forward. Today she was taking a hike, breathing deep; strong snuff breaths taken in through the nostrils, exhaled through the mouth, exercising her lungs. The focus was on using her lungs, not depending on her heart to do all the hard work. But still, she couldn’t help thinking about her heart. Inevitably, when she hiked in the great outdoors, her heart got involved. Today was no exception. Was it the sheer beauty, the majestic mountains, the crystal-clear creek, that stirred her passions, made her long for more, piqued her desire to open her whole being and consume and be consumed by loveliness – or was it love she desired?
What she wanted, more than anything, was a relationship like this trail. It was rocky. It was stony. It was anything but smooth. It was uphill and downhill and uphill again. It was sunny. It was stormy. It was sometimes difficult and other times a breeze. There were bridges to cross and mountains to climb – real mountains, not molehills. There were mosquitos, pesky, annoying nuisances, and gnats – but not all the time – and not if she kept moving. There were bears of which to beware and other reasons to sing and announce one’s presence. Her heart was singing and longing for ever more beauty. Miraculously, the trail delivered! She crossed streams and got her feet wet. She balanced on logs with the aid of hiking poles. It was not without challenge. It was tough – but beautiful. And she found herself asking, pleading, petitioning for a relationship just like this trail. A Trail Relationship, not a Trial Relationship. A relationship where no matter what difficulties one encountered, the relationship was always beautiful. Rugged. But beautiful at every step, the entire length of the journey.
A trail like a marriage, or a marriage like a trail – beautiful from the get-go – keeps getting better, ups, downs, rocky places, no regrets, always beauty.
