roads to go

We always walked wherever we needed to go--mainly because the only place we went was to Derek's house, but the notion of "see you in five" has swooped back into my adulthood. I feel twelve again--no car, nowhere important to drive to, yet most of my friends are within a ten minute walk in almost any direction, so when we make plans, it's a simple "see you in five" conversation.

 I have mixed feelings about the whole concept--I love the ability to walk out the door and be with people so soon, yet the thought of living in such a small radius when there is a whole world out there frustrates me.

 Tomorrow, I board a plane for Atlanta. I'm going to a conference for work, and while a few months ago, I was excited--excited by thought of "travelling for work", of visiting a new city, of feeling like I'm "going somewhere", as I procrastinate trip prep, I'm rather saddened by the thought of it all: leaving my dog, leaving my friends, leaving at what always feels like the least convenient time, even though there really isn't anything to hold me back.

 Maybe that's what keeps people living in the same place for years and years or going back to the places they grew up. Are we all just bodies in search of "home"? I recognize that some people were born to travel; they live for seeing the world and never settling down in one place. I thought I could be one of them, but the longer I stay in Seattle, the more it seems I'm supposed to really be here, stay here. I could explore this area for the rest of my life and still not see it all, I think.

And yet, does the notion of "putting down roots" mean anything in a world that is so dynamic, in a market that keeps all residents unsure of where they'll call home for the next year or two?

That NW Bridge

The Vance Creek bridge sits 347 feet above the ground. It's the second highest railway arch bridge in the United States. I was told these stats while sitting around a campfire. I had heard of the bridge--mainly seen it in photos and in this "17 death-defying views list"--but this was the first time it was given a name.

The photos seemed "cool". People standing on abandoned railroad tracks with a vast landscape of faraway (& far-below) trees surrounding them. I expected an easy-going adventure--awesome in its own beauty alone.

Upon arrival, we began trekking the short trail to the bridge. My heart began to race inside my chest in a way that I can't recall it having done in quite a long time. I felt like an excited child--naïve in what the world can be.

On the way to the bridge, I had a brief discussion with a friend about heights. It wasn't a fear of heights or even a fear of falling: it was a want to jump, a want to know the sensation of free-fall.

I once sat on a cement wall in Pittsburgh with a friend. We gazed down at the river, maybe 40 feet below us, and I said, "I want to jump." Surprised, my friend said, "I was just thinking that." What is it about these strange heights that call us to plunge into the depth? It's a temptation: into what, I do not know.

Standing on either side of the bridge, I admit, I felt the pull. 347 feet. Though a rather unfriendly landing ground of rocks & trees. Some kids dragged a big branch into the center of the bridge and tossed it over the side. I heard the crack, like a shotgun in the distance. I asked what happened, and a friend described the branch as having "splintered" upon impact.

I'm still in awe of what a God-fearing sense of life this bridge implanted within me. I discovered fears I didn't know I had. I realized that I am not the seemingly immortal child I tend to think I am at heart. I learned that 347 feet is a long way down.

The first end of the bridge seems harmless. You climb a large, metal tube to actually reach the bridge, & then there's nothing to do but cross. With each step, I realized just how frightening this whole concept even was: the bridge is extremely old; the railroad ties are rotting, some missing entirely, some just splintering under my feet.

Something about the height, the lack of railing--open ends with nothing to catch you but the treetops below; something about it all felt like a sort of flying & falling at the same time. Every step left my head swirling, as if I were standing still and twirling. I felt dizzy and confused. If I looked straight ahead, I could feel the height, but if I looked down, the spinning sensation resumed, yet I felt safe because I could see where my feet would land. I tripped once and fell forward, catching myself in a moment of panic. Of course I was going to be fine. I wasn't near the edge, but the feeling of going down introduced the idea to the end to my mind.

When we started on the bridge, I thought I would only go a short distance then come back. I didn't realize that once started, I would have to cross the whole way: the voice within me wouldn't have it any other way, though quivering and frightened. Halfway across, there is a section where the railroad ties are burnt, some gone completely. It was then that I nearly turned back. One missing tie was one thing: two required stepping down onto the steel support beam then back up to the next tie. On either side of the support beam, there was enough room for about two people to fall straight through. I couldn't step down while holding my puppy; my legs were shaking too bad. She was even more frightened than me- she held onto my shoulders with a force (one of these moments I bet dogs wish they had thumbs).

Some high schoolers  were sitting calmly on the other side watching us. One kid -maybe 12 years old-reached his arms across the gap to us. I carefully handed Pickle to him & followed close behind. We then resumed the walk across. The last half was the best and the worst-the best because of the sweet taste of land, the worst because it meant that we, once again, had the full length of the bridge yet to cross.

Friends offered tips to help with the dizzying confusion of walking on the bridge. "Just look straight ahead" (but I need to see where I step!) or the usual "don't look down" proved unhelpful. The best was to walk parallel to the beams beneath the ties where it was blocking off the view below while allowing me to see ahead. The only catch was that it was closer to the edge.

By the time we made it back (though one of the first to hop onto the bridge, I was the last to leave it), I had a resonating quiver within that reminded me that I had never been that physically afraid before in my life. Fear of a what? It was only the sensation of danger, not an actual present threat.

For days after, the thought of the bridge offered that shaking reminder of being alive, like when you pinch yourself to check your consciousness. All I could think was that I wanted to go back, particularly with my nice camera to try to more adequately capture the scene.

Since our visit, the bridge has been officially closed to visitors for a multitude of reasons, mainly that it resides on private property, causing a liability issue for the owners were anyone to be injured on the bridge. I'm glad to have gotten to see it, and while I may not be able to return, I hope to find other views that inspire such vitality in just being in its presence.

 

 

thank you for health

I went to the doctor today for the first time in years. I've had this uncomfortable panicky feeling at the thought of going to a doctor. Nothing's wrong--just going in for an "annual" check-up. And yet the whole process seemed overwhelming.

As I sat in the waiting room, I felt the familiar ache of hospitals. Nights and nights in the hospital with Derek, wondering what was on the other side of it all.

In the exam room, I hugged the light gown to myself, knees tight. I imagined running. What if I just left? Well, it certainly wouldn't be flattering to run down the hall with my backside exposed, & that was enough to stay put, as if holding myself in would keep me from exposing my own skin.

When the doctor came in, the questions started. The only thing worse than the inevitable physical investigation of my only body is the line of questioning about my body and what I've done to it and how it reacts to my life. Why, in that moment, does my skin feel foreign?

I was thinking today before I went that it kind of amazes me that we wake up in the same morphing bodies every day.

After what felt like too much time, the doctor handed me a piece of paper: take this to the lab, then take this to scheduling. At the lab, a lady sat me down and asked for an arm. "I think there's a vein here," she said, wrapping a band around my arm. I read a historical piece on the wall about phlebotomy as she stuck the needle in. "You aren't afraid of needles, are you?" I looked down at my tattoos and laughed. "Of course not," she said. "Maybe we should try the other arm," she said as the vial remained empty. "Sorry to stab you twice." I watched in a trance--the red, deeper than I thought, run into the small plastic tube.

The pressure of the needle under my skin brought Derek to mind once again. How many times had they connected his veins to lines and tubes? And that's just needles--what about the trach? The feeding tube? The catheter? He had all of these externally internal remedies for a microscopic mutation festering in his cells.

The body was not made for all of this.

When I think about death, I think about what happens to the body--the pain it undergoes, the struggle that ensues. I wonder what it feels like to be so connected to scientific life sustainers. I never want to find out. When I think about personal care, I know that if I had a choice, it would always be DNR. The body is weak; it does not wish to be beat to be barely alive.

Thinking of all that Derek went through, I am ever more grateful for my health, and my fear of a small trip to the doctor seems silly, but it's the thoughts of him that make it frightening--how strong he had to be because he had no choice.

 So this is it, what's on the other side of the hospital comings and goings--fear of the body, sadness in knowing a small fragment of the ache, a deeper ache in being alone (without him plus the doctor's questions: looks like you wrote you live alone? And you're single?), and then the return to the bright outside. Like the day that he died, and I stepped out the automatic doors, surprised that there could be a sun in the sky after the sterile lights had emptied me of all emotion.

A hot day in summer, a long walk to the bus, a dog at the park, a cool evening on the couch, a small spot on each elbow crease. Like the spot on Derek's hand, covered in makeup at the funeral, makeup that I rubbed off with my fingers that would not let go. But did. And back to the sun-- days coming and going.

It's almost August.

life in the woods

We used to create pretend lives in the woods.

 

The first instances I remember are with my sister. Our first pretend home was the center of a circle of forsythia bushes. They were directly outside of our real home, but it was our own little hideaway. The round bushes seemed to create a wall with a tunnel to enter through. Once inside, it was like we were "big kids" in our own little home, closed in by powdery yellow with an open sky.

 

Our next was the giant pines a little farther up the yard. Pennsylvania really has some great pine trees. These were maybe forty or fifty feet tall with long, thick branches along the bottom, which were great for two purposes: 1) they created a skirt around the tree where we could hide (our new walls) 2) they were thick enough and low enough for us to begin the climb. We'd take turns, each climbing as high as we could (we were always climbing trees). Sometimes we'd lie down on the branches & pretend they were our beds, as if our bedrooms were just on different levels of our house.

 

(Now that I think about it, my sister always begged my dad for a treehouse. We sort of got it after years and years of piece by piece construction. We spent one night in it (still unfinished), and that was it. Never got done. But that's okay because I think we were better off for it because we had better times living in the trees because a treehouse isn't a wooden structure built among trees--it's just trees & an imagination.)

 

I have no idea what I thought as a four or five year old climbing those pine trees. The memories come in small snippets of questionable truth. Picturing me up in the pine feels like we were pirates, climbing the highest mast to lookout for intruders. I guess that's partially true--we never wanted to be found.

 

Yet a smidge farther up the yard, there was a small opening between clumps of trees that was its own cove, complete with…you guessed it--a brilliant old clawfoot tub. By brilliant, I may mean covered in dirt & algae and filled it the greenest water and the occasional turtle.

 

As I'm writing this, I’m realizing that is becoming more a list than a story of our many play-venture homes in the woods, barely touching the details of each. I'll settle for a few more before making my point.

 

There was this place we called the picnic area--a spacious opening between the trees where my family had set up picnic tables, a barbeque, & everything else necessary for a party. However, by the time we took to playing there, it had been long out of use and falling apart: a shadow of its former life.

 

At the far end of the clearing, a large beam sat propped on poles--a few railroad ties broken & balanced in their own little Stonehenge. We used to climb on the tie and use it as a balance beam, though I think its intended purpose was to be a serving table for food. Over a dip in the landscape, near the thickening woods, a small rotting hut sat full of pots & pans & random kitchen utensils. Sometimes we would go in there (usually on a dare) to sneak around for something for our pretend homes.

 

The picnic area was great for our play-pretend because everything we needed was already there. When the area was cleared away, we scraped our way deeper into the woods to build a new house. We’d graduated far from our old homes in the woods where we just played pretend that the trees were walls & rooms & living utensils--for this one, we took a level & made our best twelve-year-old attempts to create flat ground out of the hill. We then laid down plywood: floor complete.

 

Living up the road from a junk yard, we decided we should go rummage around for some other household items. We settled for one tire, which we rolled all the way up the hill around the bend, down & up another hill & back into the woods. We dug a hole and placed the tire over the hole: toilet.

 

Derek's parents had this little plastic garden wagon. We would fill it with utensils & snacks & attach it to Derek's wheelchair for him to tow it back into the woods for us--the beginnings of yet another woodland home.

 

So there we were: us & our play-pretend homes with our play-pretend lifestyles and our play-pretend futures.

 

I went camping last weekend. I snuck away a few times to just sit in the woods alone. There was a "primitive campsite" back into the woods--just a small open clearing, big enough for a tent. It wasn't occupied, so I'd go & sit on the small stone bench. Looking up: the break in the trees; looking around: the rustling, moving stillness of the forest; listening: silence, silence & birds in swooping whistles.

 

These are things I haven't experienced in a while. I've missed them. It all feels so familiar; I wished I could lie down in the grass & pretend that I was in one of our play homes in the woods. I actually did try, but it didn't take long to realize just how far removed my current life is from all of that--city, noise, pollution, solitude. I think that's a major downfall to being an adult: even when you try to imagine your life as different, it's all of the current intricacies that keep you bolted down in what is real.

 

I began to wonder if I would ever again have a home in the woods. I tried to imagine a career scenario that would allow it. I've often dreamt of living Annie Dillard's solitary writing life in a cabin in North Puget Sound. I don't know how to make that happen; now, after living so deep in the city, I’m not sure I could. Like how I wanted to live alone in the desert and am now beginning to realize how crazy of an idea that was for me in particular.

 

The idea of life in the woods again feels distant & impossible, like the prospect that one day I would have a husband & children. The truth is that I don't know what I want. I know what I've had and what I've loved, but I cannot say with certainty what I want. This is a strange place for me --yes, me, the girl with the evolving 5-year plans. Maybe it's just today.

 

I soaked in as much of the silent time with the trees as I could. Those moments are extremely rare these days, so I sopped it all up like our campsite did the rain, & I packed myself home to return to the present, the city.

hope eventually

Well, here we are: the fourth of July. A day of hotdogs, fireworks, & good old Americana. This year, I’m escaping to the woods with a group of friends for a few days of camping.

I’m beyond excited to get out of the city. As much as I love it here, I am always missing the woods. And I am ready for some quiet. Seems like things have been chaotic lately—if it’s not one thing it’s another, right? Busy, busy: gogogo. I’ve been counting down for this: quiet, rest.

Even though there is a whole group of us going, all I want is solitude. I want some space to be alone. To write. To read (I got a new book just for this weekend). To enjoy the trees and birds and lack of metal buildings & loud people. I’m not sure I’ll be able to accomplish this, but it’s certainly a hope. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do that I haven’t had either time or brain power for.

Maybe thinking isn’t it, but I certainly need something. I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I mean, here it is 1am, and I’m not even tired. Well, I’m tired, but not in the sleep way. I took a one-hour nap this afternoon since I only slept four hours last night too. Last night, I kept my mind occupied by cleaning the apartment. To actually think of things that would be productive to my goals or the present tense felt impossible. My mind felt blank and thus needed occupying since sleep wouldn’t come: hence cleaning.

After writing this, I suppose I should begin to pack for camping. I haven’t done a thing to prepare. I don’t even have food. I’ve already set my alarm to get up early enough to go shopping before our 8:30 departure. Hope the store is open.

Sometimes hope is all we have to hold onto. I think that is one of the best things in the world: hope. (And these three remain: faith, hope, & love.) You know how people will say not to “get your hopes up” for something you dreamt of happening? I’ve been thinking about that a lot & the ways that I have found myself losing hope in my own life or not letting myself have hope in certain scenarios.

I think it’s all bullshit. Why the hell shouldn’t we have hope? Without it, what do we have but a meaningless routine with no chance of improvement? Pessimism. People call me a pessimist sometimes, but I’ve always responded with saying I’m a realist (cliché, right?), but I mean it. I think faith and hope are closely tied—like in Ecclesiastes: a cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

That’s what faith, hope, & love are—three strands tightly knit together. So in this instance: faith and hope. I choose to believe that purpose exists for this earth. I choose to believe that we are not meant to lose hope in what could be.

Sure, we don’t always get what we want—we don’t always get what we hope for, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have hope at all.

Six years ago on this day, I had hope that Aunt Sharon would be okay. That she would pull through. I prayed for it. I hoped for it. It didn’t happen, but that doesn’t mean the hope or prayer was wasted. It becomes a new hope: I hope we meet again someday. All of us. I pray for it.

I believe in hope.

So while on this particular day, my hopes are small—to be alone in the woods, to make it to the store on time—it’s still important to know that we are not stuck where we currently are. We are not stuck because we have hope in something greater or at least that something greater than the most mundane moment will happen eventually.