May you hold them fast; and just loosely enough to enjoy every moment and not be plagued by expectations they will last or fail.
May you be gob-smacked by beauty frequently enough to rise every morning in anticipation and close each evening with a sigh of content; and have hard work enough placed in your path to keep you rooted firmly in reality.
May your soul be always limber enough to dance; and your spirit strong to love.
May you have equal parts romance and intellect so you never have to choose between the two.
Say yes to bliss. But what exactly is bliss? Perfect weather? A perfect temperature? A breath-taking scene? The best of company? A perfectly tuned and resolved Picardy third playing on eardrums and heartstrings? Once one knows what bliss feels like, one wants to experience it again and again. The challenge for each individual who desires a perfect day is to find what activities have in them the potential for bliss.
***
She rose at 5:45 am, which was not to early and not too late in the total scheme of things. This allowed a little time for thinking and the nourishment of a small, wholesome, bowl of oatmeal well-endowed with nuts and dates and raisins. This provided time for washing her face and popping in her contacts and pulling on shorts and a tank and still making it out for a morning walk before the summer heat of the day. The morning world was glorious. A hearty rain had fallen overnight to refresh all the living things and wash off the inanimate concrete and pavement and walls. It was not quite time for sunglasses for the sun was still on the other side of the mountain. She hiked half a mile or so up the nature trail, and even though she was the uphill traffic, she stepped aside quickly into a sagebrush when she heard steps thundering down the trail. It was either a puppy on the loose or a novice bicyclist. But, no, it was a doe, startled also to see a two-legged creature, polite, inquisitive. She and the deer observed the COVID rules of etiquette, stepping aside, leaving inquiring distance between. The doe was more curious than the human. The human merely wanted to protect herself in the bush in case the deer startled and charged. They passed without incident. But there wasn’t a lama between them – it was probably more like 4 feet. Just like two humans who cannot judge distance. She reached the top of the hill. She gazed across the valley and the vista and headed back down. At a particularly lovely juncture in the trail she thought: You know what would be pure bliss? To take the Purple Mohawk off Silver Girl and put her in the water. The kayak has been drydocked atop the automobile more than a month. It is a lovely day. My toe and my bruised rib are feeling no pain. Yes. I will choose bliss. I will take the kayak out on the river.
But first, a new piano student at 10:00 am. And second, a practice session at the keyboard. A bit of lunch whilst walking about the kitchen and filling the water reservoir. A two and a half mile drive to the put-in and finally, boat on the water. She prefers to climb aboard from the left side, probably a residual habit from riding a horse as a youngster – or maybe mounting a bicycle. Turns out this is not such a good idea when the river is running high and muddy. There is a first time for everything and it was the first time – and hopefully the last – she swamped the purple mohawk, and had to drag her out of the water and pull the plug and drain her – before even taking a stroke with the paddle. As a consequence, she was now soaked to her armpits. But it was a warm day and the water felt good. She paddled a few bends upstream. She floated all the way back downstream. She replaced the Purple Mohawk on top Silver Girl and returned home. After cleaning up nicely, she ascended the Sky Steps (all 500 of them) to the college once more and attended an end of music camp concert, something she saw on Instagram. The type of concert where the instructors and pros play with the students and it warms the cockles of your heart and gives you goosebumps. And when she got home at 5:30 and fixed herself a hot meal she thought, Now that was a perfect day!
***
How to have a perfect day? Say yes to bliss. Do you know what the potential for bliss looks like for you? If not, you can begin by saying yes to opportunity – to as many invitations and experiences as possible. Just say yes. Eventually you’ll get it figured out.
While it is true she was thinking too much again – as was her habit. It was also true she kept putting one foot in front of the other – plodding but steady – continually moving forward. Today she was taking a hike, breathing deep; strong snuff breaths taken in through the nostrils, exhaled through the mouth, exercising her lungs. The focus was on using her lungs, not depending on her heart to do all the hard work. But still, she couldn’t help thinking about her heart. Inevitably, when she hiked in the great outdoors, her heart got involved. Today was no exception. Was it the sheer beauty, the majestic mountains, the crystal-clear creek, that stirred her passions, made her long for more, piqued her desire to open her whole being and consume and be consumed by loveliness – or was it love she desired?
What she wanted, more than anything, was a relationship like this trail. It was rocky. It was stony. It was anything but smooth. It was uphill and downhill and uphill again. It was sunny. It was stormy. It was sometimes difficult and other times a breeze. There were bridges to cross and mountains to climb – real mountains, not molehills. There were mosquitos, pesky, annoying nuisances, and gnats – but not all the time – and not if she kept moving. There were bears of which to beware and other reasons to sing and announce one’s presence. Her heart was singing and longing for ever more beauty. Miraculously, the trail delivered! She crossed streams and got her feet wet. She balanced on logs with the aid of hiking poles. It was not without challenge. It was tough – but beautiful. And she found herself asking, pleading, petitioning for a relationship just like this trail. A Trail Relationship, not a Trial Relationship. A relationship where no matter what difficulties one encountered, the relationship was always beautiful. Rugged. But beautiful at every step, the entire length of the journey.
A trail like a marriage, or a marriage like a trail – beautiful from the get-go – keeps getting better, ups, downs, rocky places, no regrets, always beauty.
He was a guard on the varsity basketball team, one of five starters on the first ever Warrior, the first senior class, the first Central High School – at that time housed in the WPA building on 29 Road. At 5’6” he weighed 125 pounds. He was sharp and attentive and rightfully earned the nickname “Live Wire.” They were a scrappy team, they exercised sportsmanship. That was 71 years ago.
He was the coach at Olathe Junior High and then Clifton and later Bookcliff Junior High He was well-loved. He coached a winning church basketball team. That was in the decade known as the 60s. As a player or as a coach of multiple sports he understood two important principles: Keep your eye on the ball. Tuck that football into you so you don’t fumble.
We’re taking a stupendous road trip, this 88-year-old erstwhile athlete and I. We’re enjoying the vast farmland and calculating the worth of cattle herds and mammoth irrigation systems in Wyoming and Idaho and Montana and eastern Washington. When I was young, and yes, this is a trip of memories, we always counted the cattle on a thousand hills and claimed them for Dad’s ranch. After all, he was raised on farms and ranches and he understands the value of each haystack and each cow.
When we reach Montana, I am smitten by the mountains and conifers and lakes and rivers. Though I like to think of myself as finally in my prime and I also pride myself on averaging three miles of hiking or walking each day, we are not traveling alone. My 88-year-old father and I are accompanied by our own private wilderness guide and martial arts devotee in the person of my 32-year-old daughter. She drives, and does our cooking for us, and is there to pick us up if we fall. I am the planner and navigator – a baton I have inherited from my father – although he still figures the gas mileage and total cost and suggests routes.
Night three of our road trip, we stayed in a beautiful alpine-like cabin. I packed and unpacked. Andrea chopped wood, lit the fireplace, and cooked. Dad sat in the recliner and did the books and composed an email to my brother on his laptop. Yes, we are all internet savvy and each hauled along our essential Macbook Pro for various uses.
Next morning I readied myself for a morning exploration of the exquisite mountain property; the pond, the spring, the evergreen trees, the creek-sized river running through the lower regions. Dad announced that he would go out and walk around the cabin while I was out. The ground and steps from car to cabin were uneven and slick with an overnight skiff of snow. Dad has limited vision with his coke-bottle glasses and macular degeneration. I pondered for one quick moment and determined to accompany him on a walk first and then return him to the safety of the recliner before I meandered further.
We walked down the decline. He wanted to do it himself. Without help. He didn’t want to take my hand lest he fall and pull me down. I showed him how to use his walking stick with one hand and place his other hand on my shoulder. We walked down to the pond with ease and stood contemplating on the tuffets of grass at the bank. The grass was the color of golden wheat, not yet greening for the spring; the buds on the weeping willow trees and cottonwoods so chartreuse they look neon yellow against the pine trees; the bare stems of the infant willow switches a brilliant red. The day was chilly and frosty like an old-fashioned root beer mug placed in the freezer overnight.
We turned and headed our laborious trudge back up the hill, always moving forward – sometimes at an imperceptible pace. Scattered about our feet were ostrich egg sized pinecones – newly fallen and still red brown. I spied a perfect one. Stooping, I picked it up for closer examination but fumbled it off my cold fingers. Dad snatched it out of the air, cradling it securely to him like a mini football.
“Well look there,” he said proudly with delight. Once again, it’s Dad for the win!
When the Universe speaks, I try to listen. Winter cometh. I offer this reprise:
A Trickle or a Flood, June 7, 2016 She sat on the banks of the muddy San Juan, in the shadow of a bighorn sculpture and watched the river roll away lazily to the Southwest. It made her long for the beach. That is where the river was headed, after all – to join the mighty Colorado at Lake Powell and finally empty into the Pacific Ocean.
But she knew something the river did not yet know; it would never make it to the ocean. It was headed for the beach, but along the way destined to recreate, irrigate, hydrate, relax and refresh millions of people. Somewhere, 50 miles or so short of the Gulf of California, the river would trickle to a stop.
So she pondered this truncation, this travesty, this unavoidable change of plans people foisted on the river and she asked herself, “How are you doing on your own bucket list? Are you headed for the beach? And whether you ever make it to the beach, will you restore and refresh and recreate and relax? How much of you will be absorbed and diverted into the schemes and needs of others? How much of the landscape of your life will you beautify along the way?”
Live. Love. Laugh. Learn. You do not know if your end will be part of a cataclysmic flood or simply trickle away.
San Juan River, Bluff Utah, May 2016
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
