She enjoyed a little vacation that still lingers in memory. Twenty-four hours in a beautiful place. She took an unprecedented afternoon off work, grabbed her most frequent travelling companion, drove five hours and pitched tents in a beautiful place. Great company. Grown children. Grandchildren. Cousins of grandchildren. In-laws and extended family out-laws. They hiked. They toasted marshmallows, they played campfire games. The young people – meaning those aged 35 to 50 – initiated a game called “There will be signs.” In this game, you imagine yourself a millionaire. You don’t tell anyone, but there are signs. Each time around the circle you share one of the signs. Her first one, of course, was getting the piano tuned four times a year. What luxury!
I tell you this story only to say her daughter – the wilderness ranger – is getting married. They are not going to tell anyone when or where. But there will be signs.
“You are in the house of Elrond. And it is ten o’clock in the morning, on October the twenty-fourth, if you want to know.”
It is an allegory. It is steampunk. It is a little bit novel. It is now available from Amazon and other major book distributors – also from your favoite bookstore – ask for it. Here is a sample of my favorite characters and my favorite chapter.
Stalking the Sleuth
Traveler was being followed. He sensed it from the moment he exited the train. It was a new sensation. For the traveler, open and transparent as he was, was still used to being nearly invisible, sleuthing from the sidelines. It did not feel like a malicious sort of stalking, it was more like shadowing, anticipating. For instance, how did this person whom he had not yet seen – merely felt the eyes and their constant following of his every move – how did this person know he would be on the train? Traveler had not known himself whether he would drive or ride until a few hours before departure. Traveler stood for a moment on the station platform and wished he had his Convie. What am I thinking, he asked himself. I have two sturdy legs and walking is so beneficial to clarity of conclusion.
Followed or not, he was hungry. He turned into his favorite establishment on the wharf and ordered a basket of fish and chips and half a pint of the local ale. Fishing nets and colorful floats adorned the walls. Over the years, hardwood floorboards had been worn to a patina by the constant comings and goings of locals and tourists. Places this popular rarely have extraneous personal space. Every inch was shared with a constantly undulating crowd. Traveler was no sooner seated at a table then he was joined in quick succession by three other persons, two male, one female, constantly in motion changing places like musical chairs as an order number was announced or someone spied a friend, waved, and changed position.
Receiving his order, Traveler closed his eyes and savored the fried sea aroma curling up from the steam. Another basket slid onto the table and a sinewy male eased expertly into the neighboring seat.
“What is your interest in my sister?”
Traveler looked up into cool and intelligent blue eyes and held their gaze for a few seconds.
“Sean Journey, analyst,” said the man, extending a hand.
The traveler shook hands silently, reached for the malt vinegar, fingered a chip and waited.
“You show up in the city and ask background questions of the flakey receptionist. Next, on a road trip, you stop at a little café that just happens to be owned by my parents. No doubt, they gave you volumes of information couched in opinion. Assuming you were capable of distilling the information from the opinion; your next stop was obviously here, where my sister spent some of the most enjoyable and enlightening years of her life.”
“You have tracked me this far, including following me from the train station. You are an analyst.” Traveler met Sean’s eyes again and continued, “You have to ask what my interest is in your sister?” he paused. “I wear a trench coat, I have a fedora, how is it you did not assume I am a private investigator hired by the man himself to track Precious?”
“Puh!” The analyst nearly spat. “That man never had a modicum of initiative. He could find her easily enough on his own if he cared to take the trouble.”
“He wants her back.”
“He wants her to come back, you mean –without him lifting a finger.”
“You have a close connection with your sister.” It was a statement, not a question.
“My sister is kind and caring. Growing up twenty months apart, it felt like we were twins. She protected me. She is a very loyal person.”
Traveler began, “You say Precious is kind, caring and loyal. It seems so out of character for her – from what I have learned of her character – that she would leave the man.” Again, it was an observation, not a question, and the traveler took time to bite off a portion of batter-dipped cod and chew thoughtfully.
The analyst fetched a checkered napkin, wiped his mouth and again made eye contact.
“Precious has an Achilles heel.”
Traveler raised an eyebrow.
“She can’t help rescuing people.”
“That is the compassionate thing to do,” shrugged the traveler.
“Once she rescues them, they make her feel responsible to care for them. When she draws a line and is no longer responsive to plaintive whining, they accuse her of being insensitive.”
Traveler thought back to the helpless wail that first drew his attention to the cave.
“How did she come to connect with the man in the first place?”
“It was here, at the Western Conservatory of Earth Studies. Precious had a work-study assignment in the botany department. She was building the terrace at Salt Park. It looks out over the bay. The botany department was eradicating noxious weeds and studying plants native to the area. The man, as you already know, was a botany student. His field study and her work shifts overlapped.
“She was cute. She had a fascinating set of tools, so he followed her around like a puppy. And she responded to his needs, encouraging him, complimenting him, building him up.”
“So Precious encourages people and builds them up?”
“Yes, she is always adapting and giving the benefit of the doubt. As a result, people depend on her.”
“It is a credit to her strength of character that your mother has not prevailed on her to move back home.”
“Yes. And one of the greatest disappointments of my mother’s life to find that they are not joined at the hip in every opinion.”
Salt Water Park
Traveler’s basket was empty. The two men rose together in a sort of natural synchrony and headed out the door. Traveler set a course for Salt Water Park and Sean Journey fell into step beside him.
“We have dined together with perceptive conversation,” stated Journey, “but you have not yet identified yourself and your interest.”
Again Traveler mused on the oft-asked question. He preferred not to answer directly. There is no succinct and simple way to reply; “I am a traveler, scribe and cycloptic seer for the core.” It leads only to complication. First, most people think you are joking. The common man, meaning the majority of homo sapiens populating the earth, would guffaw and snort, “You think you go around seeing Cyclops?” Sean Journey was a human of no ordinary intellect. He had shared honestly. The ball was now in Traveler’s court.
“I am a traveler, scribe, and cycloptic seer for the core,” he replied.
“Meaning you work for the Cranial Reservoir,” stated Sean. “Why the qualifier, cycloptic?”
“I am a visionary of only one eye,” said Traveler. “Were I to see with both eyes, I would be omniscient, omnipotent. As it is, I observe wisdom. I am able to see imperfectly into the behavior and motivation of others. Once glimpsed, the motivation and personality fascinates me. I travel to ferret out the needed wisdom for each relationship observed. I scribe. The results of seeing and scribing are uploaded to the global Cranial Reservoir – all the collected wisdom of the ages.”
“You upload directly to the Cranial Reservoir?” queried Sean.
Traveler smiled, “There is a good bit of residue and affinity for the past in me. I first make my notes on papyrus tablet. The very act of writing is stimulating to thought – therapeutic to confusion. Once I reach the conclusion, my results teletransport to the core cranium.”
“They pay you to upload facts?”
“Sometimes hard facts; more often truth couched in myth.”
“I have accessed the Cranial Reservoir many times in my profession – more often in the classifications of military behavior.”
“My work is about relationships.”
As the analytical silence grew, the men sat musing with similarity of mind. Sean absently caressed a Michaelmas aster and then hefted a black volcaniclastic rock the size of a bowling ball. Fire glass.
“All that rot about Precious loving rocks inordinately? The goblin princess accusation?” said Sean. “Precious loves rocks for what they are, a normal part of our earth surroundings. She also, as you know, loves jewels and gold and silver – for their excellence. The man, he tends to objectify. He loved rocks only because they were pretty – and because Precious was good at rocks. He is a covetous being. He craves for himself everything someone else has. Precious was naturally gifted with the ability to know just which rock fit in which space as she built that terrace with our father, Petros. Then, she went to college and graduate school to find out the latest techniques for identifying gold and minerals. The man, on the other hand, absorbed Precious’s successes for himself along with appropriating her tools. He seemed to think whatever Precious did, he could do better just because he was the masculine portion of the team. He wanted to stay home and enjoy rocks without having made any effort to learn about them.”
Again, Sean and the Traveler rose from their flagstone seats in tandem. As though with one mind, they headed toward the beach. As they walked, Sean probed for more details about Traveler’s work. “What do you consider your most valuable contribution to the Core – to the Cranium?” asked the analyst.
“Frankly, I come to many conclusions that I choose not to upload to the Cranial Reservoir.”
“You remain covert? You withhold information?” queried the analyst, almost, but not quite accusingly.
“That is one thing I would never willingly do: withhold a discovery that would make life better for all. But there is significant danger in serving up truth before the time is right. Precipitous truth could cause a Lady MacBeth situation on your hands.
“You understand the process, of course. After much research and observation, information is uploaded / teleported to the Reservoir. Everyone has access to the Reservoir — and the Cranium, but few go to the bother to digest and think. It is much easier to let others digest the information and broadcast it in 60-second sound bites. Besides, the process to final truth and familiarity with the Universal Cranium is life-long and seems unrewarding to the average seeker.
“Once the information reaches the Cranium, it goes through an extensive process. Anything that is not precise truth is sloughed off. Unscrupulous – or maybe just ignorant- individuals harvest the debris and make their living – and their power – from it. It is this detritus in the hands of well-meaning, but misguided individuals that can inadvertently cause spiritual abuse or emotional abuse. Detritus adds a lot of pressure, stress to the lives of sensitive souls. I want to be overly careful. That is why I withhold; until I am sure – sure that everything I upload is precise – so that I do not add to the detritus.
“There are things that people believe so heartily to be truth they would stake their life on it – maybe your life too. For instance: you must have meat and eggs for breakfast before you have pie.” Traveler paused, and then asked the rhetorical question, “Is it wise to eat a healthful breakfast before pie? Yes. Might an omelet serve the purpose just as well – or better- than biscuits and gravy?” Traveler raised his eyebrows into question marks.
The analyst gave a rueful smile.
Traveler continued, “Is it imperative that children respect their parents? Yes. Must adult children follow every word of advice that falls from the lips of antiquated ancestors in order to show that respect?” Traveler paused for a moment and let the question hover. “Myths that hold the essence of truth may cause simple minds to make a shrine of the shell. They worship the vehicle of truth rather than the truth. They make sacred the cow rather than simply being nourished by the meat.”
It was not often Sean Journey found himself in the presence of someone both safe and intellectual. He proffered a rare insight from his personal life. “I respect my dad for his philosophical, good-hearted patience and perseverance. I love my mother because she gave birth to me and nourished me, meeting my basic needs when I was young. But very seldom do I find it comfortable to visit Castle Rook.”
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.
It has been a really great year full of blessings and good surprises, never mind that we are now in the deepest darkest days of winter, I am experiencing the second cold in about as many weeks, and I definitely overbooked myself when I dipped my exploratory toe back into the workforce. Yes. I worked 50 hours in seven days last week– all in the name of survival, being a responsible employee, and independent retiree. But let’s start with the good stuff.
In January, February and March I kept to the house other than my daily 3 to 8 mile jaunts into the great outdoors. I practiced music, I wrote books, I published books. Life was grand. Andrea and I and my Dad took a two week road trip to the Northwest at the end of March. We had fun staying in contactless check-in Air B&Bs and visiting cousins and their families along the route. Andrea and I had fun. Dad rather missed the opportunities to socialize and joke with motel or restaurant staff – but he was totally satisfied by getting to visit with Joyce and Rod, David and Virginia Anderson and family; David and Gayle Harris and family, Cathi and Chuck. We even got to hike and enjoy a seafaring meal with Philip, and we met Shannon and Lisa on the outskirts of Salt Lake City to share an outdoor meal.
Once home again, Andrea returned to her seasonal job as a wilderness ranger with the National Forest Service and I continued writing and set about looking for music opportunities with which to supplement my income.
On May 21, I took a trip to Grand Junction to attend the high-school graduation of oldest grandson, Drew. Although I made it before the ceremony was over, the trip included traversing Coal Bank Pass, Molas Pass and Red Mountain Pass in eight to 12 inches of snow. Andrea followed a couple hours behind in her truck and was the last driver over before they closed Red Mountain. While I awaited the go ahead at the top of Red Mountain, I changed from my graduation sandals into my hiking boots and threw a down coat over my sleeveless dress.
In late spring, Dad and I spent an adventurous night in a cabin on Grand Mesa and followed that with an outdoor luncheon at Coni and Steve’s.
Dad traveled to Durango with me to spent four days which we repeated again in the summer. At Thanksgiving Kevin and family passed through. We enjoyed 24 hours of music and hiking before they went on to Phoenix to have Thanksgiving with Sarah’s sister. Dad stayed with me for another four days.
In June I began playing piano for Saturday and Sunday morning brunch at a local French bakery. I like it immensely. I play love songs from the early ¾of the 20th Century. I spent a few days in Lake City with my kayak paddling every evening and hiking every day with friend Linda and her kayak. I also hiked Highland Mary’s Trail outside Silverton with friend Johanna and was privileged to have other good friends drop in and hike with me throughout the warm months. I took my kayak out solo so many times I have lost count. In October, my roommate (aka Andrea) moved out which greatly increased my living expenses. No worries. I found seasonal work on the Polar Express and then an administrative music job at Stillwater Music opened up – just the job I had been hoping for. In 2020 I sang virtually with the Durangatones from Stillwater. Now I enjoy playing keyboard with Groove Casters (also a Stillwater Adult Band).
I continue to write stories. I am writing songs again. I even played electric bass at a church meeting last summer. See what I mean? Life is good!
Already she had been from her western Colorado hometown as far to the northwest as Olympia and Seattle and even on into British Columbia. She had travelled down Highway 1 to visit relatives in L.A. and Fresno and San Diego and flown all the way to Guam and Tokyo in one direction and New York and Frankfurt in the other. She had lived in San Antonio and Chicago and Oklahoma, but always returned to Colorado. And then she climbed on the backseat of a motorcycle and spent 21 days traveling to other places. She slept in a wheatfield in Kansas and saw the fabled Poconos and the outskirts of Philadelphia and the inskirts of Manhattan and almost ran out of gas in the lower tip of Michigan. She camped on a beach in Massachusetts and felt guilty; not merely because the sign said it was illegal to camp on the beach overnight, but because she had traveled far and wide from the western most boundary of Colorado all the way to New England and had not yet done the State of Colorado justice – did not yet know her own home state like the back of her hand. So, over the decades that followed, she attempted to remedy that. She saw the Colorado side of Dinosaur National Monument, she hiked all the trails at Colorado National Monument, she visited Rocky Mountain National Park and hiked to the headwaters of the Colorado River, she rode the train from Denver to Grand Junction and down Ruby Canyon into Utah. She camped in State Parks and saw the Royal Gorge and almost burned her feet at the Sand Dunes. She lost herself for awhile and drifted all the way down the Colorado River through Arches and Moab and Canyonlands and straight on into Arizona and saw the new London Bridge way out in the desert and dipped her feet in the Colorado River anywhere she could until it finally died somewhere out in California. And then she came back, determined to hike every trail, and climb every mountain, and paddle every stream that she could before she met her final goal of dying in a beautiful place. Nowadays her adventures are peppered with descriptive sounding places like Silverton, Ice Lakes, Highland Mary, Treasure Falls, Weminuche Wilderness, Lake City, Animas River, Cataract Gorge, Alpine Loop, Red Mountain, Grand Mesa. And you know what? She still doesn’t know her home state like the back of her hand, but what she does know is beauty.
Say yes to bliss. But what exactly is bliss? Perfect weather? A perfect temperature? A breath-taking scene? The best of company? A perfectly tuned and resolved Picardy third playing on eardrums and heartstrings? Once one knows what bliss feels like, one wants to experience it again and again. The challenge for each individual who desires a perfect day is to find what activities have in them the potential for bliss.
***
She rose at 5:45 am, which was not to early and not too late in the total scheme of things. This allowed a little time for thinking and the nourishment of a small, wholesome, bowl of oatmeal well-endowed with nuts and dates and raisins. This provided time for washing her face and popping in her contacts and pulling on shorts and a tank and still making it out for a morning walk before the summer heat of the day. The morning world was glorious. A hearty rain had fallen overnight to refresh all the living things and wash off the inanimate concrete and pavement and walls. It was not quite time for sunglasses for the sun was still on the other side of the mountain. She hiked half a mile or so up the nature trail, and even though she was the uphill traffic, she stepped aside quickly into a sagebrush when she heard steps thundering down the trail. It was either a puppy on the loose or a novice bicyclist. But, no, it was a doe, startled also to see a two-legged creature, polite, inquisitive. She and the deer observed the COVID rules of etiquette, stepping aside, leaving inquiring distance between. The doe was more curious than the human. The human merely wanted to protect herself in the bush in case the deer startled and charged. They passed without incident. But there wasn’t a lama between them – it was probably more like 4 feet. Just like two humans who cannot judge distance. She reached the top of the hill. She gazed across the valley and the vista and headed back down. At a particularly lovely juncture in the trail she thought: You know what would be pure bliss? To take the Purple Mohawk off Silver Girl and put her in the water. The kayak has been drydocked atop the automobile more than a month. It is a lovely day. My toe and my bruised rib are feeling no pain. Yes. I will choose bliss. I will take the kayak out on the river.
But first, a new piano student at 10:00 am. And second, a practice session at the keyboard. A bit of lunch whilst walking about the kitchen and filling the water reservoir. A two and a half mile drive to the put-in and finally, boat on the water. She prefers to climb aboard from the left side, probably a residual habit from riding a horse as a youngster – or maybe mounting a bicycle. Turns out this is not such a good idea when the river is running high and muddy. There is a first time for everything and it was the first time – and hopefully the last – she swamped the purple mohawk, and had to drag her out of the water and pull the plug and drain her – before even taking a stroke with the paddle. As a consequence, she was now soaked to her armpits. But it was a warm day and the water felt good. She paddled a few bends upstream. She floated all the way back downstream. She replaced the Purple Mohawk on top Silver Girl and returned home. After cleaning up nicely, she ascended the Sky Steps (all 500 of them) to the college once more and attended an end of music camp concert, something she saw on Instagram. The type of concert where the instructors and pros play with the students and it warms the cockles of your heart and gives you goosebumps. And when she got home at 5:30 and fixed herself a hot meal she thought, Now that was a perfect day!
***
How to have a perfect day? Say yes to bliss. Do you know what the potential for bliss looks like for you? If not, you can begin by saying yes to opportunity – to as many invitations and experiences as possible. Just say yes. Eventually you’ll get it figured out.
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.
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.
Judging by my quantity of birthday cards and greetings received this year, and all the good wishes therein, I’ve a prosperous 365 days to look forward to in the immediate future.
“If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride,” I take this sell-worn saying and phrase to mean that one must take action of some sort to make wishes, dreams, plans or goals, come true. Yes, wishes are all well and good, but they come to naught unless the recipient makes choices to facilitate the wishes. Several friends wished me a beautiful day out in Nature. I took steps in the right direction. I took a drive to the mountains. I spent time outside. I put my kayak into the lake. I did my best to make those wishes for a beautiful day out in Nature come true.
My mother used to say that children should only have as many birthday guests as they were years old. Though we are at the widening end of a pandemic, I had no birthday gathering. Yet, thanks to Facebook, my birthday wishes equaled my age.
The number of actual birthday cards received via snail mail has remained static over the years;
A prompt card – always the first to arrive – from my parents; faithfully sent this year by my dad in the absence of my mom; a card from my cousin-my quasi sister; and a card enclosed in the birthday gift from my brother and sister-in-law. I have always known if you want to score the perfect birthday gift, you need a brother like mine. Now I didn’t take a single action or make a single wish to request a brother when I was three years old, but he has always had a knack for choosing just the right gift for me, be it birthday or Christmas. Thirty years ago I acquired a sister-in-law. Once again, I had no hand in this acquisition, but my sister-in-law has a knack for finding superb, artistic, one-of-a-kind greeting cards. They are lovers of everything Nature, everything out of doors, things artistic and things scientific. Together these two are expert at gift-giving. Just like wishes, cards and gifts may not arrive on your birthday. They may arrive early when someone discovers a perfect card – or they may arrive late if a proper gift cannot be found on time – or delayed due to traditional mail delivery bottlenecks. In fact, perfect presents or cards may arrive anytime during the year. But this year, this year the gift and card arrived precisely in time for my birthday – and what a winner it was! The gift was a book (which, more often than not, it is from my brother and SIL) – a debut novel by one Andrew J. Graff, and I loved it! I didn’t know they published books like this anymore. I wanted Mr. Graff’s next book. As a writer, I wanted his agent. I wanted his publisher. He writes well, and he writes about things he knows. He treats his characters with respect and understanding, he writes about things I know and have learned.
***
But, before I got to the book, I read my birthday card and the card was awesome! It had a kayak on the front and … well here, just let me show you:
The back of the card informed me that friluftsliv is the new hygge. Remember hygge? It’s that Danish word for coziness and comfortable conviviality; feelings of wellness and contentment.
Friluftslive reportedly is a Norwegian word meaning a way of life that involves spending time in and appreciating nature. My heritage is one half Scandinavian, so these words resonate with me.
Inside the card, my sister wished me much friluftsliv. My brother wished me happy paddling and many adventures to come and solitude… astonishing beauty of Nature. Those were great wishes. I acted on the wishes immediately. I sallied forth to commit friluftsliv. Because, if you want to experience hygge or you want to enjoy friluftsliv, you have to make the right choices – choices that support your wishes. Otherwise, it’s just a house of cards!
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
