Exactly 3am

Ugh it's 3am. I know it. I start arguing with myself, 'Don't check the time. If you don't check it then it might not be and the longer you don't check it, then if it is 3am now, then it won't be 3am anymore when you do....'  This is an irrational inner conversation and I know it but then my hand is reaching for my phone -without the other half of my brain being fully on board, and I check the time -

UGH IT is Exactly 3AM.

I think about it for a few more minutes...  Maybe.... maybe if I just wait a little more... I start counting backwards "100...99...98...97...96..." Breath in on the first two numbers, out on the third and fourth, slowly.....

I give up at 47.  Nasty number that one; an odd number that adds up to an odd number, eleven. -I am getting irrelevant.  Get up and do something or stay here and start counting again.

I slide up and out.

Luna is on to me lately.  Sweet creature doesn't know why the human is up, it is better to go back to bed!  Her worried little face is so beseeching I take her back to her bed and kiss her and tell her to go back to sleep. She does, gratefully.

I go to my safe haven, the art room and start to sketch in purple markers.  Char joins me almost immediately and takes his place by the window to watch.

Elephants are the latest dream subject.  I love elephants.  I haven't been up close to one so the kinship is entirely the result of my overly active imagination, books and YouTube videos.  I'm always leery of actually meeting one.  What if desiring the acquaintance is one sided?

I am grinning at my train of thought, this one is funny and I think I will stay on it for a minute.  The resulting elephant in front of me is now an interesting hot pink.

A thank you note

I remember that last day at the Inner Harbor, when you told me 'This is how I will remember you'.

It was raining, a drenching soaking misting rain and through it fell rays of sunlight.  I wanted to answer your question, the one behind that comment but as I tilted my face up from under my baby blue cloche hat and smiled at your dark eyes, I couldn't.

Instead I reached up to let my fingers glance down the side of your face, fluttering as they fell and I looked away to the ocean. After a moment I turned back to you, all my thoughts tripping over themselves, my breath heavier than a humming bird's wings; yet still I froze. You watched and smiled reassuringly at my silence until I laughed a little.  So we said nothing more and I let you take my hand as we walked on.

Later, weeks later, I remember your voice.   I was sitting on the floor, my knees pulled in, clutching my phone with white knuckles as I heard the break in the connection, the break in your voice, "Come back- come back to me" and still I didn't have the words to tell you I could not, and why I could not.

Years have passed and that moment still exhales as if it just inhaled.  I wanted to write to you when I wound up out on the west side of the states.  I wanted to tell you about the day I met my sweetheart.  I wanted to call when we were engaged.  I really wanted to tell you about the day I decided to stop being afraid and instead love to fly.

I didn't. 

I didn't because I still did not know what to say.  But I know what I want to say now. The words came unexpectedly, while I was alone on a white mountain in a bright blue day.  They came with an easy understanding that reminds me of looking into clear water. 

I don’t want to interrupt the place I am in and the place you have doubtlessly moved on to.  I do not want to betray our strange and delicate friendship found during such a chaotic time in our lives. But I am going to write all of these badly belated words here because they are a tribute to your gift to me at a time I needed it most.

Regardless if it was because of how I was wired, how society had trained me or the experiences I’d had;  At that time my personal doubts were so all encompassing I could not see anything but them.  I needed a mirror to show me what was above and below; what was inside and outside and this mirror was to be you.  You were my first mirror and when I saw myself as you saw me; everything changed. 

You were the first person I believed who believed in me.  You were intelligent, successful, kind and good looking.  You were in a position of authority and inappropriately and significantly older than me.  You asked nothing from me (except to sometimes hold my hand).  You called me eclectic and beautiful and you told me I could Do Anything I put my mind to.  And because of how I saw you, I believed you.

Over the months, you began to love me, not just the attracted-to-you kind, but the real kind.   I knew you would shield me from the world; you would have showered me with excessive kindness and indulgence.  You would have given me anything I wanted, anything at all. 

I had began to understand the value of the gift you had given me and I began to know there was only one gift I could give back to you.  And that was to leave.

It was your character that made you kind and intelligent; it was your experiences that had taught you patience and given you your insight; Your successes were achieved after persistent attempts made over years and continued after failures.

I was young and I knew I knew very little.  I, wild and thin, I lived on coffee, cigarettes and spontaneous choices.  You had a community, you had businesses, friends, family – you had built a life I should not be a part of.  

Looking at you, I too wanted to gain character to make me kinder and intelligent.  I wanted experiences to teach me patience and to give me insight into myself and the world I live in.  I wanted to learn persistence, perseverance and gain my own success.  I wanted to find a place and choose to call it home.  I wanted to find a man I could grow to belong with and be equal to.

When I look back, now that I am also in my mid-thirties, maybe you only saw my youth, my femininity and vulnerability.  Maybe I made you feel young; Maybe you just wanted to help the broken unhappy girl.

But perhaps you saw my possibility.

Dear friend, here is an update.  While I am still not an ambitious person when it comes to a ‘proper’ career, I am competent and independent.  I paint, and sell my work.  I write and post my scribbles here online and sometimes people from all over the world read and re-read my work.  When you knew me I had never belonged anywhere, and today I have lived in one place with one person for more than ten years. 

I love a man who is everything a man should be and more And he loves me back  We argue, we squabble, we laugh and take care of each other. Because of him I have battled my way to becoming a half decent skier.  I was terrified of water and I learned to scuba dive and make myself swim in the ocean.  I am scared witless by heights, yet I love my paraglider.  I have overcome my social anxieties and I capably manage my dyslexia and naturally scattered self.    

I have taken what you gave to me, what I saw in you and made it my own. Thank you for being my first mirror.

Dear Friend - Part 3

Dear Friend,

It is funny, the habits one develops without noticing. It was my habit to talk to you old lady. To talk to you about everything.  And now, without you to talk things through, when I try to write them its just a messy knot of sticky spaghetti noodles.

The words run like a rampant virus in my brain, spreading and infecting everything, yet the moment I go to write them down, it all retreats under a convenient mental blanket.

I stare at the lump on the bed in my head and I try to remember exactly what it was I really needed to have said.... but I am unable to discern the shapeless heap.

For so long I chatted you. I never thought twice about it when you started to talk back to me. My words may not have been all that different from your grunts, woofs, sighs, growls and whines.  One of my favorite memories was when you began to kick the floor when you were impatient with me or someone or something.   You would kick the floor, just like a child would stomp their foot.  Even as an old lady, (when standing for any kind of time was not reasonable), while you were sitting on the floor you would kick your foot against the floor and woof! I am laughing right now just thinking of you!

Last November Sal, that last gorgeous warm sunny day with you... when I needed to be strong for you?  That was the memory I kept replaying to make myself smile and be calm in front of you.

I have put that last day with you on my inner shelf.  The one I keep things on when I don't know what to do with them.  My inner shelf has been relatively uncluttered for a while and that day, sitting up there, nearly all by it's self, that day looks a little daunting.

I, fortunately, have my darling.  A tolerant (although I tend to exasperate him) man, he has watched me mourn, held me close and poked me into finally painting again.  We started going for walks together in the evenings, a habit I sorely missed when you were gone.  I have bonded with our Charlie Cat; Prince Charles to you who are not on intimate terms.

I started walking dogs at the Humane Society in December after work.  I was going every day and I would pick out two and take them for a walk.  Maybe it is because I think of you too much but none measured up.  They were not quite... sassy enough.  Even when we first were together and we were both all jumbled up inside, you were sassy.  Intelligent, sure, gentle, always and comfortably sassy.

Now it is January and earlier this week I met a dog.  Rescued from a pound in New Mexico, she is a stray on an Indian reservation, she is about a year and a half old.  She is sweet and nervous and excited and spooked and curious.... and I hesitated.  I walked her and she did her best even with her fear of the leash and the cars and me and the place.

Afterwards, I talked to her foster human for a few minutes.

Around the 20 minute mark -Which is a terribly long and boring time to stand and wait for humans to do something interesting, this little dog despairing groaned aloud and sunk herself tragically to the ground.  I looked down and found her bright amber eyes looking curiously into mine.

And my heart smiled.  And today I wrote this out.

My sweetheart has adeptly picked the name 'Luna' for this little Muppet.

In the Dark

I woke up last night, so restless I knew I was suffocating.  Before my dramatic panic could gain a good foot hold I realized that in my sleep I had smashed my face into a feather pillow and was literally a little short on air. Now chuckling at myself, I rolled over, waking myself up all the way.  I quietly got up before I could toss and turn my darling awake too and headed downstairs.

Char excitedly jumped into my lap as I sat on the couch.  We played 'chase the string' (which is way more awesome in the muted light of 4 am than ever before known.) This cheered me up for a bit but as he settled on my chest for a cuddle my thoughts again soured...

Age is marching on my face.  I have gained ELEVEN frigging pounds in the last three months. Every day, I woefully eat my Greek yogurt/ raspberry breakfast and then later munch down my loaded veggie salad, snacking only on almonds, hard boiled eggs and bell peppers... while I resentfully glare at skinny coworkers snacking on cream cheesed bagels and raspberry muffins.

I get to work in the dark.  I stare at my computer screen, checking internet references against word docs, without access to windows.   I leave work in the dark. I get home and make dinner.  I sit in a dark living room and stare at a TV, the blood in my ears sounding thick and heavy.  My art sits silently collecting dust in the company of many double stacked unread books. We stay up late.  I sleep badly.  I get up in the dark.

My special kind of hell is a regular happy world for others.  I am confused why I don't seem to adapt. I have struggled into this ill fitting sweater every day for years now.  Years and years.  Everyone around me seems to be just fine with the hours, with the commute, the grey walls, shared lunches in windowless break rooms and dress pants. Why am I not just fine too? Why am I slamming my inner fists against the walls?

I went outside yesterday, during the day.  Watery December sunlight kissed my face for the first time in three days and just for a moment I felt lighter. So today, as I got to work in the dark, I carried with me my tennis shoes. At 9 am, an hour and a half in, I traded my heels for them and walked around outside for ten blissful shivering minutes. 

Possibility

She is slender and very young.  Just old enough to be allowed into this little eclectic Portland bar. Perched on bar stool, wrapped in a pretty summer dress, legs crossed and shoulders hunched forward over the bar; her body language declares "Do not disturb".

I had to lean across her to order but I flashed her a quick "sorry " smile as I did.  Looking up and seeing a female face she returns a tight one, curling herself tighter around the little hand bound journal in front of her.

My inadvertently rude glance at her elegant cursive catches a few words "I'm struggling, I can't explain what I feel..."  and I am sympathetic as jerk my eyes away.  The rush of fellowship is familiar. I was this girl. Granted on the the other side of the country but I was her.

I have a giant bin full of journals from this time in my life. It's so heavy I can't pick it up.  I would write and write and draw and draw.  I still do, of course, I am writer and an artist. But it was constant then, literally, every moment, my fingers struggled to get my words out.

I look around at the world, at all these people with so many different temperatures in temper and conflicting points of view -so many hearts convinced it walks alone.  I wish I would pull over and talk to that old man on the bus stop I see each morning.  I am grateful I reached out to that old lady in the store who needed someone to see her and listened to her stories about beloved cats and grand-babies. I regret I didn't leave a little bigger tip to that waitress; I wanted the check and found her by the kitchen door and heard her whisper, "I am invisible." before I startled her with my approach.

I breathe my wish to this girl, that she sees forward to all her possibilities. My eyes find the bartender, my voice startles my ears back into hearing; I order my drink.

'The Bug', Ego and a Vaccine

Our perception of self worth and value tends to be deeply aligned with our pesky testy fragile ego and as such it is an incredibly powerful aspect of the human condition, ego can be a serious force to reckon with.

I have my own ego issues, of course, but they are not usually sports related. God and fate did not see fit to give me a reasonable sense of spacial awareness or much by the way of eye hand coordination.  I respect the high possibility I may die carrying the laundry down the stairs some day. So when it comes to sports, of any kind, I hold myself back, take extra care and never compare my progress to others.

And this detached approach works well for me.... Until I catch 'The Bug'.

'The Bug' happens when I get really interested, invested and begin to see 'Dramatic Improvement'. Symptoms include an awakened fiercely competitive six year old self, hair brained determination and a complete lack of concern for possible bodily harm. Having the 'The Bug' means that I will now measure my progress with a ruthless and unforgiving memory.

Skiing is a great example.

I started skiing on gentle runs in the rolling sprawling hills of Harrisburg. I loved it; each time was chaotic movements in a splendor of heavy snow and coupled with fantastic car wheels.

Then I moved to Utah and had a couple of days on snow accompanied with the skilled aid of my dearest. Having grown up skiing on a racing team in Utah, he is more than proficient, ridiculously fast and a persistent instructor. Under his tutelage I went from sort of up right and mildly paying attention to showing some assemblage of 'Dramatic Improvement'.

I remember my first run taken with 'The Bug' and an inkling of confidence... As of that run, I have clobbered my face, free fallen, lost skies, blacked out and seen the inside of the First Aid office at Snowbird and Alta. In the name of 'The Bug' and my burning desire to be awesome; I have become a fanatical devotee to my crusade -despite my natural state of klutz.

Getting 'The Bug' is not a given occurrence though.  Scuba diving, for example; My darling introduced me to the world of diving years ago but the whole thing only enhanced an already acute awareness of my squish-able self. Diving is cool, awe inspiring and down right scary. Scuba diving remains in the category of 'Improve and Proceed with Extreme Caution'

Flying has been in this category up until last October.  I treated the whole thing with watchful meticulous routine and warily eyed interest. Then last year, after a summer of monsoons, cross winds and blown out days, there came a mystical week in October. For six days, in a row, there arrived warm/ cool autumn air, bringing straight and even winds with golden sunsets.

It's incredible what consistency will do. Launching, flying and landing six days in a row, of course, improved my confidence and skills. It also included my personal hook: 'Dramatic improvement'.

Perhaps 'The Bug' is intermediate syndrome, I have read a bit about it. Intermediate syndrome describes making 'choices not in line with one's actual level of experience, skills' and general know how. Regardless of what it is called, I have it, a burning, driving need to understand and accomplish, on my own, continuous improvement.  Along with 'The Bug', my ego now includes the unhappy trait of sensitivity when my choices are second guessed.

Then.... something did not happen to me, it happened to the one who matters most. I listened to the one with a prouder and stronger character than anyone in this world; swallow the first and exemplify the second, and ask for help, feedback and advice.

I think might have found a vaccine for 'The Bug'.

It's called 'Be Quiet and Listen.'

Moab (2009)

I meant to touch on the camping trip and realized, a month later… that I didn’t.

Moab is…. How to draw Moab?

We arrived in the evening and we started our visit then and there by scrambling around the top of Dead Horse Point. My best sweetheart told me the story of how the place acquired its name and it left me with a tightened throat. Sunset fell completely and the night wind swept up the sheer cliffs, blowing my clothes against me and my hair into snarls. My hands hurt which was interesting. My hands always ache when I am high up. Heights do something to my heart rate too. So although I couldn’t see perfectly, my body knew where I was.

For a woman raised on the east coast for most of her formative years…. Beauty, to me, is the wet grass, the fireflies, the smell of the sea, rain in the afternoon, green everywhere. This was a different world completely.

Moab is a swirling dance of red, orange, and dusty purple during the day. It is fire and brilliant shards of light at dusk. It is a calm grey blue at night.

Silence beats against your ears. Regardless of whether is it a trail with very few companion hikers or if it is where tourism and crowds abound, the silence streams around the shrill echoes of laughter and brushes against your legs, eyes and heart. Silence is alive there.

Towering rocks are temples, they are forbidding and watchful as you pass under them. The ground exhales under your feet and for all the stones, dust, and solid ancient landscape, somehow Moab is vibrantly Alive and Self-Aware. It is an Eerie, and almost Holy place.

There the wind woman is even more wild and dangerous and beautiful. Although I have always loved and distrusted her, I have never felt fear. There, I was so sensitive to my fragile body and her fierce freedom that I was actually afraid.

It was exhilarating.

(2009 07)

Headed Home

Lately, the Wind Woman had been something of a pill, delivering only turbulent rain or half-hearted little breaths of a breeze.  Just in the prior week, on THREE evenings, I stood clipped into my gear, sweating in my full face helmet, fingers fiddling with my lines, staring over my shoulder at the flag on the end of launch.... and no wind....

Additionally I was immersed in family chaos composed of college graduation, dinners, military commissioning, an impromptu bridal shower -All of which a happy series of events, of course, but also loaded with family politics and emotions.  

Naturally, it was fantastic flying conditions the two nights booked with family gatherings....

And then it was Sunday and although the weather was not predicted to be flyable, it was still Sunday, the most lovely day of the week.  I am very fortunate to have a deeply religious family and usually I am left Sunday as my day -no interruptions, no events. Ah Sunday, how I eye this day with excited scheming and anticipation.  

Sunday morning we pulled weeds, hauled branches and after four hours of yardwork, the rental property was a little more presentable.  That afternoon, we hurried to Alta to celebrate closing day by slugging through heavy slushy spring snow and admiring the array of inappropriate costumes and outfits (or lack of ).  

As we returned to the car, my darling man checked the winds on his phone and announced... "Hey! It's flyable!".

Skies and boots were never so quickly shed.  Tearing down the mountain, falling out of the car to swap our ski gear for paragliders, we dashed to the flight park.  

And it was flyable;  we stepped out of the car, into harnesses and off of launch into bouncy and perfectly ahhhhhmazing wind. 

We flew and flew, for around an hour until it was time to head home.

"Headed Home"

"11" X "14" X ".75"
Original Fine Art - Acrylic (Sealed to protect against fading/UV)


***I have decided this piece needs a lovely vibrant background... ;)

(Twitter)

Turning point

Something strange has happened.

I noticed it when we went skiing in January.  Something had switched in my focus, something was different in my decisions; I have a feeling of intention.  I skied thinking about the snow, about the day, about the line.  I did not thinking about how steep was the run, how many were the trees and how thick was the falling snow… not one of my usual inner questions awoke to look for and find flickering familiar fault.   I just skied. 

At the end of the day, when my hero wanted to show me a view that required a hike, I didn't mention my trembling legs and exhausted hands.  I followed.  When he turned and saw my slower steps, when he pulled my skies off my shoulder and carried both, I just said thank you. As he turned away, I swallowed back my salty girly reaction to the beauty of our friendship and his seeing heart and hurried up.

I just had my first 'real' flight this month.  Even though it had been months, I didn't find my usual nauseating swirl of nerves and self doubt as I pulled out my wing. I ran my fingers through my lines, clipped into my harness, completed my pre-flight check, kited for a couple of minutes and launched.

I actually felt lonely without my shadowy quivering fears. I am the queen of self doubt, the champion of personal mistrust.  All alone with the wind on my face, I just flew. I flew for thirty three minutes until I decided to land and warm up. There I found the glow of sunlight, a calm sunset and familiar friends.  I looked around as I packed my wing, wearing my usual dorky 'just flew' grin plastered on my face and I wallowed in awesomeness that is this time in my life.

While I would love to attribute my new found confidence to myself; it is because I am watching someone else's audacious bravery that I have this unfamiliar poise.

Someone important to me, someone I have long respected, admired; someone I 'knew' would always alienate me because I'd chosen a path he could not understand, relate to - much less praise –This person has decided to chose an uncharted and unknown path, one that is the complete opposite of the one he has long followed. 

I am amazed, I am enlightened because his new direction was discovered only because of his staggering possession of courage and his driving need for truth.  But that isn't what astounds me, it is that He Intends to Take the Journey.

Ohhhhhh I flinched and glowed when I heard his intentions.  I took this journey.  I remember my horror when I realized my prior belief system was built on terrible deceit. It seems that all religions maybe presently followed with good intentions but the original story was certainly not. 

Individuals I respected and loved looked at me as the betrayer for questioning their strongly revered and complicated superstitions.  When a person declares they are leaving - leaving means you are a cancer and you may infect the rest and so you must be cut out or held at careful bio-hazard clothed arm's length.

For YEARS I had stood bewildered by my loss of culture, acceptance and identity.  And here's the thing Reader -I got out early, I took the chicken route, I moved away and I never approached the topic directly.  Snide comments were swallowed and judgmental verdicts accepted.

He, on the other hand, has invested years, oodles of  tithing money, scarified friendships - Every personal and professional decision ruled by  rationale decreed from inside religious parameters..... And he didn't just have the spine to research questions, earnestly and honestly.  He actually accepted the answers he found deploying sound logic and He Intends to Take the Journey. 

– By this, I am set free. 

http://mormonexpression.com/2012/12/19/episode-219-ex-mormonism-as-a-heros-journey/

Just fly

All of us hide in ourselves. We hide in makeup or no makeup or in too many or too little clothes. We hide behind smiles, behind boasts, behind silence; we are all hiding.

Watery warm autumn sunlight kisses my cheek and jaw line. The Wind Woman plays lightly with my hair. She is whispering in my ear, her cool bare breath against my face, tickling me into a smile.

People are flying and I want to fly too. I came out here to watch, to be inspired, to talk to the Wind Woman, the Lady of Wild Hair and Random Tangents. Lately I am afraid of things I want and I wonder why. Is it a mortality fear? Fear of aging, am I overly sensitive to the fragility of my human body? I had pondered this two days ago too. I thought about the fear when I launched and flew but then completely forgot about it as I excitedly landed EXACTLY where I wanted.

‘AH HA!! TADDDAAAA!!!’ I shouted to myself, this included an imaginary high five to self too. Out loud I only quietly giggled to myself, mildly drunk on my happiness. I launched again, caught up in the surging glory of success. I continued to forget about fear as I flew back and forth awhile –until I unexpectedly bumped into it again on landing.

When I notice something about myself I notice it in others. Or imagine it in others. Either and/ or. Most of the time I think no one notices I am watching them; trying to understand how we are all so alike and yet so separated. Occasionally, I think my ‘observing’s’ are noticed by some and that some become suspicious and think me suspect of something. When I notice them noticing, I wish I could ask, “I see this in me, I think I see it in you. What conclusions have you arrived to?”

But people are hiding and dislike nothing more than being found out.

Back to today. The air is calmer than yesterday, rich in dense cool air, rising up like lazy champagne bubbles… My Wind Woman sighs her question softly ‘Would you like a glass?’

Yes, yes I would. Despite falling over the dog, then the cat and then my shoes and dropped coat; somehow I make it out to the park with my head attached. Carefully, systematically, I pull and lay out my wing and my things. I call my dearest to tell him where I am. I strap in, flight check twice and pull up.

It was perfect -until my glove caught in the brake handle, came off and I flopped the wing over trying to catch it, making myself laugh. Redo was effortless, launch was clean, and up up up I went. I made a very low bench, the kind that had me grinning all the way, wondering if I would land on the trail.

On the back ridge, looking at the romantic lonely Timpanogos and her snowy ridge outline, studying the fairy land that must be Lone Peak, I decided: Sometimes, maybe we are afraid of what we want most because it is what we want most. Nothing is as disappointing as hope unrealized; so the more we want and hope for something, the more we are guarded against it.

I told my Wind Woman my conclusion. In answer she shook out my fear like dust from an over trodden door way rug and told me ‘Just fly.

“Let’s go for a Bike ride!”

Something the size of my face is directly in front of me on the narrow path but as I am careening capriciously at warp speed (maybe 16 mph!) in darkening twilight -There is absolutely no way I am not going to smash it.  

Happily it flutters up, just in the nick of time, to hover with me.  Its wings must be heavy; heavy enough that as they pump up and down, I feel the air next to my cheek moving.  My sweat is intravenously pouring down me as I struggle up the smooth dirt track and then I’m suddenly cooled by warm summer evening air as I spike forward and down onto the rocky downhill trail.

‘Giant Black Moth’ or ‘Bizarre Small Bird’ or possibly ‘Little Strange Bat’, whatever it is, hangs out with me for a few turns.  I think it is asking “What on earth is a human unsteadily winding by at this hour doing here??”

To answer that question…

“Let’s go for a Bike ride!”  This sentence was exclaimed around 7pm.  It is the end of another baking blue day here in the high desert mountains of Utah so we waited til nearly eight to head up to the nearby canyon. 

According to maps there is a nearby canyon bicycle trail head that runs all the way to the flight park in our neighborhood.  The game plan: Drive up, ride home and then take the second car back to retrieve the first.  

As it appears to be a mostly a downhill track, when we arrive, we go the opposite way, about half a mile.  Why? Because that is up hill and we want to make sure we get a little exercise before our easy cruise home… As we back track to the trail head, we go under the road through a tunnel.  I have a spontaneous thought, “I don’t want to be on a trail at dark, this short dark tunnel is uncomfortable.”

This trail we thought was downhill?  It begins excruciatingly steep as this skinny path is entirely uphill.  

I focus on three goals: breathing, not running into the mountain and not falling off the mountain.  My muscles, so sadly out of oxygen and strength, burn me alive until a rush of endorphins gives me a natural high.  I may be ‘older’ but my body still has the ability to kick in! Yay! I wallow in the glory of lightheaded gasps and the thrill of trying and sort of succeeding.  

Absently, I overly tighten my grip and in response my front wheel wobbles, wheedling me violently to the right.  I turn back to the path just in time before I go sliding off...again.

I grin at my handsome man, just a few yards ahead.  This courteous, much more athletic partner of mine; he is once more waiting for me to catch up.  My stubby legs peddle harder to hurry and meet him.  I ignore the screaming of my labored lungs.

I stop just behind him and we notice the arrival of twilight.

Oh… Well the view is fantastic.  The contrasts of green and gold foothills merging into glittering lights of the sprawling cities below and cradled from above by a deepening blue sky –it takes my breath away -oh no, wait, that was the last part of the hill- but IF I had a breath to take away, it would have. I'm unable to pause my gasping to drink so I slurp in a mouth full of icy water and hold it until it's warm and then choke it down.

We are three miles in, about half way.  Do we turn back?   Do we keep going?  It’s a toss-up whether either is the better choice at this point. We decide to keep going. 

A few minutes later, just in time for twilight to turn to early dark, the trail, at last, officially turns into All Downhill.  We now have the relentless hand of time and vanishing light pushing us forward too.  The situation, regardless of whether it ought to be laughable is besides the point.  We are laughing despite ourselves.

I am riding my brakes, nervously picking my slowing way past sharp sage bush while simultaneously, trying to Not Look At the extreme drop to the right - which I notice, helpful or not; it IS increasingly hard to see just how far up we are… which also means it is increasingly hard to see the trail…

“Trust the trail, trust that it’s there,” My encouraging crusader heartens.  In between breaths he continues “the bike is more stable at 15 mph then at 2 mph.”

Bugs, I suspect grasshoppers, (why grasshoppers? Well they were in the news this afternoon so I image grasshoppers, duh...), pop up, on and off of my ankles as I whip through and past. 

I giggle to myself, ‘How is it we get ourselves into these types of moments?’   

About now the ‘Giant Black Moth’ or ‘Bizarre Small Bird’ or possibly ‘Little Strange Bat’ pops up and joins me for the ride. I chuckle as I answer myself and It.

Because we are adventurers!  Not the kind that make history or world records, but the kind the somehow scoot by on the tolerant good graces of chance and a bit of our own personal tenacity. 

I follow the shadow of my sweetheart, my best friend, his back tire sliding slightly for a moment as he hit a rocky patch in front of me; both of us are squinting, straining to see the disappearing pathway.

I can’t wipe the smile off my face. 

Decide

This is my year to "Decide" and Yesterday was a really big day.

My New Year Resolution is that one word.  Whatever it is in life I am thinking about doing, I am to decide.  Do it or don't but tackle the decision.

I also decided to stop being afraid of steep slopes. I decided to ski better and just do it.  I have since introduced my face to my knee, left a bruise the size of a soccer ball on my hip and generally done cartwheels several times down various runs.  But I Will BE a GOOD SKIER.   My darling, though wary since ever since I knocked myself out cold, has continued to be my tolerant exasperated instructor.

I skied the Cirque yesterday!!!!!  This is a Huge deal for me. I was excited /terrified as my sweetheart lead me and our friend along a mountain ledge about five feet wide on either side and drop offs on both sides that made my tummy leave me, (It, and my heart, promised to meet me at the bottom). 

But I knew I was ready, I've been working really hard to get to this point.  Finally we are at the end of it, at the ‘easiest’ spot.  I skied up to the edge, (which literally just falls away, poof, no more mountain, just drop out). 

I took two deep breaths and dropped in.  It is Spring snow, thick heavy, chunckety…. If that is a word.  Skiing on snow like that, deep solid snow, feels like being on wooden old rollercoaster.  The kind that afterwards you feel like you might have lost a filling or two from clacking your teeth together.  Yeah, that kind of snow. 

From the bottom, I could hear my heart and stomach cheering me on, “We’re right here when you get down!” I stood tall, muscles screaming, I pushed my skies into the slushy concrete, turned… and I DID NOT FALL.  The bright blue sky burned my grin into my face as I continued and made my careful and slow way down. 

And what d’ya know?  I found that not just my faint hearted tummy was down there; but my awesome friends too!  They saw I was coming down and skied over to cheer me on.  And we laughed and smiled together. 

Ah the victories found on Spring Sundays at Snowbird.

Longest Flight

Last night I took off and flew for an hour and forty minutes. My longest flight this far.

Here are some quick details to explain why this flight was amazing. Cold air is thicker than warm air. This is an important detail because summer flying is very different than spring or fall flying. Temperatures have been very hot and dry this year. About a week ago, it started dropping to the low 60's at night and maxing out in the eighties during the day. So in the evening the air is cooling while warm sunlight is still heating.

We fly in two kinds of ‘lift’, thermals and ridge lift. Sunlight (heat) creates invisible thermals (think of dust devils) and ridge lift, (think of air as water and what does moving water do when it hits a wall? It breaks and rises. The air hitting the mountain ridge travels up it in a wave of 'ridge lift').

K, so there are the terms. I took off and the air was thick and warm with little rivers of cool washing over me. It wasn't hard AT all to fly up and reach the back ridge. Rather than sharp jostles, which I am familiar with this summer, the rocking felt like being in a boat in a bit of waves.

And the lift... the highest I had ever been before was 6750 ft. Last night the air lifted and lifted and somehow I was 7530 ft. in the air. I was above everyone else (for once) and alone and it disconcertingly odd to look around and see how very far up I was in that big blue and orange evening sky.

It’s scary to fly away from the hill. There is a mental block that happens. I, like many pilots, mentally latch on to the place I take off from. I do not want to get too far away from it. While there are some flight restrictions (airline paths and heights), this fear of leaving the ridge is actually counter intuitive. Technically the further you are up and away from things, the less there is to possibly run into. I know this. Karl repeats it over and over again, trying to help me see past it.

I twisted around to look at the far away landing zones, at the teeny tiny tree tops and houses and thought 'Whoa..." The Wind Woman was humming, busy dressing trees for the coming autumn festival. I could see the glimmer of red and orange in the mountains, her handiwork about to be on full display.

The last ten years came crashing down on me with a vengeance; my journey to me. I was filled up to tears with gratitude and just as quickly, filled with jealous fear. I have this fantastic life. I belong with this beautiful man I call my husband. I have the sweetest most darling dog, who I call my friend because she is so much more intelligent and interesting than a regular dog. I have a lovely home, a black and white bratty gentle cat. I get to do everything I love. I am never bothered by things like enough food, a safe place to rest or the ability to get what I need.

My job sucks, I wish I would ‘grow a pair’ and try publishing my book again, I wish I had more time to paint but these trivial complaints are swallowed whole by the fantastic force called my life.

It occurred to me that this life might not go on forever and this seemed painfully unjust and unfair. The Wind Woman came to laugh at the sudden knot in my throat. She touched my legs and traveled up to wrap a brief warm scarf of air around my shoulders in a gentle hug.

‘Look at your hands…’ she whispered. I looked in wonder at my hands. I stretched out my arms, reached out my fingers, and I ‘air-planed’, rocking myself to each side. Before she rushed off she reminded me ‘Live for each moment, live in each season…’

Mr. Coffee Maker

News item!

I must announce, with great regret that there has been a tragedy. A good friend of mine has perished in a loud squealing death. Trusted for over ten years to be my morning motivator and inspiration –Mr. Coffee Maker… left us for a world (AKA trash can).

It started out as usual Thursday morning. I staggered blindly out of bed, scoped up a cup of dog food and on the way to Sal’s bowl, turned on Mr. Coffee Maker.

Heartened by the knowledge that a mug of warm smooth Gevalia, freshly brewed would be waiting for me in five to ten minutes, I fell back into bed for my five minute alarm clock snooze.

It felt like I woke up years later but actually it was about four mins and thirty seconds, in horror.

Where was the breath taking comforting aroma of my morning stimulation? I waited. The alarm went off.

A terrible sound reached my ears…

“GRRRRRBBBBLLLLUUPPP…sssssssssssssssssssssssSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS….”

Cautiously I got up… Charlie stared with complete fascination at the counter where sat Mr. Coffee Maker and a queasy amount of steam blowing out of its top.

I stared too.


“GRRRRRBBBBLLLLUUPPP...ssssssssssssssssssssssSSSSSSSSSSSRRRRRBBBBLLLLUURRRRRBBBBLLLLUUSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS….”

The rest of the thirty minutes, before I dash out to work, are a blur. Shock and denial required me to leave Mr. Coffee Maker on, struggling, choking and gasping -until my best friend ordered the horrible noise to stop.

I bought terrible burnt stale gas station coffee on the way to work and sipped it morsely.

Dream on my Shoulder

I woke up with another dream. Literally. This Dream sat on my shoulder, yawned with me and staggered up and also came to have a cup of coffee.

I put on my mascara while it clung to my shoulder like a koala to a eucalyptus tree. Dream perched to the back of my head rest as I hurried to work and it squeaked in protest when I took a corner a little too fast.

This has been “One of those days.” We all have had one of these and although we all apply these days in different ways, all feel the same way about them regardless.

After this day filled with people who also seem to be carrying dreams around like sulky cats or yapping little dogs on too long of a leash, I have decided to talk about mine with the hope that by doing such, it will get down off my leg and politely sit in place.

The first dream this week was about a little boy. He was not mine. His sticky tousled butter hair clung damply to his serious face and large dark grey eyes. I woke up worrying about him and I haven’t been able to turn around without hoping to see him, but to see him with a smile.

The second dream was last night. This was a jumble of candy cane colored street stripes, snow in a high desert, Santa Claus forced up on stilts to be hung on a cross, wind shield wipers blown off by howling winds and losing my favorite shoes as I was forced to slug through a giant pond of a puddle. As I was standing on the other side, glumly glaring at the spot where mud sucked them off, I looked up and around and thought “I have been in this terrible version of Alice in Wonderland for a while. I should be waking up soon.”

With this thought I decided to ditch the car and walk for a bit. My feet bleed and ached but as I was aware that these were my dream feet I wasn’t too worried about it. I seem to be in perfect shape and none the worse for wear whenever I enter a new dream. Plus the wind only howled if I got in the car.

I wandered from the open field into what I thought was another one until I reached the slightly receding road’s bottom and saw wan abandoned, and once very nice, suburban neighborhood. Tumble weed tumbled, as it does; cracked and aching dry sidewalks and driveways split open for weeds and the front yards were filled with burnt yellow grass that tried to wave their tiny tinted blades in the (now)soft wind, but instead broke continuously into dust that sighed around me in the silence.

Where did the snow go? I looked back up. Yes Santa was still up there and yes he was too far away to help and yes there was about eighteen feet of snow….

But here at the bottom it was death valley meets the sub-prime crash of 2007.

I wished for and then looked at the helpful watch that appeared on my wrist. About thirty minutes until the alarm went off. I could wake myself up but I tested my physical self and I was still quite comfortable and deeply resting. Plus I didn't sense danger. It was as if this bizarre broken world did not yet know I was there still.

But then It did. I couldn't see it, I could not smell it but I could breath It. This danger felt like ants had crawled into my lungs and left me gasping for air. The sun was suddenly burning, burning, it was burning my skin! I could not breathe the air that had no life and choked as I tried. My pulse hopped up and as my heart tried to flee, the rest of me tried to stay calm. Where was it? What was thinking this malice and had noticed me? A dry cracked wail broke out from the deadly stillness; throwing hot drenching icy fear to trap and hold me in this world of deep despair.

I thought of waking up but forgot how to shake myself out!

I then thought of green and I thought of home. I thought of blurred hills and glowing moss, I tasted the smell of my best friend, I reached for the thought of my dog’s eyes. But I shivered and I lost them.

-Then I heard her coming.

My Wind Woman’s arms stretched out with her flowing cloaks of starlight, rain and mist. She slipped over the road where I had come from; she covered the snow, swept away the dust, the haunted hills and the road disappeared in her loose waves of grace; (she has a way of taking over everything); As she descends, (her face always haunts me) and I can see her dark, mischievous and dangerous eyes. She came down behind me, caught me up in her midnight blue hair and whispered “Wake up!”

I felt the clean chilling touch of her breath through my bones and sat up in bed.

Reflection

I am day dreaming today. I want to go to the art store and pick up some canvas. I want to feel the itchy tingle of paint drying against my skin. I like that feeling. It is not comfortable but it is comforting. When paint crams under my nails to the point that they ache I feel like I can understand the texture of the wind and the weight of breathing.

I walked Sally last night and watched the cloud’s reflection in street puddles. The storm raged and twisted and wrapped into its self, far above, it was a giant silken throw of silver grey.

Then I tripped on the sidewalk. It helps to watch where you walk.

A Car Named Katie

I bought my first car when I was twenty years old. Before that I relied on patient parents, crummy bus systems and boyfriends with twenty year old mustangs that sometimes worked.

My first car was a basic sedan, almost new (it had 500 miles on it), blue, power steering and manual everything else. The best part? It had a CD player.

It was the ultimate first car. I named her Katie.

Fast forward eight and a half years. My first car is still my only car.

Katie has been up and down the east coast from Pennsylvania to Georgia three times. I don’t remember how many times from Pennsylvania to Virginia. Katie and I have been to nearly every major city several times over on the east coast. We went cross country alone once. I drove all over south California for two years. Then the move to Utah came. Then I drove from Utah to Wyoming twice. Then Utah back to California several times….

Of course there were all the every day drives in whatever location I was at the moment and in whatever situation I had myself in as well. Maybe I hang on to the car because I am a Cancer, ‘home and hearth’ thing and all that. This car is my ship and anchor... but without the whole water deal and with wheels and axle. Passport not required (although I had one stashed and ready just in case), driver’s license highly recommended.

Anyway… Katie now rattles. She sometimes has a cough in the morning. The windows stick, permanently implanted dog hair is in the back seat and a nasty long scratch marks the outside –acquired when avoiding a semi on a little road four years ago. Randomly, lights will turn on in the dash board and I really don’t know why anymore.

She smells like really old Gatorade, shoes, burnt coffee, cigarettes (yes, yes, they are evil, bad for you and stinky, I got it), wet dog and books. I don’t know why books but that could be because I moved a few times and everything I owned had to fit in the trunk or be left behind. Books were usually the things I refused to not force fit. The back seat was out as the dog had dibbs.

There are too many cup holders, I never could figure out what a front seat did with one in each door, and three in the middle. The third one in the middle is filled with sea shells. Some are from the harbor in Baltimore, some from the Outer Banks, some from the Gulf of Mexico, Virginia Beach, Carlsbad, Mexico, and Santa Barbara. I think there are even a couple of shells I found while hiking in Utah.

From the rear view mirror hangs a dream catcher from Oklahoma, a necklace from an old friend I haven’t seen in seven years and a faded yellow ribbon for my dad and then for my brother.

I did get Katie a new pair of shiny ‘tready’ shoes at the beginning of this winter. And new brake pads… Her morning cough thing is new. That started about a month ago. Could be she is sick of the winter and smog and inversion too though.

I know I might have to replace this little blue car in the near future but I have to admit, I really am sad to see the car go. Even if it stinks. Even if it rattles… sometimes a lot.