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with or without wings

I fly in my dreams over brown fields spotted with blue lakes and grey rivers that become synapses of the brain. Trees in the wind standing strong and bushes firing up green chemicals changing to spiders send the message through the amygdala.  Emotional response.  Right brain feathers plume up in terror to make the edges of my mind just a little bigger to outsmart disassociation.  I fly at the words “negative bitch” and feel my hamstrings and quadriceps curl up like burning newspaper and unfold from my body peeling away from sturdy, strong, like-a-lamppost femur bone.   The air becomes thin and I become the air, dirt and old leaves spin around in my chest cavity as ribs crack apart from strong breath and lament.  Flapping, panicked, wings emerge from my hunched shoulder bones worn like a sweater to protect my heart from the cold of the altitude from being so high, so high up.

Taking off.  Ascending.  Soaring.

May I never learned to fly.  But I have learned how to get so, so high up, body numb, head warm and light as my grey brain turns to dryer lint fuzzy and floating in the wind.  Puffs of lint coil into slow moving sliding snakes twirling and busting out into tiny fires bringing me back to the coal mines of Wyoming where tiny piles of coal spontaneously combust like my lint-brain.  Smoking piles morph into the breath of a dragon swinging his spiky tail to take out tiny cottages of the heartspace dotting the safe space of my soul.  Maybe the dragon never learned to fly.

Back to a hospital room at age four getting yet another asthma treatment feeling my head float like hair ready to meet the lightning strike seen in the high valleys and plains of an early evening thunderstorm.  I fly right before sleep when I psychoanalyze my clients and my own life scared of my own narcissism jealous of the bird that flies high with no regard or thought of consequence about who might be flying lower.  Tearing down a county road on my heavy mountain bike at thirty miles per hour—fast to me—and wings spread wide, shoulders open up, chest pounding strong but no cracks no mistakes in these headwinds.  Rattling of the back tire keeps me on the ground thinking about that five hour flight to Alaska all the way up on the promise of the inside passage and Alaskan highway.

What goes up must come down, down, down, before ever clawing its way back to dry land through the dark caves and rivers of primordial times.  Down the dark veins of the jungle-river, deep in the dark sea journey of the psyche.  Heart trapped inside the hard, brittle shell—the womb of growth where I will grow a beak to tap, tap at my surroundings.  Tap, tap, woosh, woosh.  Feathers covered in mucus and the snot of life lubricating the tiny feathers.  Little strands of bird-hair poking out from meaty thighs wondering if I’ll be a bird of primary color or mixed yellow-green to blue growing my ideas of existence out of pink-white, unfinished skin.  I didn’t know I could crack open and escape this place.

Out in space and I’m not alone.  I don’t know if I flew here or if I went through the portal of the bedroom again and this is the revelation of flying—I am here with the bones of my past and the thoughts of my future.  In dark space always looking for the v-shape of the river, the v-shape of birds as they fly above knowing exactly where to go using intuition and tiny feathers like stabilizer muscles holding up the larger muscle groups that never fatigue in flying.  This migration is hundreds of miles and I’ve already come thousands.  I run faster and faster down the mountain and feel legs kick and heels strike as I start to move faster not worried about falling, not worried if I catch up, not worried if I win.  I am flying.

Maybe I never learned how to come down.  Learning to fly young flopping off safe branches of tiny trees, losing a feather that takes its time swinging back and forth landing on the ground to be blown and blown to somewhere—not here.  High up in the whispy clouds of undecorated thoughts where I wonder if anyone can see me.  A dot in the sky, a shadow on trees and buttes, a screech in the wind.  Heard at dusk and dawn and screeching sometimes piercing into early afternoon in the middle of a nap.  Even when unheard, the song goes on.

 

“The only true voyage, the only bath in the Fountain of Youth, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to see the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to see the hundred universes that each of them sees, that each of them is; and this we do [with great artists]; with artists like these we do really fly from star to star. ”

― Marcel Proust, The Prisoner [and] The Fugitive : In search of lost time, vol. 5

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high plains, high desert

The sky here in Alamosa, Colorado can sometimes feel so incredibly close yet so large, a giant glass fishbowl full of bushy desert plants and fine sand swirling around, piling at the bottom of a mountain.  Mountains are in all directions, optical illusions creating some to appear small as they curl their bottom lip of switchbacks and raise high eyebrows full of summits and passes treacherous in winter as snow that never sees the valley beats down on the chest of the high places.

 

The bowl of the San Luis Valley becomes soaked as irrigation and veins of water fed by the Rio Grande collect snow of mountain tops becoming all but dry in summer.  Rain becomes a welcome sign that miracles can happen in the desert and rainbows can form amidst the backdrop of peaks and valleys of Mount Blanca. The landscape and sense of place could keep me here for years as I begin to understand weather patterns and hear from the folks how the weather fits into their lives.

 

I don’t really know why I left Wyoming.  I know why I left Gillette–to go to college.  And I supposed I left Laramie for the same reason–to go to a different college.  I went looking for opportunity and here I found diversity in the short time I have been here. I become aware of myself as I observe my surroundings to try to understand how to be serve, really how to best empower those around me to serve themselves. I do not know what is best for those in the valley and it’s nice to become learner once again.

 

Some things change and some remain the same.  I travel with lavender oil and rub it on the foreheads of Coloradoans now and I teach yoga to students at this college campus.  I wonder about the prospect of taking the mobile model of yoga I started in Wyoming and try it out here.  How can I weave in the fabric of place through the stories of the people?  I suppose I can start by leaving the house.  I plan trips to trails and dream of backpacking trips up fourteeners but feel some tiny bit of flesh and bone is terrified while the spirit is bold and so I remain cautious.

 

I heard someone talk about the religious or spiritual connotations of the San Luis Valley.  Every religious figure or prophet spent some amount of time thinking about stuff in the desert.  The mountains provide a prompt to think about stuff in the desert and to slow down.  The fishbowl of the valley allows for integration in twenty minute intervals toward towns spreading out like petals from the Alamosa center.  I have arrived.  And will be here now in the high desert of Colorado nodding my head to the high plains of Wyoming.

 

“Night poured over the desert. It came suddenly, in purple. In the clear air, the stars drilled down out of the sky, reminding any thoughtful watcher that it is in the deserts and high places that religions are generated. When men see nothing but bottomless infinity over their heads they have always had a driving and desperate urge to find someone to put in the way.”

 

-Terry Pratchett, Jingo

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turning of the canyon walls

I’ve been waiting to write in my blog about all the things I’ve felt as I move to Colorado after 32 years in Wyoming.  16 in Gillette and 16 in Laramie, half grown up in the belly of coal country, half deconstructed in the belly of precambrian granite and feldspar crystals.  Every part of the journey brought huge questioning and regret.  I said goodbye to my best friends—the few friends I had let in during the 16 years of trying to reinvent myself.  And now I reinvent myself in the San Luis Valley.

I moved here for many reasons which bring about all the reasons I had stayed in Laramie.  I’ve run into a few folks here and they always say the same type of stuff—oh it’s not for everyone here.  They say its isolated.  Nothing to do.  I’ve become the patriotic Wyomingite, talking about how Alamosa is Laramie moved south six hours.  Yes, Laramie was three times as big but I make my life very small.  I hear I may get bored in winter and I think of my writing, reading, or yoga—I know I won’t get bored just cold in the arid winters of the high desert.

I climbed part of Mount Blanca yesterday and am starting to realize what Colorado might mean.  Mountains are bigger.  Instead of my hour jaunt around Pole Mountain in the Medicine Bow National Forest, I now embark on hours long journeys I stop in the middle because it’s becoming clear I will not make these 18 miles.  Plans begin to be made—have I become the lusty adventurer going after 14’ers?  They are just where we all start—I want to become immersed in the microsystems as well. I want to find the desert parts of this place, to run in the greasewood and think about spiritual shit.

I think that’s why I came here—spiritual shit.  Not to seek the Ram Dass ashram just down the way in New Mexico or attend the Course in Miracles group I found in the local gazette—but to take a leap of faith.  To let go of the narrative that I’m a fifth generation Wyomingite, that my blood runs with the buffalo, that my soulmate is in the aspens of Happy Jack.   Turns out aspens are here, too. I’ve not felt that connection yet but I know the petals of my heart will peel and shake away as I uncross my hands from my heart and let the wind of the valley sweep things clean.

“Life is too short for grief. Or regret. Or bullshit.”

-Ed Abbey

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there is no finish line

Using the sides of the washed out trail I bounce from left to right down a small hill on the trail I hear calls and songs of other runners.  I see all sizes, all body types, and folks who are sprinting, walking, skipping.  Running is one of those things that you can do anytime, anywhere, and for any reason.  It brings folks together, its gives us a purpose.

There are those who love competition and dig deep to find new places in the heart and spirit found by pushing through pain, bombing up mountains, falling down hills, traveling new distances, recording new times. These folks inspire me with their grit and determination.  These are the runners I admire, watch, and cheer on from a distance when I course marshal races.

There are beginning runners who find so much satisfaction when they realize they can run a mile, they can run a 5k, and they are capable and able.  These runners find gifts in the sport everyday as they realize their own potential and try out new shoes, new shorts, and slowly begin to realize their own worth as they put one foot in front of the other and progress minute by minute, day by day.

Ultramarathoners have a different goal to pace evenly, to breathe rhythmically, to find the meditative qualities of runs lasting longer than a day, runs lasting into the night.  These runners can sometimes be quiet and have the pensive look as if they have been sailing for months and their feet are not quite on the ground.  Their legs always show some measure of training and their philosophy is to walk, rest, but always move forward.

Trailrunners are out for the beauty, for the grounding element of nature, for the varying terrain, and the solace of the mountains and nature.  These runners might even carry backpacks or take on night runs like the ultramarathoner to converse with the moon and whisper to the aspens.  They find new ways to steady the pace up and down the trails and sometimes they like to get lost and to push the edge of the unknown path.

After our run we all break bread and as I look around I see the church of running.  We all sing hymns in our feet at different paces, different shapes, different steps, singing with our bodies and voices.  We know that running is something bigger than us, that it brings us together and feeds our spirits.  We talk of the races coming up, how we will crawl or sprint up Jelm mountain, put a team together for a relay in the desert, run one hundred miles in August, or simply plan the next run at the park.  Running is our heartbeat, running is our friend, running is an aspect of who we are, who we want to be.  It teaches us how to be with ourselves in the moment with our breath and to cherish each step that gives us the larger gift of running, the glorious gift of life. 

“The five S’s of sports training are: stamina, speed, strength, skill, and spirit; but the greatest of these is spirit.”

-Ken Dohert

depression, Dharma, mountains, Self Love, Self Reflection, Uncategorized, Universiality, valley, Wyoming, Yoga

cold fingers of the valley breeze

such is life. waking up with my bed in a different place feeling the cold fingers of the valley breeze through my window and the feeling sinks in again that I have done nothing, will be nothing, and nothing is all there is. like the breeze the feelings ebb and flow and later in the day I worry about another beside myself as I drive hearing air pushed through the vents and a slight whining sound whirr whirr as I think about the forming wrinkles in my face and shift first, second, third…tasks done so many times they begin to become like situations in life—another relationship lost, another opportunity missed, another day of regret. It is not all lost and it is not all shadows but the permanent feeling is the one of being in a dream where nothing is quite real. Symptom of disassociation. Pushing away, moving away, happiness like purple and blue flowers in a mountain meadow or tulips in spring, poppies in August. All in its own cycle with its own branches and veins and systems of life. such is the space that we inhabit and time to settle in for good and take joy in waking up in a bed, in a home, with people-mirrors all around.