A Trek Around the Vineyard

I walked the perimeter of Martha’s Vineyard last October, over four consecutive days. Walking six to seven hours a day; covering between 12-15 miles at a stretch. I went from Lake Tashmoo, through Menemsha, around Aquinnah, along South Beach, across Chappaquiddick, and finished in Oak Bluffs. The second day coincided with my 60th birthday, and I felt good about that.

There were lots of things I felt good about during and after the walk, but there was also the physical toll and waves of emotion that created different kinds of feelings and reflections. The walk was deeper than a bucket-list adventure check-off (though I had been thinking of doing it for years). It was more of a trek, a journey. A dialogue with myself, birds eavesdropping.  

This is the story a venture out into the world and an accomplishment adorned with a little bit of insight. History and future saddle-bagged each step. Laughter, tears. My inside joke as the miles piled up, “How did you get there? I walked.”

My past includes visiting the island since I was in diapers with my family for vacations, usually staying on Ocean Park. I also lived there for summers as a worker when I was older, and stayed year-round in the mid-eighties working professionally as a social worker.

But the Vineyard was always a presence. Idealized place? Somewhat, but working and spending a winter tempered it a bit. Plus, my whole family was familiar with the island, and the dynamics went beyond simple vacations together, we brought the baggage of the outside world. Thoughts and feelings about family rolled in with the tide.

Ultimately, the days ended up melding family history and today. Step by step, some stretches more contemplative than others, the past walked into the present. 

I’ll tell you about 4 days, some of the minutes and hours. Minutes spent slipping across what I call rock fields and hours spent in trance-like, non-drug induced states. The whole trip added up to a total that was greater than the sum of its parts.

DAY 1, October 4: Lake Tashmoo to Menemsha

Rain. Woke up in my comfy Air BNB hoping that the forecast was wrong, but it was spot on and the rain was steady. Ate biscuits and drank strong coffee. Made a note in my journal to the effect that I was glad I was getting started but really anxious about whether I was ready physically.

My training for the walk, back in Cleveland, was very limited. I battled Plantar Fasciitis all summer and the longest walk I took in a trekking style (i.e., not wandering on dog walks) was three miles. That’s it.

I concluded that the walk was going to have to be done on willpower, stubbornness, and fear of looking silly after talking it up. Everyone I talked to thought it was cool I was doing it, but I didn’t want to have to explain if it didn’t happen.

I filled my backpack with stuff that included a gallon of water, tuna and crackers, extra socks, a small first aid kit, notebook, pen, phone, map, Swiss Army knife, and (wishful-thinking for day 1) sandals.

Then I put on my new raincoat and called the Uber. My destination was the west side of Lake Tashmoo, where Chappaquosett Road ends.

The driver was a Jamaican woman, and we had a nice conversation. Of course, she wanted to know what I was up to and I babbled a bit about journey and desire, and laid out my walking plan. As we drove through the rain and veered off Lambert’s Cove Road onto the final stretch of dirt roads to Tashmoo, I told her I was bummed about the rain. She paused and gave me a gift of words that stuck with me all day, acting as a mantra when the driving rain was at its worst. She said, “The rain gonna do what it do, you just do what you gonna do.” Bam. I got out of the car and walked onto the beach.  

Two words encapsulate day 1: rain and rocks. The coast heading southwest from Tashmoo is rocks with rocky rocks on top. Of rocks. I so welcomed short stretches of sand. But I did find a new friend in spongy clumps of seaweed. They actually made for surer footing rather than the slippery rocks. I only thought later about how easy it would have been for me to twist (break!) an ankle and have to limp to a road or house. I just had to concentrate on where I stepped. The power of doing what’s right in front of you, literally.

The seaweed is an example of surprisingly useful walking features I encountered. Other examples are tire tracks to follow in heavy sand (day 4) and compacted low tide surfaces. But on day one it was the soaked-to-the-underwear reality front and center.

Meanwhile, I saw dozens of washed-ashore lobster traps and colorful rope (I saved a few pieces of unusual hues of blue and yellow).  For a while I counted birds: cormorants, terns, gulls, a few crows and one Egret.

I started thinking about where I was. On a gorgeous coast of a beautiful island, alone and walking. A speck on a planet but significant in my own way. Singular. It was a theme that rolled around in my head. I tried to follow the mantra, when you walk, just walk. Prayed for people and the earth. Sang.

Mostly on day one, though, and to some extent days 2, 3, and 4, my mind chattered & flitted, and my body sent messages of stress and strain. I was vigilant about the rocks and aware of how wet I was and the driving rain in my face. My feet hurt in my new, unbroken-in boots. That night I examined and treated blisters and sore toenails, one of which was coming loose.

I saw only one person and a dog all day before arriving in Menemsha. They appeared in the distance early in the day on Lambert’s Cove beach. Down around Cape Higgon I took a rest. Otherwise, 7.25 hours alone but not lonely. I was mission-driven though, at times, miserable. Thoughts of getting back to my warm and dry lodging helped. As did the thrill of doing what I was doing. The rain did its thing, but I did mine.

When I arrived in Menemsha a woman was on the beach and her dog came running up to me. when I reached her, I said something about the dog being my welcoming committee after walking from Tashmoo. She said, “Oh, don’t you love being on the beach on rainy grey days?” I laughed and thought of the rocks, driving rain, my sore muscles and feet. Then I realized that yes, in fact, it was lovely. I slurped triumphantly on hot chowder and gobbled a couple of stuffed scallops from the take-out window at Larsen’s fish market. In the rain.

Eventually I took the bus to Vineyard Haven, went into the Stop & Shop to grab some dinner and walked up State Road to my resting place. I showered, ate, and was in bed by 7:10 pm, four Advil down the hatch.

DAY 2, October 5: Menemsha to Stonewall Beach.  

Woke up so stiff I couldn’t stretch my arms past my knees. Happy 60th birthday! But I was encouraged as I moved around, drank coffee, ate a banana. At least I was able to move. Got a ride to the end of West Basin Road, hoping that walking would loosen me up. Turns out it did and it didn’t. One big plus—the forecast was for intermittent rain. Wore my raincoat anyway.

Day 2 was more drifty and dreamier than day 1. Less stretches of rocks, until near the end approaching Squibnocket. I settled into a nice rhythm, buoyed by the fact that I accomplished 12 or so miles yesterday (my distance estimates are based on map measurements, not any kind of digital counter). My eyes felt more emotionally and physically open, what with less driving rain and a new confidence I could actually do 4 days of walking.  

I took in boulders, studied visual patterns, smiled at the intermittent sunshine, sang and used another mantra--things look far away, then you get there. Not exactly quantum physics but it was pleasant to repeat. I took pictures and short breaks. My feet were complaining and I played some music for distraction. Tried to really take it all in.

The cliffs got bigger and bigger as I walked southwest to Aquinnah, they began to literally take my breath away. Majesty and magnificence. I realized for all the time I had spent on the Island, I had never seen the view of the cliffs on the Lobsterville side of the Gay Head Lighthouse. The Lighthouse become my morning beacon, and I hoped I had read the tide chart correctly to get around the point without swimming. Had no trouble getting around it at 1 p.m.

Soon, I saw a few people exploring the beach.  Later I stopped and bandaged my problem toenail and big toe blister. Noticed other nails getting blood blisters.

It is walking on uneven surfaces that affects feet the most. The right hip, leg and foot are lower as you go. I chose to stick closer to the water (often there were less rocks) even though it was more sloped. At points the narrow beach forced the issue.

I thought a lot about it being my birthday. I’m the youngest of nine kids and my family circumstances have included losing five siblings. Something about walking lent itself to reflection, and my family’s history was intertwined with the Vineyard.

It felt like I was walking for all my sibs in the sense of our shared history and love for the Island. Of course, when the family comes up my thoughts can’t help but turn to my sister’s suicide, another’s accidental death, multiple mental illnesses, and substance abuse. This is not a woe is me, it’s just life on life’s terms.

I recalled my brother tossing a suitcase off the ferry into the harbor while manically rambling. Thought about my sister in a tiny Circuit Ave apartment: holed up, paranoid, getting blitzed. Then being the life of the Ritz Café before getting bounced.

The walk created a space for reflection of the whole kaleidoscope. My own substance abuse and sadness included. I got sober 16 years ago and I don’t think I would have done the walk if I hadn’t. Somehow this was all woven together as I gazed outward at the sea, upward at the cliffs, across the sandy scene. A richness of experience, not all of it happy, but whose experiences are always so?

At the end of the day, after Zach’s Cliffs, Long Beach, and Squibnocket Point I sat in the parking lot of Stonewall beach. I had limped the last mile or so, the rocks again making my will the engine of last resort. Plus, where was I going to go but onward? A great day, but it got even better.

My Uber app found none available, “try again later.” Instead, stuck out my thumb at the intersection of South & Squibnocket Roads.

An older woman named Paulette stopped! She immediately told me she didn’t know why she stopped. I told her it was because I stuck my thumb out. We laughed and immediately came to delight in each other’s company. She gave me grief for what I was doing even as she obviously admired it. We joshed and jived. About halfway to Vineyard Haven it struck me how much Paulette resembled my mother Rene in appearance and attitude. Wrappers and other trash strewn about the car, cigarette smell, quick to laugh. After the time I spent thinking about my family, here was a spirit like my mom’s to take me safely back to my temporary nest. Amazing way to end day 2.

DAY 3, October 6, Chilmark to Katama.

I had gotten smart and bought some Epsom salt to soak in after day 2. It didn’t help. I woke up achy and took more Advil. Started out a little later, drank more coffee. It was sunny and getting warmer.

The day was a long march across the southern shore. Nothing but sand in front of me and the Atlantic to my right for 14-plus miles. Except when I got to the cut between Chilmark Pond and the Atlantic. Knew it was coming, didn’t know if it would stop me and require circling back. It looked like a mile across, but it was probably about 15 yards.

I paused only briefly at the rushing water. Wondered if the tide was going in or out and if I should wait. Quickly I told myself not to overthink it. Wrapped my phone in a plastic bag and put it into one of the extra socks at the top of my backpack. Decided if I started wading and it got to my chest I would turn around and find an inland route. Here goes!

The current was stronger than it looked but the footing was sandy. I leaned forward and crept slowly, step by step. Water got to my waist when I was halfway across and I took heart. This meant it would slope up from there, right? Only later would I realize that didn’t have to be the case, it could have just gotten deeper. Geometry was never my strong suit. Fortunately, each step after the mid-point got less deep. Then, the slip.

Three-quarters across, almost there, breathing easier, and my right foot went awry. My shoulders lurched forward and I instinctively tried to pull back, throwing my left leg forward to catch myself. It worked and while I did get wet to my chest, I didn’t fall under. Pushing on I hit land-ho!

Once safe on the sand I started laughing and yelling. I whipped out my phone—dry as when I started. I took a 20 second clip of the cut and kept laughing in relief.

Since I hadn’t seen anyone and doubted I would, I stripped and laid my clothes out to dry. Looking out to sea, I thought, “Why not take a swim?” It was about warm enough and it felt like a kind of baptism to mark the successful crossing. It felt great.

The rest of the day until Katama was walk, walk, walk. Unfortunately, I wasted some time grinding with anxiety as I approached Edgartown Pond because I wasn’t sure if there was another cut to forge. There wasn’t and I got mad at myself.

Here I was in such beauty and I was worrying about something I couldn’t control. If there was a cut I would have to decide to either cross it or go around. I was pissed that I was worrying but eventually got over myself.

I grew mighty tired as I covered the rest of the miles to Katama. Finally, there was the parking lot off of Atlantic Drive, a little way past Crackatuxet Cove. Sat on a rock waiting for a ride, got back to my place and was ready to collapse. First, a huge surprise.

My wife flew in and was standing in the Air BNB’s living room waiting for me when I walked in. I can’t describe how moving it was to see her, truly ineffable. She came to witness, and added the oomph I needed to get through day 4.

DAY 4: Katama to Oak Bluffs.

The morning broke bright and clear. It occurred to me that each day had gotten successively nicer weather-wise. Fitting. Here I was ready to finish. I was exhausted and emotionally vulnerable. On day 3 I had burst into tears a few times, overwhelmed by the beauty I was observing (did I mention the clouds and the seals?), the deep sense of satisfaction I was experiencing, the wonder of it all. Wonder-filled.

Again, I felt the paradox of being a tiny speck in the universe and at the same time feeling like a huge, singular presence, embracing a peak experience.  The walk was time alone simultaneously with feeling woven into the fabric of everything. That’s about the best I can describe it, so I’ll leave it there.

As I headed toward Wasque Point, Katama Bay on my left, the family history once again dominated my heart and mind. I had purposely saved listening until this final day to a recording of interviews I did with three of my siblings about their lives. It was from about 10 years ago and I had never listened to it. 

I heard my siblings’ voices expressing a mix of emotions as I asked them about growing up among the heartaches of deaths and illnesses, rampant substance abuse and conflicts. Let’s shorthand it this way—my family was included in a National Institute of Mental Health study investigating familial clustering of serious mental illnesses. Four of my siblings qualified, if you count the suicide as a major depressive disorder. Add an early accidental death. As one can imagine the affects upon all of us sibs and my parents were monumental and devastating.

Eventually, the history dissipated, came to rest in my mind, body and spirit. Gently, with no fanfare. It wasn’t in sharp relief anymore, it just was. I’m relating a trek that included physical, emotional, and spiritual dimensions over 4 days in October, and my internal encounter with family history was part of it.

Most of day 4 felt triumphant. I rounded Wasque point and saw Pocha Pond for the first time. Sensuous vista, that. I went as far as Dyke Bridge and turned down Chappaquiddick Road to the ferry landing. It felt really strange to walk on a road.

As I continued to wind down my walking, I grew both more excited and increasingly elegiac. It was almost over! Oh no, it’s over! Can’t believe I did it coupled with of course I did. Smiling and getting teary.

The first thing that struck me after landing in Edgartown was how busy it felt, a bustling metropolis. I stopped and bought a seltzer and the newspaper and continued to State Beach. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been around some people the past 3 days, but I did spend more time alone and walking during my waking hours than anything else.

I walked along State Beach to Oak Bluffs. I felt emotional and proud. I met my wife at Giordano’s pizza and clam bar. Damn the slices and fried scallops were amazing!

We flew out the next day. I hold onto the experience like a special gem, and carry a piece of Quahog clam shell with purple highlights in my pocket every day. I decided to write about it, knowing my power of description would inevitably fall short. But that’s okay.

It was four days of rock, sand, sky, water, and self last October.  Today a more peaceful view of the past. How did I get there? I walked.

 

 


The Happiness Trap

I don't much worry about being happy anymore, I think it's a trap. A bill of goods, a barker's jive. Step right up and prepare to be disappointed. Because happiness, by its very nature, is conjoined with unhappiness. "I want to be happy" is all about declaring that you are not. Or at least, if not unhappy, then feeling something that is sketchy and gnawing. Wanting. Yearning. 

Nah, I try to dig for something else like contentment and deep satisfaction. These things aren't necessarily low-hanging fruit for our chattering minds. But enthusiasm and curiosity are amazing tools to use to harvest them. And here's the fun part, these types of things are as likely to find you as you them. Without sweating it. 

Our Buddhist friends point out that all striving (including for the sketchy
idea of happiness) is a dead end. So if not grinding with exertion, aiming for Mt. Happiness, what can get us through the days?

Part of the solution is to accept without judgement those things which are there for the riling. Steaming piles of you-know-what. Letting them ripple on by without your need to protest, be outraged, rage against. Then your energy is more suited to rollin' on the sweet river. Finding your own water.

Part 2: tell people you're busy and sit. Quietly review what you have to be grateful for, what went well recently, a smile that snuck up on you. A person you love and who loves you. This avoids the insatiable happiness trap.

Because a trap only ensnares when we follow the path to it. Acceptance and replacement is a different path altogether. Accept that there are things which are absolutely going to make you unhappy. Replace them with what is already right in your world. No, it's not magic, it's just a way to try.

Right answers aren't the point anymore, only wrong questions. How can I be happy? Who cares? How can I be of service is a pretty right question. There is a deep satisfaction that awaits, there for the taking. A box of contentment ribboned with joy, with your name on it. Ready to be delivered.  

It’s just not labeled happiness.

 



Let there be sun

Light has a quality of mood that demands attention. Any day, any hour, every minute--in any temperature. Both yesterday and today are crazy cold, but the difference is sunshine. It makes things better. Period. 

The snow is still piled up, tough going on the sidewalks near my house. Me and the dog set forth, because neither of us gives up the walk until the wind chill plunges. Garage door rises, sun rays beam down. Not exactly resulting in a hop, skip, & a jump out the driveway, but my mind starts out positive.

Bundled up, breath plumes,  beware-ing sloggy patches. On the route I see my shadow casting on the nearly blinding snow-white yards. No sunglasses but who cares? The squint is fine, I know from whence it comes. I keep the strides, celebrate the chug, watch the ice. 

My ears are still cold, chin freezing, fingers getting nipped. But I turn to the sun and celebrate. You may come old man winter, but the sun can still kick your ass. Sunlight improves the mood and moves the heart. It's okay, I can make it through, it's going to be fine: sunshine! 



Love & Wonder at the Garage Sale

Let’s start with the birds, because a hummingbird makes an appearance later. After many, many attempts to keep the squirrels (sky rats!) off various bird feeders, my wife Allison figured it out. Long story, not really important. But there it was, the set-up with the plastic shell that reduced the squirrels to picking up the bird’s spilled seed. What counts is this: Allison made the effort, again and again, because she loved watching the birds gather in the morning, merrily picking away. Found it beautiful, looked in wonder, was grateful to see it. Can you understand this? It’s a matter of taking the time and paying attention.

This is the story of taking time and paying attention. It was not long after the wooden hexagonal bird feeder was in full swing, a morning to appreciate the birds again. It was Saturday August 7, and we had a garage sale planned. We ended up continuing it for a bit Sunday morning, we thought because we still had the set of 4 mid-century dining room chairs to sell, but we realized later it was so we could be gifted leftover church food (this will make sense).

Waking up, grabbing coffee, reporting for duty. Allison put me to work right away moving display tables into the driveway and loading them up: higher end knick-knacks, art work, Italian dishes, other dishes, chairs, stray appliances, lamps, a sturdy bench, decorative objects, fabric, more chairs, end tables, mirrors…you get the picture. The staging was all important; the curb appeal necessary. Signs went out at 2 intersections, our cars parked out of the way. Ready, set, sell!

We felt the crackling good vibes from the start. The weather was cooperating, slight chance of thunderstorms in the afternoon. Both of us set to enjoy hanging out together, counting fat cash. But it turns out cash was not the most important thing we got. Instead, the only rain from the sky was, well, angels. This is not said in jest. There is no other way to explain it, at least for us.

We got visited by angels disguised as buyers of our stuff. As hanger-arounders that spoke of life and love, ashes and injuries. As people who told us personal stories and thanked us for listening. It became abundantly clear that the sale was just the universe’s way of keeping us in one place for the day.

The individual encounters added up to an experience that was greater than the sum of its parts. It was a kaleidoscope that came into sharp relief by Sunday at noon: we were offered beauty and truth if we paid the simple price of taking the time and paying attention. Being open to messages, willing to really believe everything happens for a reason. Just being receptive and stripping the bullshit away.

First up was a woman who sauntered over and started asking questions about our stuff. Questions more to do with what the stories were behind the items, not just what the prices were. She ended up hanging out for quite a while, returning to her car to grab a piece of cheesecake and come back and talk some more. Then she reminded us to be generous to strangers.

After claiming a wrought iron 2-person outdoor glider for herself, she was in no hurry to load it in the car and go. Instead, she overheard a couple telling us about the renovated porch they were finishing and how the glider is just perfect for it. This woman didn’t hesitate, she told the couple they could have it. So casual, so matter of fact. Based on how much she loved it, the sacrifice was a reinforcement of the joy that comes from giving rather than receiving.

Next came an apparition of sorts, or it seemed to me at first. It was a sensory overload of a striking, narrow-faced woman wearing something that looked like a bell man’s cap, adorned with plastic flowers. It did not look silly; it made a statement. She wore a Sari and smelled like incense, but it didn’t slide into caricature. It was her smile that pulled it all together.

She proceeded to tell us that she had just come from her aunt’s 96th birthday party at a nursing home up the street. She had stopped at a garage sale just that morning but felt drawn to ours as she whizzed by the sign, circling the block to find us. It seems her other aunt and cousin spent most of the time at the party scolding the birthday aunt and telling her she needed to eat more “real” food. But, she wondered, wasn’t birthday cake food? She showed us pictures and a short video of the cake-eating. It was marvelous. Her first message to us was don’t sweat the “should,” just enjoy the cake.

Her next message was more pointed. After major oohing and ahhing about a metal sculpture of a branch with birds and a wall hanging of wood and metal she told us she had a shrine in her garden. It was dedicated to the memory of her mother and sister, she missed both of them terribly and didn’t mind telling us so. She said they both loved flowers and these two pieces would look wonderful as part of the shrine. We heard it loud and clear—bury the dead but not your feelings.

After that a grandma with two beautiful grand baby girl toddlers rolled up. The little girls investigated the fun found in other people’s stuff. The love that kept exchanging between grandma and the girls was awe-striking. Conversing back and forth, seemingly converting the air into loving breezes. The easy and total trust and love broadcast the lesson: wear your life like a loose garment, and sweep the sky of clutter.

At the very end of the day, as we were putting unsold stuff back into the garage, a family drove up in a last-legs car. Mom, Dad, 2 kids under 10. They spoke very little English and I gave them a “hola, como estas?” They returned rapid fire Spanish. I said I spoke only “un poquito.” They smiled and kept looking.

It’s easy to tell when someone likes an item, and we saw them light up at a couple of chairs and some dishes. With just a glance between me and Allison, we charged them a very few bucks for what they wanted and gave them a bunch of stuff for free. The excitement when they loaded the stuff up was palpable. The message for us? Generosity is more a gift from the recipient to the giver than anything else.

The next morning, we decided to put out just a few things. Soon yesterday’s grandma, decked out in her Sunday best, rolled up to say hi. But not just that, she insisted we take some sandwiches from her church’s post-service social. And some cake and macaroni salad too. It was an exchange of nourishment for the body, after the previous day’s filling grace of her and the grandbabies. Score one for laughter, and positive wishes you can quickly have with strangers, if you want it. A declaration that everything comes together in the end.

The final visitation was Sheila, she had a son who was recovering from a very bad accident and not in the best shape. We chit-chatted and then she hit us with, “I hope it’s okay to ask you this…would you pray with me for my son?” We took no offense, joined hands and said a prayer. The message is don’t hesitate to ask the universe for blessings.

Sometime later that day there it was, a hummingbird right at our front window. There are lots of things that people say the bird represents, I’ll go with joy, healing, good luck and messages from spirits.

Because the loud & clear from the whole garage sale was to take time and pay attention; bask in the constant glow of precious life around you. To live in and affirm the connectedness of all things, all people, all garage sales, all not-offhand remarks that speak to all of us together. And more.






 

7 a.m. Prismatic

I woke up, made the bed, got a coffee, and sat back down in my sunny bedroom. Not quite ready to hit GO, just kind of organizing my thoughts. Glancing over my shoulder I saw the still-hanging-over-the-headboard holiday bulbs already in action.  

The bulbs were throwing prismatic colors in perfect size & shape replicas on the wall behind them. It was a little after 7 a.m. on a still winter morning. Fueled by caffeine, sparked by sunlight going through glass, I started wondering.

Just what does "going through" something mean anyway? On this life's trail we are only wisps, here & also there (quantum-wise), spirits in the guise of solids. Also competing emotions, trapped inside bodies. 

 It's a wonder we get through anything at all. Or do we, really?

I got through the first year of the pandemic, shades of desperation notwithstanding. Made it through my last birthday, older. Fixed a bathroom drain, proudly. Got a new dog, thought about what's next, threw a bone to the hungry hound snapping at my ass from the past. Grieved losses, cursed what I couldn't accept, kept moving through the days and nights. 

But did I get to some kind of "other side" of all this? Life is so not linear, neatly straight-lined. Where it counts, down there where the spirit meets the bone (Miller Williams), life is pretty much an imperfect circle. We're in it for the holy-hell ride, both sacred and profane curves on the trail. 

Do our actions always cast beautiful shadows? I think not, but I know this: our job is to keep trying to do good as we go through life. By helping others, sharing kindnesses, loving with all our might, taking the time, making the effort, sharing the cool breeze in the heat of trouble, laughing. 

Aiming to add beauty to somebody's life, as they go through it. Because it matters.

It was about 7 a.m., and glass bulbs in my bedroom spread beautiful prisms of light. We've not taken down those holiday bulbs yet, hopefully we never will. 



Fever Dream on a Freezing Night

I dreamt I built a tree last night, and it turned out it was wintertime. And if I really built it, why, there's a miracle right there. Maybe I just drew it. Looking up from underneath, as if on my back. I must have sketched on the sky across the trunk, first one way then the other. Then the sky become the branches, one after another, then another, again. Looking from afar I marveled. 

But what of this constructive dream of mine? Why, maybe it's simple: I want to set down roots and feel the ground of being. Nah, that can't be it. For real I'm still climbing to the top of the tree of life to catch a view. Every year is closer to the top, a pinnacle of flame. But, whoa, when you get there it's the inevitable drop to the earth (then six feet down). Yes, I'm talking death, the clubhouse after the back nine. Reminds me of, reminds me of reminds me of--you connect the dots.  

Have you ever climbed a tree and gone higher than where you wished you stopped, upon reflection? A gulp in the stomach, a quick gasp of breath. There is a safe way down, right? I mean you got up here didn't you? There is the motion of the wand and the invisibility of the wind. Capture the leaves, but bare trees allow for no such luck. We're stuck.

Even if I was to carve a corny heart into the trunk, forever don't care for that junk. A blink of the eye and that tree is dust. What a waste of a dream.

Tonight I'm bringing an axe to bed, or at least my rusty ol' hatchet.




Kimchi-Tizzy

You know that moment at Costco when you look at that super-large whatever and think, "Oh no, that's much too much," but sometimes it falls in the cart anyway? Now I have a big bucket of Jongga Kimchi, proclaimed to be Korea's favorite sliced napa cabbage. Crunch, crunch.

Of course I'm sick of it already (no more please!). But in a weird way it has become an unlikely metaphor for changes in my life. Now, when I look at my green-topped kimchi bucket with the cute handle it brings me back to a different time, and then the time after that. 

When I visited Korea years ago I was in the midst of my decades-long discontent. Went half-way around the world to drink alone (again) in a hotel room. Could have been Baltimore for all I cared (and many times it was). I remember feeling very tall walking down the street in Seoul, but it really was just the view from underground. Even when my hosts drove me up a mountain to eat mysterious things in little glass bowls I never left the lowlands. Like kimchi fermenting underground, it was all darkness and then some.

Years later I'm unearthed and sober, breathing the air way up here. It's a new design for living, and it includes enjoying the kimchi found on my plate. Now curiosity kicks complacency's ass, and amazing moments remain attainable--even on cloudy, nine degree days (sort of). 

Even with the pandemic muddling the path and muddying the attitude, life is transformed. My life, like Jongga kimchi, has bite, purpose, varied & colorful textures, and promotes loud music.  

I'll probably end up eating more out of that big bucket, what with its positive fermentation. But if I don't, I'm happy to just watch it sit in the fridge.