Reflection and Projection

I have always failed miserably at celebrating the New Year’s holiday in a proper fashion. Last night was no exception; I climbed into bed at 10:30pm mountain standard time, read for a short while  and was asleep before 11:30. I justified the early to bed New Year’s eve by telling myself the ball had already dropped in Times Square – the climax of the Dick Clark New Year’s special – and that I had watched fireworks fill the sky over Sydney’s famed opera house on CNN.com hours before. What more was there to wait up for?

So here it is, 2009. I have no New Year’s resolutions to pursue, no remains from a party to clean, and no hangover to nurse. I got up this morning and tended to the pets then finished washing the stack of dishes I had given up on last night. One might say the year slipped by me unnoticed. I disagree. I am a firm believer that the human mind can settle into the past or future and miss the moment of life one is living all too easily. Therefore,  364 days out of the year I strive to be present focused; to live mindfully in the moment. Yesterday, I took a break from the present and took stock of the past and looked toward the future and today I feel a bit more reset on my path through life.

While I may not have stayed up to watch the clock pass from the last minute of 2008 to the first minute of 2009, I did commemorate the passing of time in my own way.  I took some time on Dec. 31, 2008 to reflect on the ending year – the challenges, the suprises, the happy moments – and of course, I dabbled in some day dreaming of hopes and expectations for 2009. I decided 2008 had been a calmer year than its recent predecessors- less life changes, more answers to the question marks even a solid plan in life leaves in its wake. Sadly there seemed to be fewer adventures this year than last, as money and time were tighter than usual. And yet in their place was a clearer picture of stability and serenity and more adventures in the not so distant future. I made my annual list of personal criticisms and goals for self-change. On that great scale of immaterial have and have nots, I weighed in heavily on the haves.  I marked the landmark events that I have to anticipate in 2009 in red pen on the calendar. And of course, I anxiously await the unknowns of what 2009 will hold and how it will shape my ever-changing plans in life.

For me, the New Year’s holiday is a time to examine the past and revisit goals for the future. I look at myself as a token piece on a board game. I examine the path I’m on and know this a chance to exchange the cards in my hand, to review my strategy, to pick up my piece and move to a different path if I choose. And then I acknowledge the luck of the draw and the chances that come with rolling the dice.

 

Meeting Morning

The power of defining oneself as “not a morning person” struck me once again at 4am, mountain time as I clung to my covers, twisted and turned from one sleepless position to the next and tried to convince myself that I was not awake. How could I be? It was 4am. Five layers of blankets separating me from the 50 degree house, the warm sleeping cat curled into the crescent sleeping on my side creates, the absolute darkness, the 3 hours my alarm still had to count down before screaming, counting my breathes – none of these things soothed me back to sleep. Something was wrong. At quarter to five I eased myself from the layers of quilts and conceded to wakefulness.

To my surprise the morning hours before sunlight tints the sky are not that bad when not forced to approach them by a relentless alarm and an ever encroaching deadline to leave the house.

I enjoyed a productive, caffeine-free morning. Any other day and the words “productive” “caffeine-free” and “morning” could not truthfully be put together in a sentence that applied to me.  But by 5:30am I was dressed for the day with the pets fed, the dog  let out and back in, and the dishes from last night’s meal done. By 6:30 I had finished breakfast (with water rather than coffee or tea!), wandered around feeling as though I should be rushing to something and after several minutes of finding nothing to rush to, realized that on this particular Monday morning there was nothing left for me to do but relax. I gathered a couple of books to choose from and started toward the couch; it was then that I heard it. I noticed the sound of no music, no clattering from the other room, no one talking, no pets scampering over the hardwood floors.  It was – I believed – quite. Every other living being was asleep behind a closed door. I was alone in a quite house with hours to fill. An excitement I had not felt in months closed in resulting in a giddiness akin to seeing an old friend for the first time in years. I opened my computer and began to write.

And so – after months of neglect – I have a  new post for the blog. On the horizon is a break in my busy schedule when I hope to be able to ramble more frequently. Also new today is a posting on my photoblog at: eyewonders.wordpress.com – check it out and check back here soon!

 

Wrinkles

Glance through any form of media – television, magazines, newspaper ads – and the message is clear: we must take a preemptive strike against aging by using any number of potions, peels, lasers, and surgeries.

A brief story from real life: I visited a department store make-up counter before my wedding last year (note I was 26 then) to pick up the some of the basics for the big day and before I knew it I was being offered anti-aging cream along with another, specialized ointment to address the wrinkles the cosmologist had noticed forming at the corners of my eyes. She went on to warn me about other areas of my face that were gaining crease lines and would turn into wrinkles soon if I did not start on an age-defying skin care regiment. When I declined to purchase any of these magic liniments the cosmologist appeared dumbfounded.

I don’t think her reaction was due to money lost on the sale (since I had not bought make-up in over five years, I had accumulated quite the tab just sticking to foundation, blush, mascara, etc). I think it was my lack of fear that threw her for a loop. After all she had held up a magnifying mirror to point out areas of concern. Couldn’t I see the crease marks? Didn’t I know they’d get worse? 

What is frightening to me is the thought of my body not aging with me; to grow to be a stranger in my own skin. I want some one to look at me  when I am 70 – really look at me – and as I tell my story, see my words reflected by the creases on my face, the cracks and calluses on my hands, the uneven pigment of my skin, the tough soles of my feet, my sagging breasts, and the youthful yet wise gleam in my eyes. I want people to know that I have laughed in the sun many times in my life, that I have squinted, that I have cried, that I have walked barefoot on grass, dirt, and rocks, that I have raised children of my own, and that I am proud. I want people to look at me and see that I have lived a rich life. I want people to look at me when I am 70 and see me. I want people to acknowledge that I’m growing old and  to respect me as an elder.  I want to feel beautiful in my own skin. Along with that, I feel the need to mention that I am terrified of the sun damage I have done to my nose and hope that I get off the hook without skin cancer in 40 years. I’ve learned the importance of keeping my skin hydrated in the arid regions of the southwest I’ve called home and to take care to apply a good slathering of SPF to all visible skin before going outside. However, my concern for my skin as I age stops there.

Some may argue that at 27, I am too young to be writing on the topic of aging; I beg to differ. Cosmetic companies spend a great deal of money on advertisements targeting women in my age group – those women who have not yet begun to show the tell-tale signs of age but who soon will.  If you are wondering why I chose to address aging in relation to women verses men, it’s because American society has created a strong gender bias on the matter. Celebrities are a wonderful illustration of this. As men age, they are often regarded as more dignified, mature, and distinguished and can still be considered attractive, in fact some are regarded as more attractive the older they get. Aging actors still get lead roles: the sex scenes, the action (a few names to prove my point: George Clooney, Sean Connery, Paul Newman). Aging actresses go from leading seductive ladies to the the leading lady’s mothers, the executives, the politicians – ie. the roles without sex appeal; or they simply fade away, appearing in fewer and fewer films (a few more names: Meryl Streep, Susan Surrandon, Glen Close). But it is not just Hollywood that sends this message; a quick look at the marketing demographics for companies selling anti-aging products reveals that it is women, not men, who they expect as customers. And that brings me back to why I – at 27 – have a very valid reason for writing on the topic of aging.

 

Technicalities

For the first time in my Generation X life, I picked up one of the many manuals that came with my new cell phone and started reading. Maybe it is a right of passage. Perhaps it is a sign that I am ready for parenthood; for kids to walk into the kitchen, grab whatever new gadget has arrived and have it programmed and upgraded within minutes while I sit back, exasperated from trying to pry the gadget out of layers of adult-proof packaging. Sign or no, what this incident has confirmed is that technology has rounded a bend that surpasses my technological intuition.

 By no means did I ever describe myself as a techie, or even believe that I was technologically savvy. There are many aspects of blogging that are still out of my league; yet I got a blog up and running. For the most part, if a new computer, printer, dvd player, cell phone etc came into my life, I had it up and running with basic features without having to read a page.

That all changed yesterday when I had to open the “quick start guide” to figure out how to turn on my new cell phone. It reminded of the Sarah Jessica Parker’s character, Carrie, in the recent Sex and the City movie, when she is handed an I-phone and responds, “I need something with buttons.”  I was desperately searching for a way to make familiar buttons appear on the gigantic, blank screen as I talked to a very patient – and no doubt amused – Verizon Wireless customer support operator.

Stack of manuals and box of software and accessories for new phone. Picture take with new phone!

Once I found the on/off button and figured out how to display the number pad and navigate the menu on my phone I was off and running. As of this morning, I have downloaded all of my contacts from my old phone to the new one, set my ringtone back Earl Scrugg’s Foggy Bottom Breakdown, checked my e-mail, sent two text messages, and made and received phone calls. Yet I am certain there is more bewilderment to come. I have only read the Quick Start Guide and a few pages into the thinner of the two thick manuals. A USB cord and a CD-Rom that apparently have some significant relationship to my phone still lay in the box, swaddled in packaging. I think I will save those for another day when I have to time to wade through more technical writings. Today I will savor my successes.

 

one step at a time

My husband and I began our hike to Crater Lake chatting about the previous night’s camping experience and the twelve miles to come on our journey to and from the lake. Before I write more, I should clarify that our destination was a small, alpine lake nestled at the base of Twilight Peak in the San Juan National Forest of Colorado; least it be confused with the geographic phenomenon in Oregon that warrants national park status.

My husband and dog stand at the lake's edge.

We spent the night before our hike about five miles from the Crater Lake trail head, car camping off of Lime Creek Road – a delightful dirt road with historical value and stunning views of the Twilight Peaks. Minutes after we rolled into camp, the thunder and rain began in the distance and the mountains were soon shrouded in clouds. With a storm on it’s way, we jumped into action. The tent – or our “gigantic portable shelter ” as my husband decided to call it – was soon up. Light sprinkles of rain were upon us as we clipped the rain-fly into place and staked the shelter. By the time the sprinkles had turned into a steady rain, we had moved all the night’s necessities – collapsible camp chairs and table, wine, Snickers bars, and books – into the vestibule and had the futon mattress made up with sheets and quilts inside the tent, a lantern positioned above it for some night-time reading. You may be thinking this night of “camping” includes quite a bit of amenities. And you would be right. If it helps, we also had our light weight backpacking stove (though it saw no use because we forgot to bring a pot), headlamps, long underwear, camelbacks, and BPA-free water bottles. But for my husband and I, a night of car camping 45 minutes from the house is a treat, and we reveal in our little luxuries. You see, for us a night in a creek-side tent with mountain views trumps a five-star hotel on most occasions. A bit of history may be helpful in understanding our feelings on this matter.

For our wedding, my husband and I asked for a honeymoon tent rather than a honeymoon suite. For roughly the same (or less) in cost, we figured the tent to be a good, reusable option. A bit unsure but in-keeping with our wishes, my parents conceded and bought us a tent of our choosing. We choose the Agnes Big House 4 – a four person tent that stands almost six feet tall. But we did not stop at that: we opted to get the detachable vestibule, an appendage that dwarfs our backpacking tents in size. The vestibule serves as a wonderful sleeping place for our tw-year-old, a one hundred pound puppy named Dillon. It also makes a great sitting, cooking, and dining area during rain. After surviving epic flash flood conditions on our wedding night (a story for another time), we felt confident in the tent’s capability in rain. And so, we settled in for the evening listening to rain falling on the tent, sipping our wine, and reading The Princess Bride aloud.

Our campsite off Lime Creek Rd

Camp chairs and Dillon in the vestibule.

 

A view of the rain falling from inside the tent

We awoke early to clearing skies and quickly broke down camp so as to be on the trail with enough time to beat the afternoon storms that frequent the mountains this time of year. While the night’s efforts to avoid rain had been out of the desire not to get wet, the morning’s attempt to beat the storms had to do with a desire to avoid lightening strikes in high alpine terrain. As a woman we passed on the trail aptly stated, “I don’t care if I get rained on; I just don’t want to get struck by lightening.”

We pulled into the parking lot at Andrew’s Lake at 8:15. A couple of fishermen hoping to take home a few trout for dinner pulled into the parking lot behind us. We guessed the rest of the vehicles belonged to backpackers who’d spent a rainy night by Crater Lake. 

Andrew's Lake, where we picked up the trail to Crater Lake

We ate a quick breakfast and reluctantly stripped off our warmest layers in preparation for the hike. Not having a pot in which to heat water, I skipped my usual am dose of caffeine and hoped for the best. Maybe it was the nip in the morning air, or being three miles down the trail by the time I’m usually pouring my coffee at home – whatever the cause, I did not suffer a withdrawal headache that morning.

After a few minutes of oohing and awing aloud at the scenery, about how much we loved were we live, about how good it felt to be on the trail, and how much we had enjoyed camping the night before, our chit-chat fell into silence until my husband asked the inevitable question, “What are you thinking about?” (Yes, men do ask this question of women on occasion) . It occurred to me that lost in thought though I was, I still had to think for a moment to figured out exactly what I was thinking. Many thoughts had entered my mind during our silence: mental comments and pictures of our surroundings, whether or not it was worth annoying my husband to stop to take yet another picture, my heavy breathing and rising heart rate as indicators that I need to work out more, what our dog was getting into, possible story lines, possible blog entries, and that this hike starting at 10,900 feet felt like a homecoming back to the mountains. These thoughts entered and exited as they pleased, some popping up repeatedly,  others making a brief appearance before disappearing altogether. “Thinking about writing; tossing around some plot ideas,” I decided on and answered my husband, choosing the most recent thought that had crossed my mind. “You?” I asked dutifully.  “The usual,” he replied, “Gadgets, phones, boats.”

His response seemed fitting for him yet for some reason I found it jarring. With a 360 degree view of mountain peaks and valleys at every turn, the smell of evergreens, and the colorful splashes made by Columbines and Indian paintbrush, distracting me from a steady train of thought, it was difficult to understand how he could be thinking about electronics and a river toy. I was indigent. We were in the mountains, away from technology – unless you count my digital camera (we’d forgotten our GPS). I huffed about this for a minute, then recalled my own thoughts, many of which had nothing to do with our surrounds – plot lines for example – and felt a bit humbled. While my mind was continually interrupted by the sights, smells, and sounds around me, what was interrupted where thoughts far from a mountainside.

Being in a place where so much of the present moment competes for my attention that it succeeds in pulling me away from endless chatter in my head is why I treasure hiking. Hiking for 12 miles in a day brings an even greater relief from the mental noise of everyday life. After so many miles, my mind reaches a point were it gives up thinking about all of those things related to home,from gadgets to responsibilities. It quiets itself. In fact, at times it becomes so quiet that I no longer think about my immediate surroundings. I simply take one step at a time. Those moments are rare and fleeting but a true bit of nirvana while they exist.

One of the many panoramas of San Juan mountain peaks

 

 

Zen and the Art of Vegetable Chopping

“You spend a lot of time chopping vegetables every day,” my brother-in-law observed during a recent visit to our house. I agreed. Upon further reflection, I decided that I spend a large amount of time peeling and then chopping vegetables, since fresh garlic and onion go into just about everything I make and both require a lengthy peeling process. My brother-in-law went on to make the very useful suggestion that I set aside a block of time at the start of the week and do all of the vegetable chopping for the week. The suggestion certainly makes sense and would save me time but something inside me was against it from the start.

My immediate write-off was that I like vegetables cut in different ways for different meals. Onions for example seem better when diced in some dishes and better as halved-rings in others. Bell peppers are another case in point – I prefer them in long slices for stir-fry but find that diced is best for burritos. And I could go on. It is for this reason – combined with my preference for a very precise way of dicing garlic – that my husband is scared to chop vegetables for our meals. And I don’t blame him. I’m picky. Thus the task falls on me. But to call it a tasks makes it sound tedious and unappealing which couldn’t be further from the truth. And while my meticulous, picky nature played a role in vetoing a day of weekly chopping, the real reason that I did not want to schedule all of my chopping on one day was rooted in what I get back from my chopping episodes.

For me, chopping vegetables is kind of like fly fishing. Just like following the rod’s rhythm from 10 to 2 as you cast a fly line, I find myself following the knife across the cutting board and my mind settling into a repetitive task in which I lose myself. It is a time when I am undisturbed and can processes thoughts weighing on my mind that I have pushed aside in the day’s rush. Once my thoughts quiet, it is a wonderful exercise in mindfulness. I simply enjoy the smell of freshly chopped basil, or I notice that I am being more brutal in my attack on a carrot after a frustrating day. Time may pass slowly or quickly and becomes arbitrary; dinner will be ready when it is done.  We all have our vices, our “pick-me-ups”; I guess chopping vegetables is one of mine.