cups of water

It's the water.  The blue weight of it lapping at the side of the boat.

It whispers low beneath the wind, Let me in, let me in.

This was my idea but sitting in the canoe in the cool vastness of a November mountain lake I start second-guessing myself.

The wind is combing the dark water.  Scraping it towards the canyon and away from the dam.

I paddle but it feels like rowing through the sand.

"You can't straighten the canoe from the front in the wind," he says over the gentle clicking of the reel on his grandpa's fishing pole.

"The wind is going to push it sideways."

I know this. 

I lean carefully over the side of the canoe.  Let my fingers dip into the water.  I guess the water temperature to be in the '50s. I nod to myself knowingly but really it's the only cold water temperature I know- the water tank at the sports rehab I take Beach to. Honestly, I have no idea how cold it is or isn't.

 I look boat to shore, shore to the boat. Then I glance around the canoe wondering if we tipped which of the items I took with me would be the thing that killed me: the scarf? the big sweatshirt? the coat? Yeah, definitely the scarf. If only she hadn't worn the scarf...

I imagine the weight of waterlogged wool wrapping around my throat and my hands like a sea monster. I resist the urge to throw it off to the muddy floor of the canoe.

BC leans to one side.  I react and lean to the other and swear under my breath.

"When we go back we should take the trail below the parking lot," he says.

I look back up the steep, yellow hillside and wonder how long until we do actually go back.  Long, I tell myself, relax, enjoy this... because it was your fucking idea after all. He is only doing this for you.

I sit quietly among the sound of the grayling jumping; starvation fish.

I begin to contemplate how to get into a life jacket while fully dresses in breath-stealing water. Will it fit over my coat? Or do you try to remove your coat first? 

"I know this makes you uncomfortable," he says.  I hear the strong zip of a good cast. "Just give me a few minutes of drift to get set."

I turn and "date" smile. "No, it's fine. Take your time." I adjust the lifejacket at my feet so it's not trapped beneath the seat if the boat flips. I measure the distance to the nearest shoreline- far. Yep, it's officially very fucking far.

Pause. "It's just...uncomfortable, why does it feel like we are going against the waves?"

"We aren't."

I paddle three dozen strokes.  "I want to go over there but we aren't." I am pointing at the far shoreline.

"We are," he answers dryly.

The sun touches the hazy crown of the mountains to the west. I stop my slow panic to watch it.

He shifts.  The canoe takes a bow to the waves.

"Why does the canoe seem so tippy?" I ask, once again readjusting the lifevest with my foot.

"It's a canoe," he says.  Then probably remembering something about me he adds, "It won't tip.  We would have to both really try to tip it to get it to go over."

I know this. 

I nod. My back fighting to stay calm.

I watch the waves roll by blue- but the lake is green.  Clearwater almost gelatin looking in its purity.  Early in the day, I had called the reservoir ugly but it isn't.  It sits like a silver cup between golden canyons. 

"Okay, where do you want to go?" he asks his paddle already in the water correcting the course.

"There." I point to the shoreline around the headwater. Dead trees standing like broken gates. I can't help but to want to look behind them.

The canoe finally points and BC's strong comfortable stokes coupled with mine move us. The water dances against the low craft.

This is why. It's the water.  The sound and the silence.  The light and the dark.  The deepness and the shallows. I was raised on the water.  It's where my soul rests.

My strokes are easier than they have been in years. My shoulder finally healing.  BC and I move the boat together and we make big gains.  Yes, this is why.

Midlake I say, "I think I need a beer."

He stops paddling.  Opens the cooler pulling out a brown bottle.  Popping the lid with his lighter he hands it to me.  Our fingers barely touching over the length of the boat.

The canoe losing it's direct turns in the wind.  I pretend not to feel it as he pours himself a glass of wine. For some reason, the sideways gait of the canoe is less uncomfortable now.

A triad of ducks drifts by then explode into flight. They call out to each other, ark in the muted sky and land on the other side of us; no closer, no farther away.

I put in a few strokes that pull us back on course.

BC joins me and we glide to the end of the lake.

"Shore?" he asks.

"Sure," I answer, not really wanting to leave the water.

"The rocks?"

"Sure."

"You will have to bring us in," he says as he begins to pull is his line.

"I always do," I answer.

I push my paddle down reaching for the bottom and don't find it.  I do it two more times as we get closer wetting my gloves but never finding the ground. The shoreline below us must be steep I reason.

I take aim, give three good strokes and set my paddle down on the bottom of the boat to pick up my beer. The nose races in.  It nuzzles a set of white rocks on the right and a dense cluster to the left.  It stops softly on the patch of open gravel.  A perfect mooring.

I look over my shoulder to BC a laugh already spreading across his lips.

I shrug, "Who needs a paddle?"

I jump out landing precariously three times before finding solid footing.  I pull us in. I was raised on the water.  My body knows everything about it. I look out across the lake, the waves with the sun slipping away.

BC pulls on his coat before carefully making his way to shore.  He is more thoughtful than I was. Choosing a route up the rocks that ensures (over luck) dry feet.

A bottle of beer, a glass of wine, and a silver, no, a golden cup of blue-green water. 

This is the reason: to remember I am more okay than I think I am... even when I am drifting.

rivers of doubt

The heat comes for the river first.  It drinks from it twisting the air into moppy strings of green earth. The dogs don't care.  They ride the black path as if it is tundra. One is leashed the other is not.

Along the trail, the grass grows tall but tired.  Sunlight clips through in broken waves catching on the stillness of the river and bouncing off the orb weaver webs.

I can see the spiders.  I can hear my heavy footfalls. Feel the pull of the dog who knows I am slow.

Returning to the J Trail is always the same.  It's like crawling down a tunnel; light at both ends and dark in the middle.

The darkness is doubt.  It is fear.

The dog pulling me is a flashlight that cuts the darkness.  He removes the fear of the next corner, of the overgrowth, and of the drug dealer on bikes that roam boldly.  His brashness and the way I handle him as if he were a keg of dynamite about to blow scares the men passing us.

For this, I am not sorry. In fact, it's a little fuck you for scaring me away from here in the first place and you are welcome.

The dog does nothing for doubt though.  Doubt only fades with time.  Time on the trail chasing the heat, chasing the river.

from over here

snapshots of me

I stood at the counter watching the black and white pages pop from the machine.  The weight of the notebook a phantom in my hand. I had found it while waiting to be helped by the man at the print shop.

It was tucked away on a shelf.  The cover, a waxy wash of blue, pages dots, not lines, an open spine, and only $10.  But still, with so many expenses this month I told myself I didn't need it.  I didn't need another notebook.

Over the weekend I thought about it.  The smell.  The blueness.  The clean slate.  Sunday at 5:55 I checked the prints shops hours- Sunday 12-6.

On Monday I struggled with the rumpled green bills inside my wallet.  I mentally tagged each one of them towards the desserts needs for Beach's birthday, for a proper gift for Baby J, towards the trip to the bounce house for her, and fresh vegetables we would be needing midweek.

No money for a notebook.

But on Tuesday morning I made an excuse to go to the post office and drove the print shop.  I found a blue notebook.  Rubbed the cover.  I opened it.  Shut it.  Turned it over and rubbed the back.  I put it back once but the second time I picked it up I carried to the counter.

"This one is my favorite," the man said.  Then he showed me its blueness, it's open spine, its grid, not lined pages. He was the same man who had helped me the week before.

When I got home I was too nervous to write in it.  I got out a sheet of notebook paper and wrote: Pieces of Me. Below that, I spaced out the words: Me, Family, School, House, Yard, Travel, and Work across the paper. Then I got to work adding in the details under each part.

When I was satisfied I took up the blue notebook.  Opened the first page and printed in 4 months of calendars and listed important events off to the side.  I skipped the second page but on the third, I carefully copied in the Pieces of Me. Adding artful accents and using 3 different colors of ink.

It wasn't until the late afternoon when I was standing on the summit that I realized it had been one week.  That last Tuesday I was not on top of a mountain.  I did not have a new blue notebook and a clean slate.  I was way out in the valley at the dentist's office closing old doors.

One week.

What divinity is this?

A naked dragon with granite bones

It sleeps like a cat coiled and still

but rises like a serpent

rolling to the sea

breaking the surface of the sky

with scales of red and yellow

and eyes of winter white

In that space, I have already hiked 2 hikes that mean more than miles to me. The Living Room is inside my soul.  It is my heart and my fears.  It holds pieces of my sister, of love, of loss, fire, and snow.

Elbow Fork is of another lifetime- and another love.  It is the fight I have been fighting for the past 3 or 4 years.  The fight to make it to higher ground.  It holds the sound of silence, ghosts of steamy breath, BC's hand outstretched, flannel, rain, and lightning.

As I hike I take snapshots of myself smiling at nothing and marvel at how much I am starting to look like ME.

The mountain breaks the October sky,

tearing at its white dress

ripping holes in its autumn peace

I could stay here in its whisper

rest in the wind

let the dog go feral like the trees

When I return from the mountain I gather all the notebooks from this past year and burn them in the yard in a nest of fallen leaves and narrow branches.  The flames blacken out the calendars with important events.  The dentist appoints littered like buckshot among them disappear.  The fire licks the pages; meal plans, medication schedules, soft food lists, chores, projects completed, words already written, gifts already bought and given. The notebooks burn.

I go inside and take up the blue book.  On the fourth page, I write.

the living room