The long and winding road…

Only five days separate my neighbor’s birthday and mine. Had we known each other in our youth, we might have gone to kindergarten together and played on the playground. But here we are, meeting each other in our 74th year - she mostly confined to a recliner or bed, and me searching for new hikes every day with my golden retriever.

As we have become friends, I have learned it has been, “a long and winding road,” for us both. We both grew up with mother figures who were less than mothering. We both made choices that were unhealthy, and we both experienced much trauma. Whenever I sit with her, I am struck by the decades long depth of her sadness and anger, and it leaves me wondering what made the difference between her reality now and mine, only five days apart in age.

Perhaps I will never know the truth of it. But, I continue to be haunted by the question.

As I search for the answer, I carry her with me in spirit whenever I head out for an adventure. Today as I hiked, I could feel my aching feet and sore hips and wanted to quit early and go home. But I reminded myself that the only exercise she would get this day was pushing a button to make her recliner go up and down or awkwardly maneuvering her walker around the house. And so, I pushed on.

Small pools came into view below the trail fed by a diminishing waterfall. I hungered to hike down to the banks, but the way was a minefield of tree roots and tangled rocks, and I feared losing my balance and again thought about turning back. My younger self would have bounded down completely confident and unconcerned. But now, staring at the rugged trail, I thought of my neighbor who often strides out without thinking or without using her walker in her rush to be independent, decisions that have resulted in many falls. I did not want to follow in her steps.

Pausing to catch my breath, I pondered what the best decision would be. Should I turn around in order to be safe, or was this task simply needing to be approached with discernment? With some fear and trepidation I chose the latter, and I picked my way down slowly and carefully, making sure that the placement of every foot was secure before moving to the next – that the branch I reached for was in fact attached to a tree.

When I reached the bank, a quiet, overwhelming beauty was the reward for stepping carefully through the fear. As I watched my dog meander through the quiet pools, my first thought was how I wished I could actually share this moment with my neighbor. But I had to settle for stopping by when I got home, and I sat on her bed to show her pictures, hoping for one tiny moment she would get to experience a world different than a mattress in a darkened room.

Perhaps if we had spent years coming to places like this together, her spirit would have been softer, her life more fulfilling. But that time has passed. So now I can only carry her with me as a reminder to cherish every breath and to appreciate every moment of peace found in wild places

because the freedom to move easily through this world is a gift not given to everyone, regardless of their history or circumstance.

A bikini epiphany

Last summer as I walked through the underbrush on a trail down to the river, loud music and boisterous laughter rose from below. Thinking a gathering of teenagers must have overtaken the beach, I was surprised when a raft the size of a small living room floated into view overflowing with women well past their teenage years. In the middle, a woman held court, her full-throated laughter leading the others.

There is a boldness to women who laugh loudly with such abandon - who wrap voluptuous bodies confidently into neon-colored bikinis, unconcerned about lowering their voices or hiding their bodies so as not to be noticed.

I stood there in awe, soaking in the freedom of their wildness, and whenever I encountered them last summer, my heart was filled with unexpected joy.

Now the summer begins again, and today the leader of the bold women was back at the beach. She had staked her claim on the rocky shore, and her presence compelled me towards her to engage in conversation. As she was beginning to stretch out alone on a blanket on the shore, I greeted her and asked about the missing swim dock.

“It belongs to a friend. We will be bringing it out soon…” and then she added in a gravelly voice, raising one arm in the air to wave an imaginary jug,

“It’s our pirate ship. When we float on it, our motto is “t*ts ahoy “

Caught off guard, I burst into laughter and had to keep myself from running over and giving her a full body hug just to say thanks.

Because I think I have been looking for her since birth.

All my life, I have hungered to come into a space and not diminish myself just to avoid drawing negative attention. I have hungered to be comfortable with letting the joy I feel within escape without parameters. I have hungered to not feel I have to stand on this same shore in an oversized grey t-shirt just to feel safe in my own body.

So, yes, I wanted to hug her and say thank you from the deepest reaches of my heart.

Thank you for taking up the space you deserve. Thank you for talking in your “outside voice”. Thank you for taking the part of your body that society objectifies as the focus of male sexual desire and unapologetically claiming it as your own.

Every single time I encounter you on the beach, your mere existence encourages me to claim the space that is my birthright. You exemplify what it means to live with a “t*ts ahoy” attitude, boldly and unapologetically. And you give me hope that maybe someday I, too, even at 74, can live free from the unwritten rules that have shackled me on my own shore.

Embracing the noise

When the temperature hits a certain point in the Northwest, the river’s siren call becomes irresistible. I know this because when I exit the car into the normally quiet park, I hear the sounds of children’s excited squealing and the splashing of dogs leaping into the river’s current, their happy barks signaling a quest to fetch a toy or a stick.

After carefully navigating the sandy trail to the water, a scene opens before me that sings of summer. Sunbathers on colorful beach towels soak in the direct sun, and the breeze carries no hint of the coconut scent of sunscreen. Parents keep a watchful eye over children hungry for the coolness of the river, while teens gather in pursuit of summer love.

Our golden retriever, anticipating the toss of her river toy, already stands knee deep before my feet touch the river rock, and I quickly wade in to join her before tossing her toy into the current. Further out in the water, a mother stands with her daughter who cannot be more than four or five. They have waded out together, and she reassures the young girl that she will be fine as they stand holding hands in the shallow waters.

A wailing sound brings my attention to a man walking with his son. The boy’s flailing arms and unintelligible, loud vocalizations suggest that he is probably autistic. His patient father encourages him, gently guiding the boy’s arms as he walks towards me. I walk up slowly to join them both.

“Would your son like to throw the toy for my dog?”

The dad smiles and places the toy in his son’s hands. Together they toss it into the water, and the boy quiets for a nano second as the dog bounds across the shore after her river toy.

I bend down in front of the boy for a quick moment and whisper quietly. “You did a great job throwing the toy…” His father smiles, mouthing “Thank you,” as they continue down the pebble strewn shore. In their wake, a new sound emerges. Tucked under shady bushes on the bank, a young mother reclines on a blanket singing to her baby in a language I cannot understand.

As I stand at the shore of the Nooksack I am reminded of walking in my old neighborhood in a city with an average age of 78.  I was stopped by a neighbor, his face hard and critical, as he demanded to know what the rules were about people renting to families because he didn’t want to hear the sounds of children in his neighborhood.

Well…I do. 

I want to hear the pulse of vibrant, passionate life happening all around me and not just dead stories and a litany of complaints about how the world has changed. I want to hear mothers singing lullabies to babies and the pulsating soundtrack of teenage summer love. I want to hear the uncontainable joy of shrieking children on a riverbank.

And I want to revel in it the way my dog rolls in the warm, wet stones after a plunge into the cool waters. 

The precious sounds of life. 

The only one I will ever have this side of heaven.