“There is no food on earth,” she said, “to slake the hunger that is longing.”
You cannot eat enough to satiate yearning; that deep hunger and craving that has been with you all your life. How much better had my mother said when I was young and pining for I knew not what, “here, take this bottle of water and go for a long hike in a beautiful place.” How much more productive and fulfilling to chug a glass of agua and spend an hour or two composing music and thereby composing myself at the piano. I did not then know how to comfort myself. But we live and learn and experience and grow old – and hopefully wiser by the seventh decade.
It was a snow day. For children set free from the classroom, a lovely idea. For many others, a snow-day means an avalanche of additional work. Rising before dawn to access road conditions. Administrative work of cancellations and re-schedules and no-shows. If one has a critical healthcare job and must go to work, wondering who will watch the kids. For contract workers and some hourly workers, the added stress of no pay that day. Snow days may be beautiful, but snow-days are extra work and less pay.
As often happens with a snow day, her extra work began the day before. Sunday. A day of rest with up to 12 inches of new snowfall expected. It was snowing when she rose. She shoveled off the first few inches, took a hike and returned and shoveled the next two inches. Bathed. Pursued the practice of music. Shoveled snow again in partnership with a neighbor. Made a last sweep of the sidewalks before darkness fell and then slept the usual sleep of an aged snorer.
Rising Monday morning, she realized the weather had not rested at all. Again she joined her neighbors to clear the sidewalks and automobile windshields. Physical exercise enough, but for mental health, she insisted on pursing a walk anyway. The sun was out. The snow glistening. “I am not going to let the urgent demands of snow removal and appointment cancellations rob me of the enjoyment and beauty of this day!” she said trudging forward.
Accordingly, she walked to the hardware store and purchased a snow saucer. Visited the grocery for the requisite essentials; milk, bread, olive oil, soup crackers, bacon. Transported her purchases home on the snow saucer across the packed snow; tow-rope in one hand and hiking pole in the other. Stowed the groceries and headed to the nature trail with the saucer, in complete and utter defiance to the knowledge that office work was calling; calling several hours earlier due to snow cancellations. But beauty was also calling. Fun was calling. For too many years she failed to heed the call of beauty or of fun. She is now an old lady. Fun cannot wait any longer. The office can wait its proper turn.
When is one old enough to break the rules? Those rules. The rules one sets for herself. The rules such as, complete all your work before play, clean your plate before desert, respond to the urgent needs of the moment before meeting your own needs.
It is a gray day, but nevertheless, she took a walk in an old familiar place. Not in the beauty of the town she loves to call home; but in gray dirt and shale, the scent of mud flats and sodden tumbleweeds; the endless racket of commerce without artistry, vitriol without understanding.
This is not her home, but this is the place she grew up, graduated high school, was raised and peered, and taught by people who didn’t really understand who she was meant to be – only who they thought she should be. She spent far too many years here-not only in growing up but in boomeranging anytime life or relationships treated her meanly. Some would say this is her hometown. It has been a refuge of sorts; but a very prickly refuge.
She visits. Because people she knows and loves live here. And because people she knows have died here. But today is not a day for her to die, because this is not the place she would choose to be when she dies. She wants to die in a beautiful place. And because she wants to be alive while she yet lives, she showered and ate breakfast and took a walk. She walked along roads now paved that used to be rural wandering paths. She knows these canal banks and bicycle jumps and crisscross roads. This is not paradise for her. But walking or hiking is always a good choice to iron out the kinks of one’s emotions and thinking. By and by the forward strides pumped the blood and oxygen to her heart and brain and she began to breath deep, to be thankful for the many miles she logged on these very roads and paths. Wow, so much water under the bridge for being a desert region. Here is the road she walked almost daily while recovering from marriage number one. But back then it was only a dirt path. There is the 90s brick condo she coveted for her own independent living space when she re-lived here one time while trying to get back on her feet. But there, across the road, that’s the brick house that became the home of the character Carolyn Flannery in the book “The Right Woman for the Job.”
Did she really write a book? Yes, she did. She said she was retreating here to write a book, and she did what she said she would do. And now, she doesn’t live here anymore. But she can be grateful, so grateful for the inspiration. And gratitude is the gateway to feeling good, and feeling good leads to effervescing glimmers of happiness. And glimmers, glimmers soon make it a beautiful place.
Keep the good. The good is as much a part of your past as the difficult. Keep the gratitude. And soon, anyplace can be a beautiful place.
Merry Christmas Morn! I slept in until 6:30 this morning because I didn’t have to be anywhere. When I did rise, I left the lights off and watched the dawn as it came on. How often does that happen? Not often enough for this lover of solitude. During the night, between deep and dreamful sleep, I experienced feelings of gratitude and thanksgiving. My life is good. Whether I am alone or with family, friends, or acquaintances; my life is good. Before tucking into bed last night, I spent a couple hours reading a new book, lately received as a Christmas gift. What a treat. A new book. Free time to read. Time for a walk or a hike. A larder stocked with traditional Christmas treats, made from generations old recipes – the culinary gift of a roommate exploring upcycling, recycling, vintage crafting and traditional homemaking and kitchen arts. Before she left to spend Christmas Day with her other next of kin, she asked, “Now how many of these are you going to limit yourself to in the next two days? Because, I will leave that many and take all the rest with me.” How can you go wrong with a plan like that? I am the grateful recipient of two divinities per day and two Christmas cookies per day. Merry Christmas! May you absolutely luxuriate in gratitude and love and peace and joy!
If you missed it before, my Christmas Card to you is here on Youtube. Glimmers of Gratitude
It had been a full week, musically speaking, four week days of work 1:00 to 7:00 at a music school. A band practice. An open mic night. An extra concert at which I worked the door on my usual Friday night off. So, naturally, when I finished playing the piano at the French restaurant that morning, I was in need of a little refilling of the creative vessel. A little relaxation. After a quick lunch, I pulled myself up to the piano and knocked out a few vintage pop torch songs, singing as I played. I grabbed the guitar and accompanied my voice, I taught a couple piano lessons. I was exhausted and hungry, so I walked myself over to the historic Diamond Belle saloon for dinner knowing it is now ragtime season and I might glean a bit of entertainment and inspiration from a good old upright piano player. It is a six-block walk to the Diamond Belle. In blocks one and two I was buffeted by the remains of a rain/hail shower and I turned my collar to the cold and damp. In block three as I passed the DAC I was greeted by name by a bicyclist whom I know through Stillwater Music. In block four someone called my name from the sidewalk in front of the popular Steamworks restaurant. It was a mother and students from Stillwater. At block six I stopped at the billboard to see if Adam Swanson was playing tonight. Hands down, Adam is my favorite old-tymey piano player. Actually Daryl Kuntz was playing and so I slipped on in, seated myself single and ordered up my usual Straiter burger. Daryl plays one other morning of the week at Jean-Pierre, so I felt I was among friends. He delivered a great (inspirational and informative) ragtime performance for the next 50 minutes. I took notes. I let my ear enjoy and take in all the nuances. I finished a portion of my burger, boxed the remainder for tomorrow’s lunch and declined dessert, whereupon the server said, “You’re all finished then, someone already paid for your meal.” What? But I don’t know anyone here. “No. It was just somebody who wanted to do it!” I don’t even know their name. They probably don’t know mine. But I do know that I love living in a music town – a town full of piano players and history and music students and people who support the arts – whether they know your name or not.
She passed her 69th birthday with aplomb. Working six hours at a music school. Going home to a grilled hamburger. The next morning she took a brisk walk along the river trail that stretches eight miles beside the Animas River from south of town all the way north through Durango, Animas City, and Oxbow Preserve. As she walked, she thought as is her custom. Almost seventy, she mused. Next year I’ll be seventy. And she laughed and laughed. And then, she laughed again with great joy! She is still mobile! She works 32 hours a week outside the home and the remaining hours of daylight she practices and works from home. Her kayak is on top her vehicle. She put it up there – and she takes it down whenever she can and paddles it about the water.
Yesterday she got in her car and drove the 180 miles to Grand Junction to pick up her 90-year-old dad for a visit. As she exited Durango somewhere near Hermosa (which means beautiful- and it was) the green highway sign boldly proclaimed Silverton 26 miles. And she laughed. Are we there yet? We are not as close as we think. She laughed because there are two mountain passes between now and Silverton, two steep and winding mountain grades with sheer drop-offs and precipitous curves and no room for speed or for error. It will not be a 30-minute trip. But it will be beautiful.
She likes the word micro-dose. Not a fan of anything excessive. Small amounts always for her. Also, her motto is; be grateful for what you have. Enjoy it! Anyway, that’s how the woman in the following narrative feels.
I don’t know about you, but it takes her awhile to ease into vacation – to return to what she does with free time besides the polar opposites of doing absolutely nothing and sinking into ennui; or going crazy because there is nothing to do and she is a little busy body, a workaholic, a worry achiever. There are other circumstances to consider. It seems her stated or private goal for this break was to get plenty of sunshine, stock up on endorphins, and she found herself snowed in for 48 hours in a black and white landscape. It could happen. Yes, it happened to her on Spring Break.
She longed to take long hikes in the sunshine, relaxing soaks in a hot springs, shopping escapades in a resort town, writing adventures in a coffee shop. She knew a couple once who planned a vacation in Cozumel and arrived to find the weather rainy. They simply got back on the plane and rerouted to Mazatlán. She has never had the bank account necessary to rally in such a situation.
So anyway, after 48 hours of black and white she rose, found the outdoor pool vacant and commenced 100 finning strokes on her back with snowflakes regularly kissing her face. She soaked in a vapor cave, ate oatmeal in her room, edited a manuscript, packed the car and headed down the road. She stopped at the Dennis Weaver Memorial Park that always clears her head, centers her attention, provides inspiration and gives her an optional musical outlet on the eaglet chime bars. She locked the car, slipped into her backpack purse, hoisted her umbrella and took a brisk walk in the rain. She walked right on into town and commenced a little shopping trip at the Second Chance Thrift Store where she always finds elegant castoffs. A familiar voice called her by name and she turned to hug a former colleague now anything but retired in Ridgeway. They enjoyed a mini chat-a little laugh of mutual understanding. Together they stowed her purchases safely in her own environmentally friendly lightweight stuffable shopping bag made from recycled plastic. She retraced her steps up the trail, through the Nature walk, across the abandoned and repurposed railroad bridge to where her car was parked. Once inside the car she enjoyed a favorite repast-guac and chips- and contemplated her most recent activities.
You can have a little mini vacation, you can sample all the activities you want to enjoy, all in one day. Hike, shop, socialize, write, bask out of doors — I’m going to call it microdosing vacation.
Your payroll information has arrived. I love those words. Instantly, I am humbled. Once again, I am provided for. True, by the work of my own hands, my efforts. This is not a handout or a free gift. I have been paid. Paid for my expertise, my organization, my ability to persevere. True, I have put forth the effort, given my best work ethic, earned these dollars. But I have been acknowledged – acknowledged with a paycheck. Why does this continue to amaze me? Because I know that feeling, that tired, burned out, wrung-out feeling of giving my all; throwing myself into a project and reaping too little reward for too big a piece of my life. I have experienced much in six decades. I have been self-employed and been the self-sacrificing partner of the self-employed. I have been a business owner and have also been a paid employee in times when every earned cent was spoken for before it transferred to my account. Survival for the next 30 days was precarious, outcome unknown. Your payroll information has arrived. The financial math is done. A plan is laid. The money will be parceled out. Some to share. Some to save. Some to spend. Bills will be paid. Your payroll information has arrived. Your needs are provided for. Be at peace now for 30 days.
In her opinion (and her opinions seem to have grown stronger in recent years); a decent vacation needs to start or end with a visit to a hot springs. She has been known to lengthen trips – both business and pleasure -just to soak at Glenwood Springs, Ouray or Pagosa. Her favorite detour for the past 10 years has been the Wiesbaden in Ouray. This former hospital, and previous sacred place for Chief Ouray, is her happy place, a place of healing and spiritual renewal.
But happy places have a downside. If one goes there too often, the place may lose its effectiveness -a body may become somewhat immune. If one goes too infrequently, the feelings of nostalgia, the memories of the past may delay and belay you in sadness on the way to recovery from the current stress. One’s memory bank will offer up such tidbits as: Here is the hot springs where I stopped and soaked when my boss was acting as a cantankerous addict. Here is where I came for reenergizing when my mother was in her declining months. Ah, but here is where I first found emotional health after the rending of a marriage.
Perhaps she took a little long floating on her back and gazing at the stars sprinkled sky. Long enough to notice that most of the stars that night were actually fast-moving satellites and not the beloved twinkling stars she had enjoyed the precious visit. Perhaps she indulged the grief and took too many steps down the path of memory lane. In any case the warm waters of the outdoor pool did not feel effective. She was disappointed. This was to be a short stay, only one night. She rose from the pool, shivering as she wrapped herself in a cold towel and padded across the frozen flagstones. Down she went, into the lower depths of the spa, to the vapor caves. And there in the semi-darkness and echoing steam; once again was rung from her lips the hallelujah-the acknowledgement that something greater than herself was coming through Nature, rolling like a gentle tsunami and straight to her soul. Once again she felt royal – like Chief Ouray – cared for, protected, rejuvenated, clear-headed. She felt like every mile she had ever walked, every move forward she had ever made – was worth it.
Pro tips for hot springs:
If you are cool by the time you get back to your room, you didn’t stay in the vapor cave long enough.
Bring two swimsuits. You will want to go in the pool frequently and no one likes pulling on a clammy bathing suit.
Whenever possible, stay at the hotel adjacent to the hot springs. I view this in much the same way as hiking. Who wants to drive several minutes to a hot springs, find a parking space, enjoy the springs and then drive back to their lodging?
Conversely, don’t write off a hot springs just because there is no lodging nearby or because you can’t afford lodging. You can’t afford not to at least dip your toes in every hot springs you can find. So don’t write off the Hippy Dip in Pagosa or the tiny Rico Hot Springs or Penny Hot Springs or that one in Yellowstone flowing into the river just because there is no building or development. You should even stop at Pinkerton, even though you can only touch your toes in the hot water these days.
Carry a beach towel in your car and dip your toes and your entire body (skinny or not) into every hot springs you can find. Once will be enough for some. Others will become your happy place and you will long to return again and again. Just do it! And sing your oms and your hallelujahs!
Would we ever have adventures if we always had something to live for? Some of us would, I am sure. Some are always giving it their best shot, always repeating, “it’s now or never.” But timid, conscientious rule bound folks like me, would we ever have adventures if we always had something to live for?
She was packing up her minimal overnight cargo bag in the basement of her oldest son’s sleekly remodeled home. One of the last items she folded into the bag was a silk robe – straight from China and straight from China Town. She has considered it part of her wardrobe now for 13 years – used only for light travel – and therefore hung in the back of the closet, unused for much of the intervening time.
2009. That was the year she took off and traveled solo, caught the train to San Francisco, booked a cheap hotel sight unseen, rode the connecting bus from the train station across the Golden Gate Bridge and to her lodging and spent three days exploring the heart of San Francisco, the crooked street, the wharf, the pier. That was the year the sea lion rose out of the water for her and her alone – no one else was on the misty pier – and blew her a kiss. That was the year she forgot to pack a robe. She needed one. Not for her solo motel room. Not for the train. But her next stop was Washington and Seattle where she would be staying with cousins. A robe would be necessary. She purchased a silk robe. She traveled forward, visited cousins and an aunt.
She returned to Colorado glad to have had the experience. Glad to have taken the risk. She went on to take many more risks because she had nothing left to lose. Her kids were grown, gone from home. Her 20-year marriage was over. She had, quite literally not a thing for which she had to be overly responsible. For eleven years she lived alone. She lived and hiked and adventured and worked in beautiful places. Seattle. Utah. Arizona. Once again, Colorado.
These days she hikes and kayaks and plays music and writes and has a great roommate and new friends. Old friends come to visit and hike and explore. Life is good. But as she packs the silk robe from China Town, she asks herself, am I still ready and willing, eager, game for new adventures? Solitary adventures? A little bit of risk? Or has life become so sweet; do I have so much to live for that I can no longer step out of my box and risk a little?
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
