As my friend Sierra, says, this is a day that I chose to get "raw and real" and so I will continue to do so by publishing it. I feel very vulnerable as I share it with you but grateful that I can because I'm alive to tell the tale and hear others'...
Tonight I sat with an eighty-seven year old man with lesion riddled legs, a catheter, and not a stitch of clothing (just an open hospital gown topped with a fuzzy pillow and bib strewn across him). His naked flesh did not bother me and yet I noticed it, I noticed that most people would be bothered but neither him, nor I, nor his son were concerned. I felt more of an impulse to adjust his neck and back pillows, encourage him to tell me another story and to rub soothing Tamanu oil on his blistered legs, unfortunately I did not have my purse with me.
This man is so full of life, he doesn't sleep very much- he writes, reads, watches all the time and had heard about my arrival in Sedona and asked to meet me. A little about him... He was married to a celebrated author who died suddenly, two weeks after being told she had pancreatic cancer, over 14 years ago and one year ago, he became a hospice patient. His sainted wife, as he calls her, was very direct and gave him notes, or instructions rather, on how to be an author's husband of which he continues to hold dear and recite. This dearheart of a man shared with me that they never raised a voice to each other for over 40 years and when pressed for the "secret", he responded, "I always said it was because she knew I was always right, although she wouldn't buy it" and chuckled.
I felt my whole heart humming in warm peace in his presence as he told me stories about Truk and Yap where he lived and remained out of a typhoon's way, his experiences educating illiterate inmates in Minnesota and raising five children with a beautiful woman. He shared stories about being an educator and how his wife inspired poetry in the hearts of thousands of children with her book, The Celebration of Bees. She was a renowned author, honorary nun (although atheist and raised Jewish), and phenomenal teacher. He was the president of the NAACP in Minneapolis (and he's as white as snow by the way), a superintendent of multiple schools, professor, philanthropist, and just a doll. So much life, so much love in this man. I breathed easier just listening to him tell me about his experience this time round on the planet and I thought, my god, what an incredible life.
The interesting thing is we've all held interesting lives, we've chosen them and yet I seem (along with many) to judge my productivity, my value, and my purpose. I sat with this "dying" man for two hours and wished I could make it my occupation. I just wanted to be there and love him and hear him. Will I be able to do this for my parents? Will I be able to live with my love for 40+ years and be direct, real, loving and never raise my voice? Will I be able to be a good mother? Do I want to be a mother at all? How will I make the money and the resources I need to take care of myself and all the other people I love so much? I want to share my life with someone that I can take care of and who takes care of me. Would it make my life, this moment, this now any easier if I knew my partner would be with me for the next forty years? I want that and yet, like this man's wife, they could disappear in an instant. There was never pain when this elderly angel spoke of his love, just gratitude. And yet, even now I find myself asking is this even real? Is he even really with me now, is anyone with me outside of who I can see right now?
I believe that we collect energy and our stories from/with others but aren't they ultimately just reflections of our own consciousness. It's just an experience we create and share as one, as all, right? It's so boggling to me sometimes. Do I feel the energy of a ghost or is it my pain body as Eckhart Tolle teaches or is it just a cool breeze? Is there mystery to any of it, if nothing truly defines us? We are all undefinable, although we spend so much time trying to make our content have value but we're not the content we're the watcher, the listener, the container.
I feel more isolated the older I get and the less I care for the people I've known and the more I care for the youth, elderly, strangers, and wayward stray dogs I meet randomly day to day. The love just feels distant or different, there's a disconnect.
Why is that? Is it easier to be present to those that need us and yet we're not obligated to love them? Is that what allows us to feel freedom more readily and less murkily?
Which brings me to my big adventure earlier today, I went outside of a cozy apartment where I was trying to figure everything out for my next step in life. I decided to spend the rest of my afternoon getting acquainted with the Red Rocks of Sedona instead of thinking about moving here and if it was the "right decision."
Only under the impression I was going to be doing a light trail hike on Soldiers Pass, we shot straight up from Devil's Kitchen (a sinkhole) and my travel buddy, David, asked us if we wanted to head to the top of a spire just above. He's an experienced outdoors man and had done it a number of times although he did say it would be really hard. Well, I said yes, not knowing if I would but I was going to go as far as I could. We started off the trail up the slabs of lithofied calcium rich beach turned Red Rock. Making our own way we scrambled over broken clay, up ridges, through steep ravines, up, up and up. We climbed up these huge magnificent, jutting red boulders- gripping their nooks, finding our footing and hugging the fuck out of them. Slipping, sliding, grazing with our bellies and bums, we traced our way up the crags of beauty that were enormous and so bitterly cold yet warm with support. I felt so grounded and so loved by these rocks that I pushed myself past each limitation that my body and mind uh-uhed. "I can't do this, I'm scared" wafted through my whole being at least five times and I would take a moment and then push through. Then I would find myself saying, "Okay, but I don't know how I'm gonna make it back down." Still I decided to keep trekking.
I actually made it to the very tip top overlooking the whole canyon and found myself gripping the ledge that led to the pancake top spot because the wind, the height, the reality of me being there was just too intense to grasp. I took a few deep breaths, expressed my gratitude to the beautiful mother that held me and inched on to the plateau of this spire. I could barely take my hands from it, it was like the inability of a novice bike rider unable to take her hands off the handlebars. I moved into a seated lotus position and couldn't even fathom standing let alone holding warrior one, two or three. I knew it was my mind taking over and yet I had reached my ultimate limit, I had to listen and just be. I moved around a bit on the rock, allowing photos to be taken and even at one point I took my hands and stretched them out into the air like wings. Feeling the wind and seeing the skies with the center of me bare, arms wide open, was so intense to take in.
David guided and talked me down after a few very long minutes and we proceeded to make our way off the spire. I felt like a nimble animal, so trusting and knowing of where my feet found themselves. In the ruins of Machu Picchu, Peru, the hardest parts of the climb were the first steps and the descent. I found that this journey today was more about the awareness of the fear, acknowledging and believing that there was another possibility. The few times I pushed to move fast, I lost my footing and bonked my head. This yet again taught me to be present, not to rush, and not to hold on longer than necessary. And yet there are moments you need to know someone is there, that they can see just a bit further beyond what you can feel, grasp or see. There are moments you need someone to tell you they're right there and they're not going anywhere, and you have no choice but to trust them. There are other moments where you need less talk, more walk, and there are then moments when you get to be the guide for the person behind you.
When I laid upon those shelves and crevices and knew that they held me as long as I found my footing, it was such a powerful knowing of rest and flow. I knew when to let go and when to reach and when to just be. It was a total dance.
I don't know if we create this enough in our relationships with ourselves, our lovers, our families, our friends, our "jobs"? Under what circumstances do we allow ourselves to bond, connect, release? I find that I often do so when push comes to shove but that wasn't the case today, for me in these moments it was, "well, let's see." It was not a waging of war nor a cry for help nor a proving myself story. Today was just an experience and a reminder that so much more is possible than we believe. We do need support and we also need to honor and hone our hands and feet in knowing when to keep moving, resting or letting go. Focusing on right where you are and listening to the voice inside you that knows your truth, it's always right here for us. Sometimes it's inside and other days it's easier to explore that outside, in full view and vulnerable to the elements.
I don't know if I hear or see or feel anything divine or "supernatural" that can be defined but I do feel truth a little bit more clearly when I'm really in my body. I look forward to finding more of that from a place that's empowered and humble, just like I was atop the Soldiers Pass spire. That's all I can ask for today, in this moment. I'm grateful to have seen that possibility even when I couldn't do so before I got there.
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