A Moment

On Tuesday, I had a dental appointment to discuss what to do about my lost werewolf fang and what has to happen to replace it.

I’m sitting in Reception, waiting for my turn. There’s a couple sitting further down the row of chairs. Something the guy says makes the woman laugh, and honestly, it was all I could do to keep a straight face. It was like the baying of hounds, or maybe the sound of a crazed honking goose: heehehawwwnk, snort, heehehawwwnk, snort. Then the guy joins in with a long undulating roll of high and low HAHhahHAHhahs.

OMG, I was biting my tongue off trying not to laugh. The receptionist didn’t have as much control, and after sharing a look with me, she starts laughing, too. Her laugh sounded like Minnie Mouse had sucked the helium out of a balloon, before spewing a string of gun shots: hahahahahahaha, breath, hahahahahaha, in a pitch only Minnie could pull off.

I totally lost the plot at that point. I’ve got Helium Girl on one side and The Hound of the Baskervilles baying on the other, and there was no hope that I could hold it in. I burst out laughing, and the couple who’ve started this whole thing--clueless of their part in this mayhem--join in with more heehehawwwnking and HAHhahHAHhahing, which sets off Helium Girl who is nearly falling out of her chair. I go off again, no containing any of this madness…just as the dentist comes out from the back.

It was like the principal in high school giving us The Look—and yes, that’s a look I know from personal experience. He glares at the receptionist, I guess for her lack of professionalism, though her peculiar laugh might have been part of it, too, then he raises a brow at me, like I should know better, but that just sets me off all over again. The Baskervilles are trying to be quiet—they’re young and no doubt in awe of The Dentist—but when I start up, so do they; and the receptionist has now covered her mouth, which means when she loses the battle with a stifled guffaw, snot shoots out her nose, and gods help me, I fell over sideways in my chair and laughed until I was so breathless, I’m pretty sure I was seeing black spots.

Mortified, she grabs a tissue from the box on the counter and quickly blows her nose, her cheeks a fiery red. I still can’t breathe, so am no help at all to the poor girl. By now the hygienist, dental assistant, and the office manager are all standing with the dentist, staring at the four of us like we’ve just escaped from Bedlam.

After a deep breath, I get up, take a Kleenex from the same box on the counter, wipe my tears, blow my nose, then calmly go back to my chair.

The dentist says to me, “What's going on here?”

I can’t tell him.  The couple are sitting right there and don’t know the role they played in all this, nor does the receptionist. What can I say? That I just listened to the most bizarre series of laughs that I’ve ever heard in my life? No. I can’t tell him what really happened.

“You had to be there,” I shrug.

I get a few disbelieving looks before everyone goes back to work. Once we’re alone again, I say to my fellow Bedlamites, “Man, there’s just nothing in the world like a good laugh, is there?”

We smile at each other, then my name is called, and the brief, shared moment of hilarity is over, though that laugh carried me through the day; I felt lighter, more relaxed, liberated. 

There is so much truth in this: Laughter is the best medicine, no matter what it sounds like.

Best Friends

There's something so special about a best friend.  Depending on how long they've known us, they could be the Great Secret Keeper from our childhood, privy to all the horror, angst and pain of growing up; sharing in the unrequited loves, first kisses, the backseat tussles, and sneaking out the bedroom window at midnight on hot Summer nights, walking across the pitch in the garage roof, sliding down the tin roof of the shed to drop--silent as a ninja--to the ground, rendezvous point: the park, two blocks away.

Mom, if you're reading this?  I'm just kidding, I never snuck out.  Man, would you have grounded me for life, or what?  So just ignore that bit, okay?  It's just pretend...

If our best friends have come with adulthood, there are different secrets to keep, no less daunting, sometimes deadly, and still so very painful.  Things are more serious now, with marriages, children, divorce, betrayals and heartbreak.  We might not have to sneak out anymore, but we still need to escape.

I'm always amazed at partners who say they're best friends.  For me, I don't see how that's actually possible.  Yes, you can be as close as moss on a rock, be intensely intimate, share everything.  To a point.  But there are still things, in my mind, that require my female best friend.  It's not that my partner wouldn't have listened, or helped if he could, but is he really going to want to discuss the minute details in diagnosing a yeast vs a bladder infection?  The chin hairs?  The yucky periods?  No, he isn't.  Unless he's an OB/GYN.

Plus, how are you going to complain, rag, or otherwise blow off the steam a partner can generate, if you don't have someone else to talk to?  Someone who understands that all you really need to do is vent about what an ass he is/has been/continues to be.  And if it comes down to those inevitable life changes, then you'll need that best friend to support you through the endings, and rejoice at your new beginnings.

On Sundays, nearly without fail, Jan (my BFF) and I talk on the phone.  She lives in a remote part of northern Idaho, I live on a mountain in southern Oregon.  We don't see each other much, but it doesn't matter, as long as we can talk.  Even for all the years I lived in Scotland, we still talked every week.  It's been many years since we both lived and worked in Seattle, but our BFF status has not changed, regardless of the miles, the countries or the years.

This morning, as I was walking the dogs, I was replaying part of our Sunday chat.  It got me thinking about our relationship; the stories and secrets we hold tight, about and for, each other.  When I'm about to tell her something serious, or secret, or a thing I would normally keep locked up in my head, I always start out with, "I would only tell you this..."  She does the same.  It's our code for I trust you and this goes no further.  No one knows more about me--for good or ill--than she does, and vice versa.

She can also make me laugh harder than anyone on the planet.  I, on the other hand, can make her laugh until she snorts, which she hates, but it always makes us laugh harder, makes her snort more, until we're both gasping for breath with stomach aches.  We can also ramble, digress, argue, cry and rage.  I love her like my sister.

Here is a small excerpt from our conversation on Sunday:

I'm bitching about some injustice or other, I can't remember what.  Just pick one, there are so many...

"But if we rose up as a people, we could take back America.  There are 200 million of us, and only a handful of them!"

"Start a movement.  A revolution."

"Can't see it."

"But if you got people fired up, maybe it would make a difference."

"Come on, that's pretty doubtful."

"Someone has to do it.  You could."  She paused.  "Although..."

"Although what?"

"Well, what if it went to your head and you turned into a dictator, a crazed Idi Amin, or some other wacko?"

I laugh.  "Do I seem like someone who would go nuts with power?"

"Hey, it happens all the time!  In fact, if you think about human history, it always happens."

"Seriously, you can picture me as a ruthless dictator?"

"Oh yeah."

"I'm totally offended!" I spout.  "I would never be ruthless."

"Maybe not at first, but once that power went to your head?  Watch out."

"Tell you what.  My first ruthless act will be to throw you in the deepest dungeon I can find!"

"See," she says smugly, "not even a real dictator, and already you're power mad."

Aftermath...revisited

NB:  After all my flim flamming yesterday, I don't know if this post was seen underneath all the reposts and deleted posts and rip-my-hair-out-until-I'm-bald posts.  Here it is again.  And I'm leaving the blog as it stands, for now.   I really have other things to do in my life besides dinking with a new design.  Really, I do.

*******************************************************************

I took the boys to the park this morning, first time since the river overflowed its banks last week. It's beautiful today, though that didn't explain all the activity at the park at 10:00am, especially on a Monday--usually a quiet day.

When a large group of shrieking, hysterical kidlets ran wildly past us on the trail, I put two and two together: Spring Break. Crap. The only thing worse than Toys 'Я Us at Christmas, is the sunny, warm first day of Spring Lunacy Madness Break. Don't get me wrong, I remember that feeling, that amazing sense of freedom, the almost taste of Summer in the air. But that was then, and this is now. Go away rebel hordes. Stop the screaming noise; quit running me off the path, I'm the adult; no, you can't lunge at my dog scaring the crap out of him, haven't your parents taught you how to approach a strange dog? And bloody hell, where are your parents anyway?

[Om, mani padme, hum....deep breath...inhale...deep breath...exhale. Enhance the calm.]

Going in the opposite direction, the boys and I had a nice meander along the river, away from the playground area, and the Harry Potter train (there's an actual locomotive permanently located at one end of the park. It's pretty cool and totally reminds me of the Hogarts train).

I took some photos--yeah, actually had the camera!!--now that the river has receded. It's still raging and roaring, though not overflowing like last week.

Before and Afters.

Just looking at the underside of the bridge gives you a idea of how much water there was...

Love this comparison...

Not only the slope, but the bank was inundated. It's pretty far down to the water here, though hard to tell with all the bushes and shrubs.

This is a good one from the rise. Last week that bench was nearly underwater; this morning there was a man and his dog sitting there.

Nature. You can only stand in awe. And get out of the way as fast as possible when you have to.

**********************************

Last evening, after a gloomy, rainy day, I was standing at the window looking out over the Valley as the sun was trying to break through a bank of clouds. Suddenly, a bright ray speared onto one of the lower ridges, lighting up a swath of green below--and the smoke from someone's backyard fire.

The Valley turns a vibrant, emerald green in the Spring. It's so beautiful--for a few short months, then it all turns brown for the next nine or ten. Ah well. I suppose, like everything else in life, we need the contrast between the dark and light, the good and bad, the...oh never mind, you know what I mean. Basically, without the brown, how could we appreciate the green?

Still Fiddling...

I'm beginning to feel like Nero: fiddle, fiddle, fiddle as Rome burns.  Though in this case, I think it's more along the lines of my blog is burning--and not on fire in a good way.

After making one last correction on a link and page tab, I will give up and set my bow and fiddle down.  Mainly because I've had enough already with this Blogger crap and can't take it anymore.

Oh, and ignore the new post of 100 Words.  I had to repost the frigging thing in order to get the link address.  Buggers.

100 Words...Dec 2011 - March 2012

Strange Bedfellows

March 24, 2012

"What are we going to do?"

They looked at the bed.

"We should never have let this happen," he said.

"He was a baby! I couldn't listen to him crying."

"I know," he frowned, "but we should have stopped when he got older."

"And he always wants the middle," she grumbled.

"He needs to go back to his own bed."

"Been there, tried that," she scoffed. "Seriously, what can we do?"

"Bunk beds?" he said, only half-joking.

"He couldn't climb to the top," she murmured, considering.

The large hound raised his head off the pillow, giving them an indulgent look.

*******************************************

Pity Party

3/19/2012

Sent out the party invitations
No one showed but me
Called the caterers, cancelled everything
Blew my nose, wiped my tears
Need to move on

Crybabies are a dime a dozen
So what if things are hard
Like that’s news?
Washed my face, looked in the mirror
Can I move on?

Scarlett knew
Tomorrow is another day
Instead of woe, my next party will have cupcakes
Square my shoulders, stand tall
Time to move on

The sunshine reminds me
Life is beautiful, even when most difficult.
I‘m going to take a moment now
Appreciating that fact
As I move on

*********************************************

Being of Two Minds
3/12/2012

“What are you doing?"

Silence.

“Come on, what are you doing?”

“Go away.”

“You’re trying that meditation crap again, aren’t you?”

“Go. Away.”

“It won’t work. I won’t let it.”

“Stop chattering. It will work.”

“No. If you clear your thoughts, where does that leave me?”

Silence.

“Helllooo, I know you’re there.” Laughter. “It’s not like you can hide.”

“Om mani padme, hum.”

“Like that’s going to help.”

“Quiet!”

“No! A thousand times no.”

Unfolding from the Lotus, scowling. “Fine. You win. I give up.”

A sigh, like smoke, drifted through her mind. “So, what should we think about instead?”

*********************************************

Not Such a Risky Business

3/01/2012

The sound hit him as he came into the house. Following the music to the living room, he took in the scene.

Her back to him, she was singing loudly into the duster as she did a long glide across the wood floor in her stocking feet.

He paused the CD player. She spun to face him in the abrupt silence.

“Channeling Tom Cruise?” he asked softly.

“Cleaning the house.” Grinning, breathless from exertion.

Her exuberance was compelling; unable to resist her, he kicked off his shoes.

“Got another…ah…microphone?” he asked.

“Here, take mine. My guitar solo is coming up.”


*********************************************

Valentine Memories
2/14/2012

She held the 48 Valentines, saved from every year they’d been together.

Reading in order, she could follow their journey. The early years, cards filled with joy and love; the lean, dry years, a small x and his name as they struggled through bitter, heartbroken times; the reconciliation and forgiveness years, love creeping back tenuously, frightened of rejection.

Her finger traced his unsteady handwriting, words scrawled painstakingly on the last card, his love as bright and certain as the first one he’d written.

Clutching the bundle to her chest, her tears fell softly, catching in the corners of her smile.


**********************************************

Valentine Gifts

2/14/2012

He drew her into his arms.

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“No,” he murmured, “you get to choose.”

He lowered his head, the kiss deep and true.

“Would you rather have chocolate, or my kiss?” he whispered over her lips.

Breathless, she raised her mouth for more; a perfect answer.

“Would you prefer flowers, or my touch?”

Soft moans as knowing hands caressed her curves; satisfied, he smiled.

Pressing her head gently into his chest. “Hear me?” Strong, rhythmic beats.

“Instead of paper hearts, will you have mine?” his voice rumbled in her ear.

She chose her gifts; no more questions.

*******************************************

The Universe
2/07/2012

“What does it all mean?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“This.” Waving her arms in big circles. “Life. The world. The universe.”

“Ah.” Philosophical quandary.

“We’re born, we live, we die,” she grumbled. “What’s the point?”

“The point is, I believe, that middle part.”

She scowled.

He looked at her, a long moment. “To live is to love, laugh, cry, feel. We don’t have to understand the universe, we just need to value our role within it.”

“How come you’re so smart?”

“I have to be, to keep up with you.”

His universe was in her beautiful smile.

******************************************

There and Back

2/01/2012

Rain under tires as the car eats the highway. Insulated in a warm cocoon, listening to vampires commit evil villainy on a CD while two wee dogs sleep in the backseat, oblivious.

Hours later, destination reached. Sister hugs; raucous, excited hysteria of dog brethren.

Long, wine-filled conversations over delicious food; appreciating the pleasure in talking with family while savoring a meal. Big city, favorite shops, a real bookstore. Nirvana.

Before we’re ready, back in the car; exhausted dogs, dreaming of their wild weekend. Lulled by the hum of the road, I cruise south, musing. Too fast the good times roll.

********************************************

Stories on Skin
1/21/2012

“That one?” Finger glide down the thin scar on her forearm.

“Sea urchin spine, off the coast of Kauai.”

“This?” She touched the scar above his temple.

“Underwater cave dive, Mexico.”

A gentle touch over the scar on her hip. “And this one?”

“Bad rappel at Yosemite.” He raised a brow. She shrugged. “60-mile wind gusts.”

They grinned at each other.

“What about this?” she asked, hand soft on the rough scar down his thigh.

“Racing. Going too fast, caught up in the speed.”

“Total the car?”

His eyes twinkled, smile flashed. “Nope. Just my bike. I was eight.”

********************************************

Staying Home

1/10/2012

“Want to do something tonight?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. A movie?”

“Captured audience, flu season, surrounded by coughing, hacking germ buckets who didn’t have the courtesy or sense to stay home? Don’t think so.”

“How about going out to dinner? There’s that new French bistro—”

“Just a different level of germ bucket.”

“Hmm.” Pause. “How long have we been together?”

“Since the dawn of time.”

Laughing, crawling into his lap, whispering in his ear, “Stands to reason that our germs must be sharing the same bucket by now, agreed?”

Juicy kisses.

"We'd better stay home where it's safe."

*******************************************

Love At First Sight
12/27/2011

Walking into the building, she did a quick scan. Her gaze stopped abruptly when their eyes locked.

He froze, afraid to move, to break the spell. Please, be here for me.

Love at first sight. Compelled, winding her way between the other people in the room, so focused the voices and sounds around her nothing more than meaningless babble.

When she stood in front of him, they stared at each other for a heartbeat before she dropped to her knees and pulled him into her arms. “This one,” she said, smiling up at the woman from the dog adoption center.

Cursing and Cookies

This little cartoon doesn't begin to show my actual degree of frustration, or the sound of the loud and creative cursing that scorched the air around my workspace as this afternoon progressed--and at least something has progressed today, besides my highly evolved and inventive gangsta mouth.

After many trials, and more tribulations than I can believe for just wanting the simple task of clicking on a page to read related posts, I have now--4 HOURS LATER--just figured out how to get the three chapters of the Imaginary Tale on the right sidebar.  However, the whole thing had to be reposted in the main body of the blog; too annoying for words.  Why did these stories have to be posted again, you ask?  Because the other day when I was fiddling around, experimenting with changing the blog, I was stupid (oh, so, so stupid), and deleted the originals from the archives.  Yeah, yeah, I know...just move on with your snorts and WTFs.  You couldn't possibly say anything that I haven't already said to myself...in graphic detail.

And after all the aggro, I'm not sure what I've accomplished.  Well, I do like the story in a place all its own, though future installments will still have to be posted first in the main blog so I can get the direct link address before I can add it to the Imaginary Tale page.   I know there must be a better way, and I've seen some blogs that are so perfectly what I want...I just can't figure out how to do it. 

This blasted process has taken so long to figure out, I just threw my 100 Words into their corner of the room, and grouped the stories by month.  Frankly, Scarlett... Oh, and did I forget to mention?  When I put all the posts together?  Yeah, you know where I'm going with this, right?  Uh huh...I deleted the originals.  If there's anything I've learned today people: don't ever, ever, do that.

I'm going now.  I need to eat some cookies, many, many cookies.  Maybe someday I will figure out how to do what I want here...or Blogger will add a handy, spiffy, simple gadget that will make sense.  I live in hope...

Pilgrims Progress

Part Three

Thursday, March 22, 2012

The howl of the wind was a distant murmur as he stood mesmerized by eyes like polished emeralds, a green so deep Will wasn’t sure there was a name for such a color; her dark lashes framed them in exquisite contrast. He couldn’t decide if her skin was actually the burnished tone of raw honey, or if she had come from somewhere below the Equator, where the sun was still hot enough to tan human hides. The long ear flaps on her native hat kept her hair hidden, though as the wind whipped the corded ties, he could see tendrils of rich mahogany. But it was her mouth that was killing him, making him weak-kneed and stupid as he stared. Full, lush. When she began chewing on her bottom lip, he wanted to fall at her feet, begging.

“What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?” the woman said, her eyes suddenly wary, her body tense, stiffening, though there was nowhere to go, or room to maneuver.

“Ah…” Will shook his head, hard. “Sorry. I can’t—” A sudden, violent gust of bitter wind slammed into them, jarring them both. It was the slap of reality he needed to get moving. Quickly he spun her around to face the rock wall, and spoke urgently into her ear, trying his best to ignore how she felt as he pressed into her back.

“I’m going to boost you high enough to get over the edge and onto the path. Stay flat on the ground until I pull myself up.”

The wind was savage, gaining in speed and intensity, and the light was fading. Will knew they had to get to the shelter soon. “Ready?” At her nod, he grabbed her hips and lifted her as far above his head as he could. When the full weight of her body slackened, he moved his hands down to her calves, heaving her the rest of the way onto the trail. “You okay?” he shouted.

On her stomach, she crawled to the edge to peer down at him. “Yes,” she said, her smile tentative as if she wasn’t exactly sure. “I might just stay on my belly for awhile though, if it’s all the same to you.”

Will chuckled as he easily hauled himself up the rope. Loosening it from the boulder, he sat on the ground next to her, wound it into tight loops, then strapped it back onto his pack. The wind was relentless now, cold and serious.

With the danger past, and on safe footing, they stared at each other for a moment, then Will said softly, “I think after all that excitement, we should maybe introduce ourselves.”

“Eva Wilder,” she said, “and you?”

“Will Donovan.”

With an easy smile, Will stood, holding out his hand to her. “There’s a shelter of sorts up ahead." Looking into the sky, judging how much time they had, he adjusted his pack between his shoulders and said, “We should hurry.”

She let him pull her to her feet, but before he turned away, she put a hand on his arm. “I don’t know how to thank you. You saved my life.” He could feel her fingers tighten, digging in, saw the flash of fear that crossed her face. Placing a hand over hers, he said quietly, “It was just pure luck I was behind you on the trail.”

Her eyes roamed over his face, searching. “Was it?” she murmured.

“What do you mean?”

Shaking her head, she bent to retrieve his walking stick. Admiring it for a brief moment, she handed it to him with a half smile. “Bet there’s a story behind this.”

“You have no idea.”

When another strong gust had her swaying against its force, Will again took her hand, and began to walk steadily up the trail, determined to find that shelter as quick as possible.

**********************************************

An hour later, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, reveling in the warmth, and the relief of being out of the wind, Eva watched Will. He was big, strong, and seemed very confident and self-sufficient. His hair was dark, long, tousled from the wind; his eyes were blue, like the sky just as evening comes. There was no hardship in watching him move.

There had been a small stash of kindling and wood--along with some dried, cake-like things that Will said was Yak dung--stacked near a shallow fire pit in the stone floor. The cleft had turned out to be a surprisingly roomy small cave, and no doubt had provided shelter to many generations of indigenous people trekking these mountain trails. Will had put the tent in the back to take advantage of the residual heat as the fire warmed the rock walls, and was now digging in his pack for food.

With a dark scowl, he pulled out a narrow, flat stone, about ten inches long, two dehydrated packets of soup, and a bottle of water. Positioning the stone in the fire, he carefully propped it against a small log to keep it slanted. Eva watched with interest, though wondered what he was upset about.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

Will looked across the fire at her, frown deepening. “It’s just occurred to me that you have no food, no pack, no gear.” He fairly growled, “What the hell are you thinking, coming out here, into these mountains, without proper gear?”

Calmly, Eva met his scowl with a cool amusement. The slight curl in the corner of her mouth seemed to add fuel to Will’s anger. His eyes burned with a fierce light as he glared at her. Quietly, she asked, “What makes you think I don’t have gear? Or that I’m unprepared?”

He snorted, waving his hand, the gesture encompassing the whole of her.

“Ah,” she said, “in your world, then, what you see is what you get?”

Will narrowed his eyes. He ran a sharp gaze over her. She was still wearing the hat, and a native coat and long full skirt over a pair of jeans. Under the coat he could see a thick wool sweater, and her hiking boots were sturdy, well-worn and cared for. Eva sat still under his scrutiny, though the curl had turned into a broad grin by the time he was finished.

“You might be dressed reasonably, for a short hike,” he conceded, “but not for doing the three week Annapurna Circuit.”

She watched as he made a slit in one of the food packets, poured in some water, then laid it against the hot stone in the fire. “I like that,” she said, nodding toward his improvised cook stove. “The Aborigines use a similar method to cook food, though not with prepared meals in packages, of course.”

Reaching inside her coat, she rummaged for a moment, then brought out a small, folded square of what looked to Will like something wrapped in a leaf. He watched as she peeled back the green frond and couldn’t help leaning closer to see what she was doing. “When the soup is ready, we can sprinkle some of these seeds into the mix. They'll add some zing, and are rich in calories.”

“So you carry weird spices in your coat. That hardly qualifies as a major food group.”

With a deep sigh, Eva got to her feet. “I will expect a heartfelt, truly sincere apology when I’m done,” she said. “I wouldn’t bother justifying myself to anyone else, but considering you saved my life and all…”

First in confusion, followed swiftly by amazement, then finally a jaw-dropping disbelief, Will watched her slowly shed a steady accumulation of packaged food, utensils, water, spare clothing--socks, underwear and two tee shirts--a book, journal, maps, several strange packets like the spices, a small pistol, bullets, folding knife, compact flashlight, space blanket, iodine tablets, antibiotics, first aid kit, and just when he thought there couldn’t possibly be one more thing, she lifted her skirt, dug in the back pocket of her jeans, and pulled out a silver flask.

Sitting down, she screwed off the cap, had a good swallow, then handed it across the fire to Will. He took the flask without hesitation, and took a long swig of a potent and extremely good whiskey, letting the fire burn down his throat while his eyes held hers. There was no way he could miss the smirk, and honestly, he deserved it.

Moving slowly around the fire, he crouched down, giving her back the flask. “I am humbled by your astounding ability to carry the equivalent of a hefty backpack on your person.” He shook his head, eyes raking over the gear heaped next to her. “I sincerely apologize, heartfelt and true.”

Eva smiled.“Very nice.” Then, raising a shapely brow, she said, “So, what you see isn’t necessarily all there is?”

“Not by any means,” he whispered, carefully leaning toward her, giving her time to stop him please don't stop me before putting a hand on her nape to pull her closer, wanting to taste that smile, needing to feel her mouth. He didn’t know who she was, what she would become to him, but he had saved her life, and according to some philosophies, she now belonged to him. And he just might be fine with that.

The Dreaming

Part Two

Friday, March 16, 2012

The plane landed with a jarring impact, bumping wildly on the tarmac. Eva was jerked sharply forward in her seat, the belt digging into her abdomen as she threw out her arms, bracing her hands against the back of the seat in front of her. It wasn’t enough that she’d been traveling for days, sleeping fitfully in stiff, plastic airport chairs while waiting for the next long flight as she crossed the world, but now with her destination in sight, the plane felt like it was going to sail right off the runway and crash into the Australian Bush.

Sighing with relief when the small twin-engine plane came to an abrupt stop, she unfastened the belt, grabbed her pack, and waited impatiently for the door to open. When it did, the furnace blast of heat that slammed into the confined space made her body instantly break out in sweat, while her mouth went dry with thirst. Stepping out onto the blistering asphalt, Eva could barely make out the entrance to the airport through the thick, undulating heat waves. How could it possibly be this hot so early in the day?Quickly pulling her sunglasses out of a shirt pocket, she covered her eyes from the intense glare and made her way to what she hoped was going to be an air-conditioned airport.

Wrong, again. The metal blades, whirling inside the old-fashioned wire cage of the fan sitting on the car rental counter, did nothing more than blow the hot pockets of hellfire into her already sweltering face.

A smile from the young, pretty Aboriginal woman behind the counter was cheerful, and sympathetic, as she looked at Eva. “You are not used to such heat?” she asked.

Wiping a hand across her forehead, Eva returned the smile. “Is anyone?”

The woman—Arika it said on her nametag—laughed, a soft chime of notes. “Let me hurry to assist you, so you may find coolness away from here.” She waited, then gave Eva an inquiring look.

“Oh, sorry,” Eva muttered, digging in the inside pocket of her hiking shorts for her passport and car reservation. Handing them over, she took a moment to breathe through the buzzing in her senses, trying to clear the surreal haze in her mind from days of travel, hours without sleep; the disjointed reality of being continents away from where she’d been just a short time ago.

When Arika cleared her throat, she realized a question had been asked. “I’m so sorry, it’s been a very long…ah, few days,” she finished lamely.

“I was just asking if you were staying here in Kalkirindji, or driving to a different destination.”

Wearily Eva said, “With any luck, I hope to be in a nice, cold shower later today at Kununurra.I’ve booked a hotel room there, but my goal is the Outback. I guess you could say I’m on a personal quest.”

Eyes wide, Arika said, “But you are not traveling alone?”

“Yes.”

“But, alone?”

Frowning, Eva said, “Is there a problem? I’m a very skilled hiker, and though I'm going to have to get used to this heat, I know better than to go anywhere without plenty of water, and I have the latest maps, if you’re thinking I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Arika stared at Eva for a long, speculative moment, apparently making up her mind about something. Briskly nodding her head, she grabbed a small piece of paper and quickly wrote down a name and address, handing it to Eva with a flourish.

Eva stared at the note, then raised her head, questions ready to tumble from her lips, but Arika spoke first. “You are here to walk the songlines. I see it in your eyes. But you need a guide. A woman guide. The songs are different for us, not like the songs for men. And you must never walk the songs alone when you are following the Dreaming. This woman lives on the outskirts of Kununurra; she knows more about songlines than any other.”

Eva was startled. She was on a journey, a search for purpose, trying to understand her past, the sad horrible dead past she couldn’t move away from. She had been deep into a bitter Chicago winter, living in a frozen world that reflected her spirit, her heavy heart, the despair eating at her, body and soul, when a television program had set her on this path. The Australian Outback. A vast, beautiful, ethereal, magical place, far removed from memories, death and anguish. She had leaped to her feet, heart pounding, suddenly knowing exactly what she had to do.

When Arika spoke again, Eva shook her head, bringing herself back from that shocking moment—was it truly just five days ago?—when she'd changed the course of her life. “Sorry...again. My mind's a bit foggy at the moment,” Eva apologized. Tucking the note into a pocket, she asked, “If I decide to call her, should I say you sent me?”

Arika shook her head. “She probably already knows you're coming.” Smiling, she said brightly, “You will like my auntie.” Her smile deepened. “Eventually.”


*********************************************

Many weeks later, Eva and Darri--the woman guiding Eva along the Dreaming tracks--were sitting on the ground, across from each other, the campfire between them illuminating the lines and grooves that covered the wizened old woman’s face. Her eyes were button-black, shot through with flickering red from the flames as she glowered at Eva.

Darri’s intense stares and blunt questions had bothered, irritated and outraged Eva many times over the course of their trek, but now she had grown accustomed to her ways. Eva had also recently come to realize that she had a more profound relationship with this brusque, no-nonsense old woman than she'd had with anyone else in her life. Darri had become her sister, her mother, her grandmother. It would be hard to leave when the time came.

“Tell me what you have learned, little lizard,” Darri said abruptly.

“Can you be more specific? I’ve learned so many things.”

Snorting, Darri snapped, “Tell me what you have learned, little lizard.” She narrowed her eyes, “And I will see when you try to burrow into the sand.”

Eva started to laugh, but noticed the scowl and bit her tongue. This was a serious question and she owed Darri a thoughtful, serious answer.

“I know how to live off the land, how to find food and water when it appears there is none.I can read the stars to find my way.” She lifted her eyes, taking in the glorious sight of the myriad lights twinkling overhead, unobstructed by man’s artifice. “I have walked on the woman’s path with you; I know the song and the land are one, and the Dreaming is the spirit of the people.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I will never forget this, Darri,” she whispered.

There was silence for a time, Darri’s piercing gaze never wavering from Eva's face, until finally she shook her head and barked, “But what have you learned?”

“Well, I…” she hesitated, unsure.“I just told you.”

A loud tsk of sound between her teeth. “Have you found your purpose? Is your path clear to you? Has your heart found its rhythm? Do you see where you’re going when this Walking is over? Is your mind unclouded?”

Eva stared at the old woman, her sense of renewal, of healing, dissipating faster than smoke up a chimney. She fought the swamping awareness of defeat washing over her in painful, oh so familiar waves, but her tears welled up from deep inside and she was helpless to stop them.

Gently, Darri said, “You must come out of the burrow, frightened little lizard.”

Crying now, her misery and despair returning with a vengeance, she begged, “Tell me what I’m supposed to do. How do I find my way? Help me, please.”

Shaking her head, sorrow in her eyes, Darri said, “I cannot. You must find the way for yourself.” As Eva continued to sob, she came around the fire and put her arms around the weeping woman, rocking her slowly as the night deepened, and the fire burned to embers.

Quiet, the night sounds muted by the enormity of the landscape, Darri whispered into Eva’s ear, “I will tell you this: I see much snow and cold. Your destiny waits for you, in a strange, hostile land where the mountains pierce the sky.”

Eva sniffed, wiped her sleeve across her damp eyes, and murmured, “I’m supposed to climb Mount Everest?”

Darri chuckled.“No, the Ancestors wouldn’t be so foolish. But there is a place, a different Dreaming, where many seek answers. If you open your eyes, see with your heart, you might find yours.” She gave Eva a soft, gentle kiss in the center of her forehead; it felt like a blessing. “Our time is done, little lizard. Tomorrow our paths will cross no more.”

Pilgrimage

Part One

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Will tramped up the steep incline, eyes lifted to his destination: the distant snow capped peaks, and the pass at Thorong-La. He was hiking solo, though earlier had stopped in a small village, taking a short break with a group of German trekkers who were going in the opposite direction, heading back down to earth after breathing the rarefied air three miles above sea level.

He had chosen early December for a reason—less people, still fairly good weather—and after a heated discussion, he’d managed to travel without the guide the Nepal Tourism Board had tried to foist on him. Solitude was crucial for this pilgrimage; his sanity was at stake as he struggled in a seemingly endless quest for his raison d’etre. He was weary, his spirit languishing, fading like a tiny firefly captured in a Mason jar.

Instead of meditating, as he usually did while hiking, he let his mind chatter, drift, travel where it wished as his long legs easily climbed the mountain path.

Years, so many years on the road. Searching…for what? Enlightenment, understanding? After the accident—No. He stopped on the trail, forcing his mind away from that pain, those memories. His hand gripped the walking stick with a grim, white-knuckled resolve as sweat beaded on his brow. Dropping his head, he took a long, deep breath, stomach tightening, knotting, until the carvings on the stick caught his attention.

They were intricate, symbolic, laden with significance, ensorcelled with protective charms. The shaman of the small African tribe in Kenya where he’d stayed for several months had become a friend; had worried over him, given him the walking stick to aid him on his journey, real and spiritual. Will had carried it for over ten years now, an extension of his arm, an integral part of his life. He smiled, ran his hand down the swirls and glyphs, each one charged with purpose, thankful he’d had such a friend to give him this treasured gift.

Calm now, composed, he shifted the pack on his back, straightened his spine and continued his ascent.

Getting into the zone, one foot following the other, his thoughts again wandered, taking him to India and the small orphanage where he’d helped with the children, their awe at his size, long hair and low, deep voice that mesmerized. Japan, and the ancient Buddhist monks, welcoming a giant into their midst, then smiling shyly behind their hands when he insisted on cooking, too polite to mention his rice was sticky and half raw. Spain, traveling with the Basque in their colorful caravans, dancing wild in the moonlight around roaring fires. Harvesting grapes in France, olives and lemons in Italy, herding reindeer in Iceland, farming salmon in Norway. He’d been around the world, lived in ashrams, communes, monasteries, tribal villages, igloos and huts. Yet still he searched, still he remained a nomad. Homeless. Alone.

When a sharp, cold breath of wind slapped his hair into his eyes, he looked up from the trail and realized as he’d been steadily climbing, the weather had changed, growing dark with clouds though it was just early afternoon. He increased his pace, knowing from a conversation with one of the German hikers that there would be a shelter coming up, a natural cleft in the rock, big enough for his one-man tent where he could light a fire and spend the night off the trail.

Rounding a bend, he was surprised to see a figure ahead of him, buffeted by the force of the wind. The person was slight, possibly a native woman judging by her colorful dress and jacket. Then he frowned, narrowing his eyes to get a clearer picture. Local women didn’t wear western jeans under their dresses. He took a deep breath to shout out his presence when a strong gust slammed into the woman, tipping her off balance. He watched, stunned, as she toppled off the trail and disappeared over the edge.

“Oh shit,” he barked, racing to the spot where she’d dropped from sight, certain he would see her shattered body lying in the ravine far, far below the mountain path. His mouth fell open in astonishment when he peered over the brink to see the woman, several feet below him, legs dangling over the side of an outcropping barely wide enough to hold her slim upper body. Her fingers were white, the bones nearly coming out of her skin as she gripped the crumbling edge of the stone with every ounce of strength she had, her breath rasping in short, hard bursts of terror.

“Hold on! I’m coming!” Will yelled, ripping open a Velcro strap on his backpack that held a mountaineering rope.

She jerked in surprise to hear his voice, nearly letting go of her precarious hold. Scrabbling to maintain her purchase, she cried out, “Oh, god, please hurry!”

Quickly securing the rope to a large boulder, he made a loop with the other end, wrapping it around his waist, preparing to rappel down to the woman. “Okay,” he said evenly, though anxiety was laced through his voice, “here I come.”

He carefully edged over the rim, the wind briefly knocking him off track, but his correction was immediate and he swiftly dropped the short distance, angling behind her. Wrapping a strong arm around her hips, he tried to pull her upright into his body, but she wouldn’t budge. “Let go now,” he said in her ear. She shook her head. He gave her body a hard tug, breaking her grip. Before she could reattach herself to the stone, he swung them both onto the outcropping, pressing her into the rock face as they knelt to catch their breath.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his large frame tucked over hers, sheltering her from the worst of the wind, her heart hammering through her body into his chest.

“On so many levels, it just doesn’t bear thinking about,” she sighed, her voice muffled as she rested her head against the rock.

Will blinked. What? “How about this,” he said, “are you hurt from your fall?”

“No, just some scrapes.”

“Okay, let’s get off this rock and back on the trail, then I can look at your scrapes.” He carefully stood, bringing her up with him, the path level with the top of his head. It would be quick work to get them off this ledge.

Shifting his stance, he adjusted his arms to boost her up, but she turned, giving him his first clear look at her face. As their eyes met, his world suddenly tilted, his inner axis throwing him so far off balance he felt his knees begin to buckle, his heartbeats a deafening roar in his ears, drowning out the strengthening howl of the wind.

Technical Difficulties

Well, technically, no difficulties as yet, but after I get done trying to reconfigure things?  Who knows...

I have an idea in my head of how I want my new pages to look, but so far, it's not working.  Either Blogger isn't capable of doing it, or I need an actual web site.  I used to have a web site, years ago, and though it was cool, I don't really want to dink around and/or pay money for a domain, hosting, blah, blah.  And I like Blogger, for the most part.

So.  I'm going to fiddle, on this rainy, dismal (perfect) Sunday afternoon, and see what I can do about making my blog look the way I'd like it to.  The flip side is I totally destroy everything, in which case, it was nice knowing y'all...

A River Runs Through It

Out walking the critters this morning, I met that old guy and his dog (from the post about Appearances).  We crossed paths at the top of the rise overlooking the river, which has dropped about ten feet since yesterday.  He told me it had rained, in a monumental torrent, for 38 hours straight, some kind of record for southern Oregon.  Interesting factoid, though even so, it seemed longer to me. 

While we were talking, I couldn't help surreptitiously checking out his earlobes after that offhand comment he'd made last week. And guess what??  He really did wear earrings at some point in time--he had three holes in one ear and two in the other!!  Honestly, go figure.

*****************

Some photos of the overflowing Umpqua River:

Two days prior, the boys and I were walking on the other side of those trees.  The electrical box (in the lower right corner) is usually many feet from the riverbank, and the bank is about five feet above the river.

Straight ahead in this shot.  I was standing on the very edge of the rushing water, amazed by the sheer volume of what is really rainfall.

The view looking down river.  The little bridge looks so low to the water.  Just as I turned away after taking this shot, there was a loud, M-80 crack of sound, which actually made me jump.  I quickly looked toward the bridge to see that an enormous log had smashed into one of the bridge supports.  It was caught briefly in the turmoil, then with a grinding scrape, it jerked free and shot down the river.  I tried to get a picture, but I was on the wrong side of the trees and it happened too fast.   

The boys like to sniff and cavort around those large shrub-like trees in the middle-ish part of this picture, I think because of squirrels, or maybe just in the hope of squirrels.  The water is nowhere near these bushes on a regular day.

I'm up on the rise in this shot, the same rise where I bumped into the old guy this morning.  If you look close, you can see the park bench.  Your feet would be getting very wet if you were sitting there yesterday.  The walking trail, though it affords a nice view of the water, isn't close to the bank at all.  In fact, in front of the bench, there's a long stretch of grass, the trees, then a steep drop (5-6 feet maybe) to the water...usually.

Our walk takes us past one side of the golf course.  This is the 16th Hole, I think, judging by where the clubhouse is--two flags from this spot. 

The only two brave enough to get out on the course...(click to see better)

Last night at the gloaming, I glanced out a window that overlooks the Valley, I was struck by the shine of water that shouldn't be there.  Off to the right, behind my trees, the river is visible most of the time, but that other water?  Doesn't belong.

Closer view.  Hope the new vineyard down there hasn't lost any of their newly planted stock.

One funny part in all this flooding had to be the dogs.  They just could not wrap their heads around what was going on at the park.  They have such a routine--pee, sniff, pee, sniff, pee, pee, sniff, sniff, sniff--that having half their territory underwater just didn't compute.  Ozzy walked the line of lapping water, trying to figure out how to pee on his favorite tree, a tree ten feet into rushing water; Max wanted no part of any of it and kept pulling his leash to head for higher ground.

When we got home, this is how Max dealt with the trauma:  He snagged one of his toys, went to his spot on the couch, tucked it under his chin, and took a long nap, no doubt hoping all would make sense again when he woke up.

Ozzy, on the other hand, went on guard duty.  Good god, someone has to be paying attention!!  That water stuff might just be coming up the mountain!!

Poor boys. It's hard when the unexpected happens in their world.