This Magic Moment

This magic moment, so different and so new, was like any other….and then it happened, it took me by surprise, I knew that you felt it too, by the look in your eyes…

I love the idea of magic moments. May they increase. May you have many magic moments in time. Go ahead, seek them. Chase the magic. Some are lucky enough to experience a magic moment that does, indeed, spark a lifetime relationship. But in my experience, magic moments are not “forever to the end of time.” They are moments. They burst on you unexpectedly. They sparkle. They blaze. They are gone. You return to your day job. Magic, intrinsically, is temporary.

More often than not, my magic moments are associated with the making of music.

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Denim Corsets and Fashion Ennui

Really, was it any surprise when the chest spasms seized her somewhere on the lonely road between Page and Kaibeto? She straightened her posture, took a few measured breaths, felt no constriction and slackened not her pace.

She had been under a lot of stress for the past few days. Leaving a job. Packing a Subaru to the gills. Traveling 260 miles. Return. Repeat. And then of course, the last straw when the Subaru, fully loaded complete with car top carrier, coughed and died and left her renting a U-haul truck and repacking her final load. Nonetheless, repack she did.

She slept and got a fresh start the next morning; showered, pulled on her skinny Levis and flannel shirt so as to look respectable when returning her condo key; sallied forth in a 15-foot truck.

Again a spasm hit and she reflected for a moment on being 65. She had now out-lived her grandmother by 5 months – the maternal grandmother who succumbed to heart disease at 65. She took stock of her vitals again as she continued to drive. No difficulty breathing. No pain in the left shoulder or arm. Refreshing, deep breaths.

She ate an apple – that will keep the doctor away – and wondered if she should be eating anything at all given the spasms. Should you eat before a massive coronary? If you gotta go, massive and instant would be the way to go.

Six more times a contraction hit, a bit like Braxton Hicks, strong enough to make her involuntarily say, “ouch,” and suck in her breath.

Somewhere outside of Shonto she reached down and flipped the latch on her web belt, released the button on her 711s, and relaxed the zipper by two inches.

She hasn’t had a chest spasm since. Denim corsets, who knew?

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An Unexpected Valentine

Have you ever received an unexpected valentine? In her opinion, the unexpected are the best kind. Those early elementary school memories of the excitement leading up to Valentine’s Day are good. First there was the search for just the right packet of heart cards; not too sentimental – one wants to be honest – not infer more than one really means. Then there was the laborious matching of each sentiment to just the right friend or acquaintance. Much angst was added to the labor if valentine cards came in packs of twenty and there were 30 children in the class. Or what about the packs of 24 matching a class of 24 but two of the cards were for teachers? Two! What a waste to the frugal pocketbook. One year a student taped a piece of candy to the back of every card he gave. That was unexpected. Classmates oohed and aahed and whispered in little clusters that he must be rich. Perhaps his father was a doctor? Some years the children were required to bring a card for every student – or none at all. Other years the students could pick and choose; gift a card only to the classmates they actually loved. Those were the years every last valentine in her box was unexpected. Ah, but she loved the crafting of that shoebox into a Valentine’s Day mailbox, even though she knew it was a time and money strain to her parents to help out. The red construction paper, the white doily hearts; She wanted to win, oh how fervently she wanted to win best in the Valentine’s Day box contest. But she was never the cutest, or the most beautiful or even the most unique or creative.

These days, if a valentine card is received it is totally unexpected. Her mother, who used to bake the cookies and write each child’s name on top in frosting; her parents, who once the children were grown and moved away, still insured there was a proper Valentine’s Day card via snail mail; are infirm and immobile.

Now in her mid-sixties, she sat in front of her memory chest – built by her grandfather from pine (not cedar) -and tumbled headlong through the myriad photo shoeboxes right back into 1969. 1969 was a spring of success. Best junior high marching band ever. First junior high concert band to ever be invited to perform before all the music directors in the state of Colorado. The awards, the 1-pluses, the accolades were rolling in.

On the morning of February 14, 1969, she rose, bathed, dressed and along with 69 other symphonic band members, presented herself for breakfast at the Broadmoor Hotel. It was, indeed, a magical Valentine’s Day. At each place waited a red construction paper heart inscribed with a student’s name and a custom chosen sentiment. For instance, the girl who would play the oboe solo later in the day received a card beseeching, “Be there, Beautiful!”

Her own card was rather cryptic, “Only 60 calories.”

She still has no idea what it means – but it was unexpected – it made her welcome – an integral part of the group – a piece necessary to a shared Valentine’s Day experience. Collectively, they were the best, the most unique, the most musically talented 14 and 15 year-olds in the nation.

Happy Valentine’s Day – and may you receive something wonderful – and totally unexpected!

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WANTED: Hiking Buddy

Wanted: Hiking Buddy
Generally – as is commonly repeated – I savor silence. I embrace solitude. A walk is a meditation. I almost prefer to hike alone.
Generally, I follow the thinking of a young female ranger who once pointed out to me, “Cherry, I have found there are places I will never get to go if I wait until someone can go with me.” And so it happens that I travel alone. I go to movies alone. I take myself out to dinner table for one. I kayak alone. I spontaneously lace on my hiking boots and head out my front door – or I park the Subaru at a likely trailhead and commence exploring. Still, I am a cautious being; and, I like to think, wise. I long to touch the Colorado River – dip my toes in- everywhere I can – all the way from Lulu City Colorado to the backwash of the Salton Sea and the Gulf of California. When I swim in Lake Powell, I think of it as dipping my toes in the Colorado River. Soon after my arrival in Northern Arizona, I learned of Cathedral Wash, a moderate hike of about 4 miles beginning in Glen Canyon National Recreation area and ending on the Colorado River about two and a half river miles downstream from the Paria Riffle. One day I parked my car and headed down the wash. It was a negotiable route until I reached a pour off. The drop was only five feet or so – easy going down, but what of the return trip? I needed a hiking buddy-not a tall one- just someone to lean on-someone to boost – someone to pull. Yesterday I departed from my flat on foot. Half a mile later I was in a gray sandstone slot canyon that stretches from Highway 89 down to Wahweap Bay. Coming from the neighborhood, I accessed the wash at mid-point, hiked toward the bay until I hit a 25-foot drop off. Rather than find a route around, I hiked back toward Highway 89 to ascertain landmarks for the beginning of the route. This route is well known to a group known as The Happy Hikers, and multiple footprints were evident in the bottom of the canyon. As I progressed up the wash, I came to a place where the slot narrowed, where I climbed into a sort of lemon squeezer, no footpath on the bottom so butt scooting became necessary. There was an obstruction. There was light on the other side. Could I cross over? Yes. Should I cross over? Probably not. If only I had a hiking buddy. Unfamiliar with the route, I did not know what came next and I might soon have to reverse the route. Already the rock I had moved to climb into the lemon squeezer had crumbled, being only of mudstone. I had passed multiple small rock falls in the canyon. I backtracked and caught the first available steep climb out of the canyon and followed a coyote trail along the rim, reconnoitering as I went. Yes, the butt scoot would have been possible, but to no avail. Immediately thereafter were two twenty-foot pour offs to circumvent. As it turns out, I made the right decisions. In addition, I have recently discovered a route around the pour off in Cathedral Wash. Maybe I don’t need a hiking buddy after all? But then again, it has been fun going longer distances with the Martys and Lindas and Johannas and Janices in my life. Solitude is fine, but society has its merits. The best things in life are shared. Hiking Buddy wanted!

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(Image is at nine o’clock, tools are obstinate)

Thoughts on matchmaking a daughter

Matchmaker, matchmaker,
Make me a match,
Find me a find,
Catch me a catch

She wants someone from her generation; taller, dark-haired, maybe olive-skinned; someone who wears skinny jeans – as long as they are in fashion; someone who loves the out of doors and has all the right gear for camping and skiing and climbing and travel; someone resourceful who could be a survivalist if necessary; someone who loves music. And I? I am her mother. I want someone who will be good to her – love her – appreciate her brain and skills and qualities. All those other things? May they be so as well, but there are many, many things wrapped up in the phrase be good to her.

In the Studio

Will a waterproofed boot hold water? And other questions you never thought to ask about your gear

Can you drink from a boot?

Can you freeze a Nalgene water bottle?

Well. You can try.

I hike as often as possible. Sometimes spontaneously. I like to be prepared. I travel a good deal. I live in the desert. I have learned to carry extra water. Two liters stays in the car – especially if I leave a full camelback pack in the back seat for a week or two. There is extra water in each of the conservancy fleet vehicles as well. 64 ounces regularly rolls around in the back recesses of the delivery van, clunking against seat braces at odd times. At work we have found that square, milk jug-type containers sprout leaks so staff prefers a nice sturdy juice bottle rinsed and refilled. Roll on sustaining waters. I solved the loose cannon problem in my Subaru by standing a 32-ounce Nalgene up in one of my hiking boots. The other boot holds an extra pair of wool socks and a bana (buff, neck-gaiter, whatever you choose to call it). The boots lodge perennially in the backseat foot well with toes tucked under the driver seat. I prefer to hike in sandals and wool socks or sneakers with socks but the boots – like the PFD, swim tote, hammock, tent, sleeping bag and hiking poles -are there for both storage and spontaneity. I want to be prepared. To put that another way; I don’t ever want to miss out on an opportunity to do the activities I love.

I got away for a few days in advance of the holidays, hiking and soaking at high and cold elevations. It was a sultry 34 degrees on my return to Page and may have hit the upper 30s next day as we conducted inventory at one of our visitor centers. Daylight lingered when I entered my car after work. A bit of water was pooling in the trench of the mud mat. And it was coming from my boot. This was not snowmelt coming from the sole of the boot. No, the water was oozing over the brim of the high top. The exterior of the boot was dry. But the padding around the ankle was wet. My 32-ounce Nalgene still wedged comfortably with a frozen core of ice, but the ice was beginning to melt. I tugged at the bottle. The bottom fell out. Water filled the interior of my boot. It held. Water tight as a leather wineskin, that boot. So. In case you were wondering, yes, in a pinch you could drink water from a boot. It will hold. It will haul. But I am fairly disappointed that my Nalgene will not freeze and thaw.

 

Christmas is a Trip Down Memory Lane

She reached out her hand to turn the handle, leaned in to give a gentle push with a shoulder, and plunged her face into the donut hole of the fresh wreath on the administrative office door. Suddenly she was falling, falling down the rabbit hole of memory, back more than three decades, to the Christmas she got engaged. Now that was a Christmas to remember! Who needs mistletoe? Evening after evening spent caressing under the Christmas tree -post Christmas show rehearsals – like a cast party of only two. Promises and proposals and a ring followed. Forgotten were his memories of rocky childhood Christmases; redacted her years of rejection before he entered her life.

Pine, spruce, cedar, fir. It’s beginning to smell a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go. All in all, what we love best about Christmas is the trip down memory lane, the nostalgia of Christmases past, the promise of generosity and good surprises. The hope, the belief, that hard times can be suspended for 24 hours – or 48 – or 12 days-or an entire month.

Some Christmases are so rich we forget the tough times that came before. This season, may you forget the tough times that came after as well! Few of us are granted happily ever after. There will be grief and pain of loss.

Here’s the thing about trips down memory lane. You may savor a good memory one instant and the next moment be rear-ended by grief because that person or those good times will never come again.

Consider: “She reached out her hand to turn the handle, leaned in to give a gentle push with a shoulder, and plunged her face into the donut hole of the fresh wreath on the administrative office door. Suddenly she was falling, falling down the rabbit hole of memory,” And those good times are her right – they are a reality – something that really happened – they belong to her as much as any of the negative realities or rippings and tearings of the ensuing 30 years.

Embrace the memories. Let them enfold and warm you. Choose to engrave that small cameo permanently in your heart. Love it. Savor it. Linger over it. Don’t let all the hardship or misunderstanding of following years dull this singular memory.

Here’s to Christmas and many trips down memory lane!

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MERCY!

Ouray Colorado: A couple years ago I was so profoundly moved in my spirit by the beauty and the healing that I typed a post, “Take me to Church.” Yes. Ouray is both my church and my hospital. I am revived here. I receive healing from the same waters Chief Ouray found healthful. Out of the earth come comforting, purifying hot springs and gratitude wells up. The nature of gratitude is to heal our spirits.

It was a perfect morning. I woke at five and stayed in bed until six. No schedule to meet. In my spa robe I procured a cup of tea from the dark lobby. I read. I wrote. I texted a happy birthday greeting to my youngest. I pulled on my bathing suit and headed outside. It is so cold the clock battery has ceased. Snow is piled 6 inches high on the pool furniture. The pool perimeter has accumulated another half inch since yesterday’s shoveling. There is ice on the pool stair rail and frost on the entry handle to the hotel lobby. Please know that it was -2 when I crossed Dallas Divide last night. So cold that when nature called I dared not stop and answer but pushed onward to the gas station in Ridgway. This morning I kick off my flip flops, grasp the handrail and am reminded of that crazy kid who was dared to lick a frozen pump handle. I stick. I freeze. I get myself into the water as quickly as possible. I lean on the edge of the pool and my hair takes on frost. I bask and survey the mountain surroundings. I am alone in all this beauty and the only word that comes to mind is “Mercy!”

Not “have mercy,” just “Mercy!” – a Roy Orbison kind of mercy. I am overwhelmed. I swim. I float. I swim again. My hair is now too thoroughly wet to keep my head long out of the pool. I exit onto the frosted flagstone. My towel has frozen stiff. I proceed to the vapor cave. The healing power of gratitude is granted. This used to be a hospital. It is still mine. Mercy!

It is now 10:00 am. The sun is up! The thermometer has risen to 8 degrees. Grandma used to say, “Make hay while the sun shines.” I must make hike while the sun shines.

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At a Public Piano in Moab: The one that got away

In the end, even the most introverted of us long for connection. True connection is rare. It is fleeting. You want it to go on forever. You may yearn for a lifetime commitment of feeling connected, but it is often only a glance – perhaps a moment – or three or four minutes – or a well turned phrase – a pun between strangers – a single dance in the ballroom of life – a bit of music and harmony.

I scheduled a stop in Moab – intentionally – to play the public piano my friend said was installed outside the MIC. Incredibly there was a vacant parking space not 30 feet from the piano. I shouldered by backpack purse, locked the car, proceeded to the bench, which was securely chained to the console, and took a practice run of the keys. The g” was totally stuck – not good for a piano girl who chronically plays in the key of “C”. A bit out of tune. Tinny. But public pianos are ideal for making lemonade out of lemons. I dropped into Mandolin Rain, taking full use of the multiple, unsynchronized strings to tremolo the octaves. On the berm directly in front of me, a mom and a few children in a playgroup looked up momentarily and then the kids returned immediately to rolling in the grass. 50 yards away a middle-aged man lounging on the lawn readjusted his position. Three coeds walking on the sidewalk started circus strutting and giggling to the music. I realized I must be giving it a bit too much swing, so I pulled it down to mellow for the next selection and went with Roger Whittaker’s Last Farewell, dwelling in the lower range. It was a rather lazy, sunny afternoon, about 3:00 pm on November 8th and time for me to be moving on down Highway 128 for Grand Junction so I launched Unchained Melody as a finale.

From my peripherals a tall blond woman about my age approached. She began dancing and vocalizing in the manner of Maria getting lost in the Sound of Music. For a moment I tried to follow her as she seemed to be channeling Whitney Houston and I Will Always Love You, but she was really extemporizing about her love of the canyons. “Just play whatever you want,” she said, “and I’ll sing.” For the next three minutes I improvised and she extemporized. We took a musical safari over red sandstone and rivers and mountains all buttressed and cross-bedded with I, and IV, and V and vi and runs and passing tones and flourishes. It was Moab and it was magical. She sustained a high note. I followed her up the scale and made a grand pause. Waiting, waiting, for the perfect moment of her breath. Glissando. Final chord. Cut-off. I popped off the piano bench and high-fived her. We introduced ourselves. She is Sharon. I am Cherry. Obviously same generation. Shared love of music and hiking in the great outdoors.

She mentioned a video contest was underway for this public piano and asked if I would film her. I took up her phone. She sat at the bench and vocalized once again, accompanying herself with a few basic chords. “That will be a winner,” she said. For her sake, I hope it is.

But I will always savor the memory of the video that got away – two strangers spontaneously improvising in perfect synchrony in their love of musical expression and Nature at a public piano in Moab.

The public piano at the MIC - The Red Pearl upper right
The public piano at the MIC – The Red Pearl upper right

 

 

Sharon from Montana at Public Piano in Moab
Sharon from Montana at Public Piano in Moab

 

 

 

October

To begin with, She didn’t turn the heat on until October 30. October was a very beautiful month.

Beautiful in that she got out a record number of times – every weekend – to hike or kayak or hug the trees – the beautiful, blazing- fall-festooned trees. She travelled a little bit for work and saw other communities adorned with yellows, golds, orange hues, and sometimes even reds.

She ate right. She planned lunches and cleaned up left-overs.

She made every effort to sleep right.

She got away from work and outside a record number of times.

She even got outside with her work a few times.

She was not often alone in her outdoor exercise.

There were friends.

Quality friends who came to visit; kindred spirits to host.

Yes. It was a very good October. Not often did she wake with that sinking feeling – that feeling of dread.

Never did she have to say, “It is too hot to hike.”

Often did she say, “It is so beautiful, my spirit is refreshed.”

Frequently she said yes to kayaks and hiking sticks and shorts and sandals. This is a good thing, a very good thing, for winter is coming and soon it will be too cold to slosh through calve- deep creeks on a trek to somewhere beautiful. She didn’t do any canning this year, but she did prepare for winter. She stored up the good times.

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Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!