Wild by Cheryl Strayed

Internal narrative: "In my perception, the world isn’t a graph or formula or an equation. It’s a story. Fear, to a great extent, comes from a story we tell ourselves, so I chose to tell myself a different story. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. It wasn’t long before I actually wasn’t afraid.”

Urban Trek

A big walk begins at my doorstep. The first stop .. a stone passageway that runs around back of the high school stadium. It’s not only a short-cut ..it has rails that are the same height as the bar in a dance studio. Perfect for stretching my piriformis and softening my ride. On Figueroa Street someone honks and gives me a thumbs-up. I wave but have no idea who it is. I narrow it down by women who know I’m recovering and have a bright smile. Pat springs to mind. I pass by Andrea’s place but I know she’s at work. Must remind myself to send her an IM. At Wells Fargo they have table and chairs and bottled water. Good place for a pit-stop. I tank-up ..begin writing this screed and plan my next move. The men’s room at the court house. I’m sitting in the mural room chatting with a girl and her parents from LA . They’re on a college tour ..Mount St. Marys ..Occidental ..UCSB. Her preference ..University of Utah. I gather she wants a little more distance between her and her parents. I return by way of the high school ..stretch and sit in the stands. A tune fills my head ..recovery is going well .. feels like downtown is getting closer and closer.

Code

I will be engrossed in fascinating experiences that feed my curiosity, but I will not be obsessed with grueling frustrations that drain my energy.

I will be committed to love if it opens my eyes and heart, but I will not be infatuated with maddening conundrums that spark mostly fear.

I will give myself freely to opportunities that offer me valuable lessons, but I will be skeptical of one-sided pursuits that ask far more from me than they offer in return.

~ zen fortune cookie factory

Shit expert

I’m out hiking with my dog Andy. At the first sign of critters ..the aroma of shit ..Andy’s got his nose to the ground. He signals me by sticking his tail out and cocking his left leg up. Can’t be just any piece of shit though. It’s gotta be fresh .. meaning less than a 15 minutes old. And it’s gotta’ be a critter like possum or rabbit (not just another dog or cat). Now Andy’s whining and it looks like he’s got the shakes so I go over and ask him what’s wrong. He looks at me like he’s just seen (or smelt) a ghost. I look at today’s droppings. Way too big for a raccoon but a bit too small for a deer. That leaves ..Bobcat! Andy looks at me like ‘BINGO’ ..and we haul ass outta’ there. I don’t underestimate his sense of smell. It’s been ‘genetically tuned’ to pick up the scent of shit left by critters he hunts ..as well as critters that may be hunting us. Sure enough, the first person we run into tells us that there’s been a bobcat sighting in the area.

Grounding

Someone told me about ‘grounding exercises’ the other day. I think they may be useful as a memory aid. I guess another term for it would be ‘focusing’. She said the way to hold a moment in your head for more than a fraction of an instant is to list a few details that you see and a few details that you hear, smell and feel. She hikes so she gave me this example. Watch the trail moving beneath your feet ..notice the flowers that grow on the side. Listen to the sound your boot makes hitting the ground ..even notice the silence in between. Notice the smell of the trees and the dust. Feel of the sun on your skin and the passing shade of trees. Or, if you’re like me .. notice the feeling of the ground on the soles of your boots (or running shoes) .. which is something I’ve been working on in outpatient. Don’t know any studies that back this up but it  sounds credible enough.

Departure

    Be it sight, sound, smell, or touch 
    Something inside retains so much
    The sight of a touch or the scent of a sound
    Or the strength of an oak with roots deep in the ground
    The wonder of flowers to be covered and then burst up
    Through tarmac to the sun again
    Or to fly to the sun without burning a wing
    To lie in a meadow and hear the grass sing
    To have all these things in our memory stored
    And we use them to help us ..

    Moody Blues

Borderline

There’s an electric fence blocking my way today. It’s not much of a fence; the kind you’d unfold to keep a baby safe. Not hard to collapse and walk over. The sign says ‘animal enclosure’. Sure enough, goats are grazing on the other side. I get the picture but I’m still pissed. Where’s the herdsman, I’d like a word with him. There are too many fences around here already. I have every right to pass through without fear of getting my nuts zapped stepping over another one. I climb to Franceschi where I sit and plan my next move. Should I contact the planning commission, city council or the coastal commission ..? I tromp back down thinking “another fucking ambush on the way to sanctuary ..just when I was starting to feel safe again. I don’t know where the boundaries are anymore but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some son-of-a bitch goat farmer get in my way.” I reach bottom where I run into my neighbors Matt and Richelle. I explain the situation. They tell me not to worry ..it’s a temporary thing. The County rents goats from farms in the Santa Ynez valley. They eat the underbrush from the canyons. They’ll be movin’ on in a day or so. I experience a sudden drop in blood pressure and begin to feel my grip loosening from around the neck of an imaginary goat farmer.

A way out

The trail that goes into the canyon where I live has become impassable. Where shrub oak and other vegetation aren’t blocking it ..new fences are. I feel trapped and a little panicky. It was always comforting to know I had a way out. I have to find another. I try one bordering the canyon by the County Bowl, but about three-quarters of the way up I run into another barrier. They’ve expanded the bowl out to the edge of that canyon. The only way I can go any farther is by sliding back to where I started. Now I’m on Lowena Road where I see Levi waxing his Harley. Lucy charges me to lick my face and see if I’ve got any dog treats. I sit and chat while Levi works. After listening to tales of the next apocalypse ..he tells me where I can find another trail that’s more serviceable than the one I was just on. After a few false starts, I come to the end of a steep winding road where I find a clearly marked trailhead. A few steps in and I’m climbing a steep, tightly-wrapped switch-back trail, marked by stones piled like stupas. I arrive where the two canyons meet up top. I’ve been here before and know where I can catch a flat dirt road that loops around a hillside and takes me to Sylvan Park ..where the trail to Franceschi begins. I’m stoked and start howling like a madman ..just to listen to my voice echo through the canyons. Then I hear a voice inside my head scream “shut the fuck up” because I’m inside the perimeter of bobcat territory where calling attention to myself could be a life-shortening act. I follow the road to Sylvan Park and climb the ancient stone steps that take me to the trail that takes me to Franceschi park. Now I’m sitting on the ruins of a wall surrounding a botanical garden where I can look out and watch boats sail passed the islands on their way to China, and I’m like “Yes! I have found a way out. Yes ..!!!” 

View from Franceschi

Halfway house

I tremble I tremble I tremble I tremble 
They're gonna eat me alive alive alive
If I stumble stumble stumble stumble 
They're gonna eat me alive alive alive 

I’m sitting on some old stone steps about halfway up to Franceschi when the rain comes. I hike back to APS .. slide down the muddy hillside by the County Bowl ..and surprise Ron and his dog Murphy at the bottom. It’s not raining down here. We go up and down Figueroa Street to the high school. I see some pathways I haven’t seen before. Ron looks like a man on a mission so I make a mental note to explore them on my own next time around. I hose down my overalls and parka ..throw them in the dryer ..wrap myself in a cotton bathrobe ..sit down with a cup of tea and watch my hands tremble while I try and hit the right letters on the keyboard of my PC. This may take a while.

Little boxes

Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky. Little boxes, little boxes, little boxes all the same. There’s a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one. And they’re all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

Thoughts and impressions are arriving in packages that are way too small today. I need a bigger picture. I put on my Merrells and find the shortest path up to Franceschi. I start on residential streets because the canyon would be too tortuous today. I pass by stately homes and funky California cottages. I concentrate on loosening the suspension joints in my hips ..and experience a more cushiony ride. The street gives way to a woodsy trail bordered by pine, oak and eucalyptus. Feels spongy. I reach the top of Franceschi where I get a panoramic view of the coast ..from Rincon to Gaviota ..then out to sea where white clouds are beginning to roll over the tops of the islands. South of me the fog has already breached the coastline and filled Sycamore Canyon. I inhale .. like a wave crashing ..and exhale .. washing away the debris. No quarrels or nagging doubts here. Like water seeking it’s own level ..I listen to the narrative in my head expand to fill the space available ..both inside and out. Calm and undisturbed. I throw the packaging material over the edge and watch it sail away.

Little Boxes by losttimeblues

No substances required

I step out, close the door, look at my watch - 4:30 pm - plenty of daylight left. I walk past Señor Jim’s place ..struggle up an overgrown canyon and reach the trail to Franceschi park where I can see the waters of the bay below, pale blue ..and the fog, pearly white, rolling inland and up the mountainside directly ahead of me. The trail goes into it and I follow ..getting that magical feeling my head is in the clouds ..revealing possibilities I don’t ordinarily see (no wonder my teachers warned me about this). Apparitions of the Indians that used to live here re-appear (as always) ..reminding me that I’m just passing through. My neighbor Amanda steps out of the fog ahead ..shrugging and going “it’s a reoccurring thing” ..before disappearing behind. Now I’m wondering who, or what is going to happen next. Julie is waiting with the weimaraners she rescued. She hands me a tennis ball and I throw it and it goes ‘poof’ and disappears. Lotus chases it and disappears too. I look at Julie and she tells me not to worry ..he’ll reappear somewhere down the line. Then she disappears. I hike out of the fog ..slide down the hill next to the county bowl ..a natural amphitheater I’m lucky to have as a neighbor ..then walk past Marlena’s place and head home, thinking: sometimes foreign substances aren’t required.

Walking meditation

I'm paying attention to the meditation of the trail ..watching the earth roll by underneath my foot steps..it’s not a smooth ride ..things jump, rock and roll as they go by ..following the rhythm of my stride - I think, perhaps, the shock absorbers of my senses may be shot.

Crash

Am I being poisoned by the weed killer across the creek ..or the fumigation across the street ? Maybe that’s what’s making me feel rundown and low ..but I don’t really know. Blurry spots drift by my field of vision ..and gently fall to the computer keys ..it looks like soot but I know it’s all in my eyes. Yesterday I hiked for 6 hours ..my longest time so far this year. It was a strenuous hike too ..30 minutes up to APS and ‘Sylvan Park' ..my first stop .. where I practice deep breathing exercises for 5 minutes. Up the steps to Mission Ridge, like climbing a stadium, where I breath for 5 minutes on a stone bench. Following the trail to ‘Franceschi park lookout’ ..I sit in my ‘hideaway’ and breath again. I climb some more and go around the bend ..stopping at ‘Stillness field’, with its Zen-like rock garden ..where I breath again. Loop around the hilltop on a shady country lane ..then drop down Arbolado way. I’ve been told that walking downhill teaches your legs how wide they can stride. So, I concentrate on stretching my legs and taking big steps. I know it looks funny. Crash ~ my motor coordination is off today ..as well as my equilibrium ..I fumble with the breakfast plates ..I stumble around the deck setting up table and chairs ..I catch myself by grabbing hold of the umbrella pole ..or hitting the fence, then the door-frame ..kinda’ like a bumper car.

Big walk

Walking up a twisty mountain trail with just enough presence of mind to lower the volume in my head and give my senses a boost. The trail switches back and forth. A wooden sign, hanging from a tree says ‘blind and steep’ ..(?) I lose the trail. Now I’m walking up a dry creek bed. Now I’m using my hands and feet to climb up a narrow gap between boulders. Now I’m standing in a clearing where another wooden sign says ‘ Sylvan Park’. I’m not lost anymore. I find the ancient stone steps and climb them to Franceschi Park. Now I’m sitting on an old rock wall surrounding the botanical garden. Time for walking meditation. I pay homage to the giant agaves, sycamore and pine trees. On top of mountain there’s another clearing bordered by huge eucalyptus trees. I walk around it on a shady trail that loops the mountaintop—then goes down the side where there’s a view of the Pacific Ocean clear to the islands off the coast of China. They’re really the Channel Islands but I like to tell people that. Feeling less adventurous, I take a short cut through the County Bowl. Even though I have a key ..the gates are open and the tour buses are there – so I skip down the aisles and watch the Roadies setting up the stage. I ask who’s playing and they say ‘Maroon 5’. I wonder if I’m gonna’ miss a good show. Maybe I’ll hang around and listen to the sound check. Then if I have an ounce of energy left, I’ll go up to the ticket window and ask ‘hey, what’s shakin’.