Thankgsiving: A Work in Progress

A month of fall has somehow slipped past, one horrifically slow in the roller coaster meanderings of these up-and-down days, and one frighteningly quick in the progression of have-tos and must-nots and all too fleeting glimpses at joy.

Every day I walk past a billboard advertising I think that movie that they're making out of Kite Runner. The source really doesn't matter, its the caption that gets me: There is a way to be good again. There is a way to be greater than all of these faceless despairs, many ways in fact. It got me thinking about inspiration, motivation, what ever little kick in the pants that helps you get through the day. All the people whom I most admire seem driven by almost supernatural forces and a strength too remarkable to be human. My own pithy attempts just to make it somehow from dawn to dusk more than pale in comparison.

To continue yesterday's musings, I'm wondering and wandering on the things that keep me going. I'm thinking about the things that remain, even through all the stomach clenching chaos I have a knack of discovering for myself, the glimpses of better that have a habit of popping up at all the right times. I close my eyes and I can see mountain silhouettes, pretty much universally. I see the shades of green darkness, the shadow horizon of the Siskiyou's in Southern Oregon, and the dirt road unfurling in front of me. I see the hills of the Orlicke hory, where I am making my way aimlessly from foothill village to village. Mostly I am just on the edge of the woods, looking over and across the fields to the sunset beyond the next ridge. I close my eyes and I am lying in the middle of a deserted Forest Service campground, with two little girls clinging to me as I point out made up constellations. I keep them closed and I am running, simply moving for the sake of feeling my body, freely and without pain. I am on stage, bathing in music like water and the presence of people whom I love. I am sitting too close to a campfire, one which I have built with my own two hands, and we are singing. I close my eyes and I am on the top of Neakanie Mountain, and I am tucked into the hillside in the sunshine, drowsy, and amazed at the beach and endlessly blue water so far below me. I am sunrise and unencumbered time. For all of these things I am. And in all of these things it is the simple act of being which is remarkable, and holy above all.

I get up in the morning because somewhere deep down, sometimes more hidden than others, I believe that in this day something astounding will occur. I have faith that I will meet someone or something who will challenge the boldness of my perceptions. Or some small conversation will manage to reach me unawares. I get up because, or with the hope of being surprised, of being pushed, and hopefully of pushing back. In each day I need movement, the promise of the strokings of endorphins, and of big sky and fog. I need to know, and to constantly be reminded that the world is still out there, still pulsating. Sometimes this is as simple as taking away my breath, or as ethereal as shattering the hard shell of some wayward soul. I live for connections, for connecting people, for connecting to people, and for being connected to my own little turtle-shell atmosphere.

On this day of reflection and benediction, what moves you?

Its so hard to remember, I'm just trying to remember, this time around.

I've made it no secret to the world lately, how shitty life has been for the past few weeks. Admitting that I am out of control is one of the hardest parts of being depressed for me, because I am way to good at being like this. The last few weeks of this supposed living hell have taught me alot, have reminded me of a lot, and have left me questioning the very foundations of the life that I find myself living these days.

I got back from working a fantastic week-end long outdoor trip over on the coast for the weekend. I spent two whole days frolicking in the forest, falling asleep on top of mountains, and offtrailing it over sandunes to find the ocean. We had mushroom fights (apparently thats how you can tell certain types of mushrooms, whether or not the crush on impact), we rocked out with a handfull of guitars and drums and failing that pots and pans. I forgot everything for two days, and in a lot of ways its just crushing to come back to town and loose all perspective on life and love and loss and stress and challenge and meaning and belonging. I forget myself, I forget how to be myself, and I forget the incredible strengths that I have been given.

Its a good question, actually, what is so blinding, why in the heat of things its so hard for me to remember all the good in the world and in myself. I was talking on the phone tonight to a very dear friend, one who I am so blessed to have in my life. He simply said to me, "you know, Peggy, in the heat of things in the backcountry I have no doubt in my mind that you can take charge when you need to. I know you can be confident and sure of yourself and be the person you need to be when there are people who need you. The trick is to learn to do that in the front country as well."

Thats really the rub, is remembering all of the good that I have been given. Remembering how powerful I can be, and how calm, while sitting on top of mountains. Keeping hold of people around me, particularly those with the infinite ability to see through my varying mascarades of bullshit, those who know me well enough to know the truth, that this is not me, and definitly not a me that I enjoy or am capable of being for long. I read some things I had written this summer, about how I wished I could take with me the serenity and the awareness of those experiences. I wrote, literally word for word, that I wished I could remember summer, once school starts kicking my ass and I'm too far gone to realize.

Kind of prescient.

Or sad.

What I mean to say, I guess, is that I am having a hard time. Maybe not today, maybe not tommorow, or yesterday, but I'm having a hard time. I dont know why or how or where from, and I'm not totally convinced that it is for me to know, neccesarily. I know that for whatever reason, winter here in Portland seems to bring out the worst in me. I know that this time around I am doing my damndest to fight it with acupuncture, excercise, solid outdoor time, friends, strangers, music, and cutting the crap. Some days I do pretty damn well and I am conscious and aware and thankful to be alive. Somedays it is all I can do to get out of bed in the morning. Somedays, like sitting here tonight, its all I can do not to run away, to totally flee because doing what I need to do to get through is so intimidating that I cannot even begin to comprehend how to accomplish it. Depression for me is not a sadness, its not an overarching malaise. Its a loss of perspective, a lack of energy, and a total abandonment of logic and rational thought. I still consider myself an optimistic person, I have hopes and dreams and big plans for the future. Its just that sometimes the space between here and there seems unconquerable and unending. Its all the worse, too, because I know that I dont have to be here, I dont have to be like this, that school and the pursuit of that one piece of paper is keeping me here.

My knees are wearing out, and I'm terrified of loosing running and hiking and that absolutely visceral reminder that I am alive and awake and aware and strong. I am very afraid of what comes next.

The Rain is the Hardest Part

I realized this morning after running with Chris (albeit at the ultimate ass end of dawn) that I'm pissed at myself for feeling crappy. I'm angry for letting myself go down this road again, as if it were really any sort of conscious choice I made, like, OK today lets be depressed 'cause we haven't done that for awhile. Just for shits and giggles, keep things lively. The longer this goes on the more truely I believe in the biology of depression, because its such a viscereal reaction to fall, so much n ight and day that I think I must be mistaken. That it'll pass in a few days and not settle in to roost on my shoulders till February. Because I almost didn't notice the passing of time in my haste to hope and pray that this would finally be the year that I grew out of this dark game. I keep thinking that I've made enough positive changes in my life, that I've taken decisive enough charge of my l ife and the things which I know make me feel good. That maybe this is the year where all of the good that I've been doing would finally be enough to keep my head above water. And yet its the same old story, the same battles I've been fighting since freshman year when I lost it all and slept with Noah. And then the power of suggestion, too, is such a strong enticement. I feel like I've been treading water pretty desperately all semester so far, with just enough force and energy to keep my head above the surface. And then that pesky little thought crosses my mind that maybe this is why everything is so hard, and just the thought that maybe I'm depressed again is enough to give it up and just sink for a while.

All I want to do is sit and write this storm away, and not having the ability to do so is kind of crushing. Nothing right now seems more worthless than going to Russian lit class. If I hadn't already skipped class twice this week I think I would probably just runaway for the 2 hours. At this point I'm going just to prove to myself that I can, instead of the other way around.

They're forcasting sun next week, here's hopin'. Sun and a nice long sleep.

I Don't Mind

Well I am looking, I am searching, I have found
Near the ground, my soul, myself, beneath this trail.
There's no other place I'd rather be.
Can't you see me out here walkin' in the rain and hail.

Purpose of life seems to me is
Not to take yourself too seriously.
I wouldn't want to be an old man sittin' in an office
Building someplace far away, with worry on my face.

Well you can take my car, my stereo, my little money.
Leave me with nothin’ but my trail family.
Take my dress up clothes, my cheap cologne,
My college loans I don't mind, I don't mind.

Well if that taxman comes lookin’ I'm at 10,000 feet
Cookin' up some oatmeal or some rice and beans.

I worship the Spirit who doesn't just look down
He looks up and through and all around,
Find Him in the rocks and trees. Cause there's no reason to pray
When you wake up every day to the sunrise over Cito Peak.

So find some ground lace up your boots start walkin'
And you will find reason, enough reason to believe.

Well you can drop your worries at the parking lot
Or way down in the city where the sun burns hot.
Although civilization is a nice place to visit,
I wouldn't want to live there.

Oh just one final paragraph of advice don't burn yourselves out.
- -Be as I am. It's not enough to fight for the land.
It's even more important to enjoy it while you can, while it's still here.

So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around.
Ramble out yonder explore the woods, encounter the grizz,
Climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers,
Breathe deep that yet sweet lucid air.

Sit quiet for awhile contemplate the precious stillness
That mystery and awesome space enjoy yourself.
Keep your brain in your head and your head attached to your body.
Body active and alive. And I promise you this much.

I promise you this one sweet victory, over our enemies.
Over those desk bound people with their hearts in a box
And their eyes hypnotized by calculators.
I promise you this one sweet victory...

YOU'LL OUTLIVE THE BASTARDS!

TGIF

"Time plays like an accordion in the way it can stretch out and compress itself in a thousand melodic ways. Months on end may pass blindingly in a quick series of chords, open--shut, together apart, and then a single melancholy week may seem like a year's pining, one fugue like detail, with perfect pitch, but as for the next few months...I remember only snatches of superficial times..."

"When it comes to life, we spin our own yarn, and where we end up is really, in fact, where we always intended to be."

"All right you idiot, I scold myself...pull yourself together and live. 'Live:' a command I received explicitly some time ago and try to respect for all the privilege it gives me. Never mind that it often feels like a burden I'd rather stow in an attic with the rash luxury, the true luxury of saving it for some undetermined season in the future..."

~Julia Glass, "Three Junes"

Friday night and I am most definitely not holed up in the library. Most definitely definitely not attempting to write a lit paper on the uses and evidence of the Russian soul within Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. And for sure not attempting to do so while starving and watching the Bachelor on the ABC website.

God. The more things change the more they stay the same.

The Spy

Monday morning in the almost daylight of Portland in the wintertime. Not quite raining, but more than cloudy, and I am downtown waiting for the shuttle. I cant help but notice, even just anthropologically, how people are perceiving me, muddy, half soaked, still in my running tights and don't-shoot-me salmon pink raincoat. In a city too full of hipsters and outdoor-freaks, its intriguing. I haven't showered since Saturday, but the offer of a free ride downtown, plus the inability to care how I look these days--it was too good to pass up. Plus, I'm comfortable, and lately taking of my workout clothes or camping clothes kind of breaks the spell of endorphins and power and freedom just the way taking off concert black and white used to for me back in the day. And I'm just beyond lazy--this way I can stretch the laundry neccesity maybe one more day...

I feel sort of like Harriet the Spy, crouched here in the corner watching the Penguin parade pour off of the Max, all toting coffee and looks of grim resolution. At least the rain's stopped for the moment, and I can feel the heat streaming from Nordstroms. The same guy has been fiddling with the ATM across the way for the last five minutes, my knees are irritating so I'm balanced flamingo like, and halfway afraid that the next passing homeless women's little furry hot-dog is going to lift his hind leg and pee on my bag. But the lines between homeless and LC kid are fuzzy, and the crazy guy ranting on the corner turns out to be in my stats class, and then what?

I think I found my thesis topic, after wading through yet another classic Peggy existential adventure this past week. I don't know why or wherefrom my need to make life as difficult as I possibly can, but I know that I do and apparently I may as well get used to the idea. I know that everything good I've ever done, everything good thats ever happened to me has scared the friggin' crap out of me at the time. The question that remains--is it good because it scares the crap out of me, or does scaring the crap out of me make it good?

Right, so, thesis. I found it in deep ecology and using outdoor and environmental education (not to mention wilderness therapy) programs as a means for social justice. I've been reading all this stuff about how therapy programs working with at-risk populations (what does that actually physically mean, at risk??) ultimately fail in the long term because they further the objectication and imposed hierarchy of all the good race, class, gender, whatever labels.They teach all these amazing stuff and really do accomplish alot in the intervention process-efficacy, agency, self-actualization...plus all that oh-so-vital environmental awareness. But they teach it as out-there, with no connection or application or appreciation of back home realities. And then these kids tend to relapse because they haven't been taught how to use their skiills in a context familiar and helpful to them. Deep ecology purports that we must reform the paradigm so that nature is considered and valued (more importantly) as all around us, not just some pristime, untravelled entity out-there far removed from the day to day life we know. And in doing so we improve not only the human-nature connection, but in advancing notions like interdependency etc. we also improve the human-human connection as well. And thats not even saying anything about the almost institutionalized racism in the outdoor industry and the socio-cultural context of land use among minorities, plus the lack of access and lack of context of wilderness for quite a lot of people...

I keep running into my Birch Trail training in strange ways. Namely, the hike this weekend turned pacing waaaay against me. I'm still very much in the habit of the almost sheep-dog like cattleprod method of leading trips---as you must be when dealing with children. And Sunday, even trekking through the downpour, I couldn't quite shake the notion that someone must be at the back of the group or at least nearby. I mean, sure, its legal risktaking adults that I'm dealing with at this point, not to mention peers of mine usually, but I still get nervous as the group spreads out and people start to wander. Even beyond the whole first-aid neccesity I think some of its just a more friendly environment when someone is close by. Nobody likes to be the last one puffing up a hill--its almost embarassing. I have a really hard time switching gears--particularly when in a lot of ways working with college kids is really no different from working with ten year olds. I am so thankful, though, that I have small kids as my first outdoor job experience, because its made me hyperconcious of everything and extra vigilent at all times out of habit. I think it would probably be a rougher transition to go the other direction, to learn kids after dealing with adults. But I know how to lead a safe trip, I know how to be totally goofy, how to put people at ease. And that has prooved to be the most useful in the scheme of things.

The reality of the choices that I'm making is slowly settling in. I'm learning to enjoy the response I get from people when I tell them my plans for the great beyond college include moving to Utah and finaggling someone to pay me to be outside. And working on telling people about what I'm truely going to write my thesis on. And feeling like I belong up in Sequoia, and like I'm one of those crazy CO kids in the eyes of the students on my trips. Or pondering the neccesity of a car should I really run off to the desert for a while---*gasp*. Life is slowly becoming more real, much to my surprise and pleasure.

I love driving over the northside bridges and catching bluesky peak around the horizon...I'll just leave it at that.

Onion Domes, again

"...He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The cupola of the cathedral...glittered in the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished...He stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of times--generally on his way home--stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesque that he should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him...so short a time ago...Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now--all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all...He felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from his sight..."~~~Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

Reading Dostoevsky and I am suddenly walking along the naberezhnie outside of the university, making my way home though the bitter cold after choir rehearsal with a tune still strumming at my lips. The frigid night wind pulls at my scarf and I walk a little faster, screw my eyes closed and run across the street towards the strelki of Vasilievsky Ostrov. St. Petersburg herself strums and night rhythm and the ice flows on the river Neva whisper, battling the stars for command of the thundering evening silently. Facing now the krepost Petra Pavlovskova with the river on one side of me and the canals of the islands on the other and I can see for miles in the crystalline reflection of the fortress. The bridge itself hums beneath my feet in the wind and the traffic, and I continue anxiously past the casino and it's cabal of resident thugs through the dark and deserted streets.

I remember the air that evening, sort of solid, ice-cold, and almost human. It is so cold that my nose hurts, and I wrap tighter in wool, and quicken my step even further. I have a penchant for jumping at the slightest sign of life--every shadow is alive in the thick darkness, and I have been well-trained. Crossing the threshold between the dvor and the soft pillowy heat of our apartment is like a border to a foreign land, chai waits, and conversation. Yet my mind lingers on Nikolaevsky bridge, wrapped in the panorama of the city, of the darkness, of Russia herself.