Perspective in Death Valley

Posted on January 25, 2015 by Wendy Lee

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Perspective in Death Valley

by Wendy Lee

January 25, 2015

 

This trip has been a triumph.  It would not be such for an explorer or adventurer or traveler or pioneer.  But for me, it has refreshed my soul.

I now sit in the safe and comfortable confines of my hotel room at the inn.  The last room at the inn, literally.  It is a holiday weekend.  I am trapped for now, which frustrates me tremendously.  You have to play with the cards you are dealt, and so far I haven’t figured out how to cheat at this game.  Darkness in the desert, even with a moon almost full, provides an insurmountable obstacle for me.  I simply can’t see well enough at night to visit unfamiliar places.  I could try, but my mind conjures a grim picture of me upside down in my car, tethered by my seatbelt, down a ravine on a deserted desert road.  My imagination is dramatic.  At least for today, it keeps me safe.

So I sit.

This trip to Death Valley has been effortless, energizing, and grounding.  Actually, saying that this journey has been effortless is a small lie.  I nearly talked myself out of it as I have a tendency to do.  But my soul was aching.  It was essential.

With over 3 million acres, Death Valley is the largest national park in the contiguous United States.  It provides a meaningful backdrop for which to gain perspective.  My life has grown too large and complicated again, my own fault I fully recognize.  It is time to make some adjustments, to simplify, to refocus my priorities.  The trick is to make adjustments rather than run.  I am a master at running.

Death Valley wasn’t my first choice, Bryce Canyon was.  It is hard to argue about the magnificence of Bryce, with its red, orange, and white hoodoos formed of frost and weathering.  They stand tall, like spires on a castle, guarding the valley floor.   The views are impressive and stunning and surprising.  The formations are like none I have ever encountered.  Hiking into the basin is like climbing into an unexpected and exquisite painting.

I was looking forward to the snow at Bryce, even though I consider myself a desert girl at heart.  I gathered my cold weather gear, and purchased a few missing necessities.  I was setting out for three nights of wandering Bryce, snowshoeing, writing, reading, studying, soul searching.  The weather had other plans.  Winter weather warnings calling for one to two feet of snow during my drive there scared me away.  Snow on the ground, yes.  Driving through a major snowstorm, no.

Plan B.  Death Valley.

The Furnace Creek Inn in Death Valley, where I now sit, is only two hours from my home.  Two hours.  Why have I never been here before?  It is inexcusable, but no longer.  I have conquered it.  Well, perhaps conquer is too strong a word, but at least I have investigated it at the most trivial levels.

I am disappointed in myself for not doing more research before arriving, for I wanted to go a bit off the grid.  In reality, staying on the grid is difficult in the confines of such expanse.

For day one of sightseeing, I took both the tourist and wanderer paths.  Armed with only the map I picked up at the park pay station and with one destination in mind, Ubehebe Crater, I set off to discover this few hundred-year-old wonder.  I paid no attention to distance or time, simply following the sparsely inhabited roads.

The Ubehebe Crater is about sixty miles from Furnace Creek, in the northeast section of the park.  On the desolate roads, I passed the Funeral and Grapevine Mountains on the right, Salt Creek, and Mesquite Flat on the left.

I barely looked at the map, resolved to just drive.  It took about an hour and a half to reach the crater.  I wish it had taken longer.  I passed some cars near the various turnoffs, but mostly I enjoyed the solitude of the road, unencumbered by rules.  I played my music loud, sang off-key (that’s the only way I know how to sing), and let the thoughts crowding my head escape one by one.

The crater was delightful.  Although not remote, there were only about 10 cars in the parking lot and I encountered just one family.  The crater is deep, 600 feet deep, formed of a volcanic explosions of magma mixing with an underground spring.  An undemanding hike up to Little Hebe Crater reveals not only more of the large crater, but the remnants of several smaller ones.  Black and gray volcanic rock gives way to orange and white striated carvings.  Purely fascinating.

From the crater, I headed to Scotty’s Castle, ten miles away.  The beautiful Spanish style mansion surrounded by trees, unexpected in this remote area, was both intriguing and frustrating.  It was surrounded by a large parking lot full of cars and tourists and chatter.  Wasn’t I a tourist, too?  Yes, but I was looking for a secluded experience this time, one that would allow me to reframe my contorted life.  I took a few pictures, got in my car and drove away as quickly as possible.  I love history, but Scotty’s Castle was meant for another trip.

I headed back down the hill, back toward Furnace Creek, back to the civilization I was trying so desperately to avoid.  It was inevitable.  My car was low and fuel and I wanted to see more sights before sundown, my nemesis.

On the way to Badwater Basin, the lowest point in the northern hemisphere, I took the turnoff to Artist’s Drive.  The name was irresistible, even though I had no idea what it was. It was excellent marketing. Artist’s Drive is a nine mile drive through a stunningly hued canyon, meandering through narrow rocks of multiple colors. It was a pure visual pleasure.

From there, I drove directly to the tourist enclave of Badwater Basin, 282 feet below sea level.  Badwater Basin is truly incredible, for you can view tallest peak in Death Valley to the east, across five miles of salt flats.  There were too many people for me, though.  I took my obligatory photos and quickly exited to avoid the swarms of humanity.

I started back to Furnace Creek, but stopped to tour the natural bridge. It was just a few miles up a dirt road and then a quick hike in. I love natural bridges and slot canyons. They are exquisite gifts of nature.

The sun was getting low and I needed to refuel myself.  I took a quick meal at the vacant cafe, a little too early for the crowds to come in for the night.  I finished close to last light, but with enough light to drive the short way to the inn.  Although it was getting chilly, I sat on the patio at the inn, ordered a glass of wine, and watched all remains of orange and pink light diminish over the dark Panamint mountain range, the palm trees of development in the foreground.

I was happy with my exploration, even though still done through the eyes of a tourist.

Today was a completely different quest, exactly what I needed.  I had time to study the map to determine my general direction for the day.   With a full tank of gas I turned my car in the direction of Panamint Springs.  Although Father Crawley Vista was my ultimate destination, I vowed to explore whatever I found along the way.

Not far into my trip, just past the turn-off to Ubehebe Crater, I happened upon the Mesquite Dunes.  Not off the beaten path, but just after dawn, only a few early risers were out.  I took a walk into the dunes, lost in the beautiful yellow-orange horizontal morning light casting black shadows on the soft sand.  Sunrise is always spectacular in the desert.

Back on the road, I drove just past Stovepipe Wells and found a dirt road to Mosaic Canyon.  How can you not stop off for something sounding so decorative and creative?  A few miles up the dirt road, I parked and studied my map.  The hike into Mosaic Canyon was only 4 miles round trip.  I had the whole day ahead of me, so I grabbed my backpack, some water and my camera and hiked in.  It was an easy hike, the kind where you would have to work diligently to get lost.  I didn’t.  It felt good getting my 10,000 steps in so early in the morning.

The highway to Father Crawley Vista is grand.  You quickly enter into rolling hills on a narrow road.  The path is paved, but follows the contour of the terrain.  With just enough speed, you get the effect of a roller coaster, with the pit of your stomach feeling.  More than once, I sped up for maximum benefit, a little thankful my small SUV grabbed the road.  I will have to try it sometime in my Mustang.  Can I get it airborne?

Towne Pass is only 4,956 feet high, low by the Colorado standard I use to measure all mountain areas.  Still, it held a surprise.  Coming out of Towne Pass and the Panamint Mountains is a valley so impressive, vast and gorgeous that there are not enough adjectives or expletives to describe it appropriately.  Salt flats, layers and layers of mountains, volcanic rock, enormity as far as my poor eyes could see.  And except for the tiny stop at Panamint Springs and the thoroughfare dissecting the valley, there was no other evidence of humankind anywhere.

Most of us spend our lives in cities and homes and cars and crowds.  We are surrounded by construction and asphalt and concrete and buildings, a sign of a good economy and progress.  Yet, it is this barren wilderness of vastness that is calling to my soul.  Simplicity, character, perspective, divinity right there in nature.  I must pare down my life and obligations, and spend more of my remaining life in the natural world.  It is where I feel alive and free and completely comforted.  It is beckoning.

I dropped a few thousand feet into the valley, passed right through Panamint Springs and onto Father Crowley Vista.  The road was tight and contorted and empty.  I passed just one car on the way to the Vista.  Although there was a large paved lot with vault toilets waiting at the Vista, there were few cars parked.  I noticed a small number of people taking their photos from this spot, but the joy is really in walking the short distance to the overlook.  There are dark volcanic rocks evident at the top but the magnificent Rainbow Canyon below, and an impressive view of the northern section of the Panamint Valley.  I stood there alone at the overlook, taking my photos, and knowing instinctively that it is not possible to capture all of the layers of beauty in digital form.  It is something you must experience with your own senses.

I took in the view for a respectable amount of time and walked back to my car, answering questions along the way.  “Is it worth the walk out there?” one gentleman asked.    Why would you come this far and not take the time to see it?  I was perplexed.  I answered politely but passionately that he must see it, it was imperative.  Of course, I spent my whole life not only not smelling the roses but not even seeing the roses.  I get it.  But no more.

I headed back down through Panamint Springs, driving to Stovepipe Wells, but decided to take a little turnoff down the Emigrant Canyon Road toward the Skidoo ghost town site.  It was another narrow, vacant, and charming road in a low canyon.  I took the Skidoo turnoff, down a rough dirt road.  It was completely passable but severely washboarded. The Skidoo town site is nine miles from the Emigrant Canyon Road.  After driving about five miles, going just 15 miles per hour at most points, and not encountering a single vehicle, I decided to turn back.  I wanted to see what was down that road, but this was my first trip, I was running low on gas, I was solo, there was no phone signal (as is the case in most of the park), and I knew that my family would not approve of this mini-adventure.  Another time, maybe.

When I made it back into Stovepipe Wells, I gassed up, purchased a stale sandwich from the market, opened the tailgate of my vehicle, sat, and ate my dry lunch while chatting with the couple who parked next to me. They were more courageous than me, but there were two of them. Could I be more daring too if I wasn’t unaccompanied?

I was happy with my progress for the day but not quite done.

I drove back in the direction of Furnace Creek and pulled off at Salt Creek.  There is a quiet picnic area on Salt Creek, with a charming, winding boardwalk.  After precious few steps on the boardwalk, all sounds of human life disappeared.  No one walked the short distance of the boardwalk except me, so I walked in peaceful solitude in awe of how such a treasure could exist in a place called Death Valley.

There was still daylight left, but not much.  I decided to retrace yesterday’s steps and drive through Artist’s Drive again.  It was even more captivating the second time through.  This time, I stopped at Artist’s Palette to marvel at the pink, yellow, green and purple hues perfectly painted on the mountains by oxidized metal and time.

And with that, my tour came to an end.

The appeal of this park is evident in the contrasts in both terrain and name.  You have the Funeral Mountains, Furnace Creek,  Badwater Basin, Devil’s Golf Course, Hell’s Gate, Deadman Pass, Coffin Peak and Devil’s Cornfield along with Artist’s Palette, Mosaic Canyon, Striped Butte, Pleasant Canyon,  Rainbow Canyon, and Mahogany Flat.

There are both bighorn sheep and desert tortoises.

Badwater Basin is the lowest point in the northern hemisphere but there is also Telescope Peak at just over 11,000 feet.  From Telescope Peak, you can see Mount Whitney to the West and Charleston Peak in Nevada to the East.  The disparity in elevation provides multiple climate zones and various flora, from desert holly, which tolerates the heat and salt in the valleys, to pinyon pine, juniper, and mahogany in the mountainous areas.  You have salt flats, creeks, sand dunes, open desert, volcanic rock, mountains, and canyons.

I reflect here on this simple expedition, something that would come effortlessly to most.  Even though you are in the middle of nowhere while in Death Valley, if you stick to the roads and have basic supplies, there is little danger.  Unless you are there in the hot months, the worst that can happen to you is inconvenience.  Still, it was a success for me to reconnect to nature, gain perspective, to awaken a passion for simplicity, to start thinking about stripping down my life.

I am no adventurer, no survivalist.  I explore in the security of national and state parks, on well marked trails.  But it is time to break away from this safety net.  I don’t possess the skills needed to create my own routes. I am in need of experienced teachers.  I hope they appear, and if they don’t, I will seek them out.

I realize, now, that what I am hungry for is not just an uncomplicated life. I need the seclusion and lessons of nature where I am merely an observer. Show me how to take the undeveloped path, and I will be there.  Will you educate me?

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Curiosity

Posted on January 20, 2015 by Wendy Lee

Curiosity

by Wendy Lee

January 20, 2015

I’ve never fancied myself as adventurous.  Adventurous is the woman who will walk away from her life for a year to explore three countries solo in an attempt to find herself (think Eat, Pray, Love).  Adventurous is the guy who will fill his backpack with food and water and various supplies, and with his hiking boots, a map, and a compass will head out into the hills just to see what he can find.  Adventurous is the woman who flies solo across the Atlantic Ocean.

I am often paralyzed by fear, stopping myself from all the adventures I wish to have.

Adventurous is the word some have recently used to describe me.  It baffles me, but it is a matter of perspective I suppose.  If someone does something different from your own world, you might think them brave or explorative or interesting.  I think of myself as rather fearful, but I have a qualities that I value.  Curiosity, in the safe environs of my personal reality.  And a need for experiences, experiences far more important than any material possessions or related to the daily pressures of life.

I am reminded of my trip a few years ago to Blackhawk, Colorado, a gambling town.  I was in a bad frame of mind.  The divorce was looming.  Few, if any, knew the amount of pain I was in.  My world as I knew it was crumbling, the facade exposed brick by brick.  This trip was a quick escape from my actuality.

Rather than spending the weekend glued to a slot machine, I decided to explore Central City.  I walked around the old town, lamenting at how gambling had taken away its charm, yet knowing that without it the town would no longer exist.  I was partially to blame for its demise, wasn’t I?  During my exploration and through a fortunate alignment in timing, I was able to get a private tour of the Central City Opera House.  It is a beautiful gem of history with many intriguing stories hidden in the walls.  My mood was improving.

After some more minor exploration on foot, I decided to finally solve the mystery of what was up the road to Nevadaville.  I had passed by the sign a dozen times, Nevadaville, one mile.  In truth, my husband and I had tried to explore it before but the dirt road was covered in snow and ice.  We turned back.   This time, in the comfort of my all-wheel-drive vehicle, I headed up the road.

There isn’t much left to Nevadaville.  It, too, was an old mining time.  Still standing, only a few buildings.  I pulled off the road, parked, grabbed my camera and started my own little adventure.  I imagined the lives that everyone must have led.  The hardships they encountered.  The extreme comfort of my own life in comparison.  I was fascinated, lost in someone else’s story, a consolation given what had been going on in my head and heart.

A truck pulled up in front of one building, an older gentlemen looking a bit rough jumped out and sized me up.  He scared me just a little because he didn’t appear friendly, a judgment I quickly and falsely made based on absolutely no information.  It didn’t stop me.  I continued taking my photos, walking closer and closer to his location.  He still stared at me, with a bit of a frown on his face.  No matter.  As I reached a spot directly across the road from him, I managed a somewhat timid “hello.”  He offered the same greeting in return.

“Do you know anything about this town,” he asked after a few moments.  I didn’t, I admitted.  I was a little embarrassed that I had nothing to offer on this point.  “I can tell you about it,” he responded, a little gruff, yet friendly. “Yes, asbsolutely,” was my exaggerated response.  I did want to know about it, but I have been taught to be weary of strangers, especially tough old men in pickup trucks on a deserted dirt road up in the hills.  I didn’t want to be impolite, and I was truthfully curious.

This lovely gentleman provided me with a full accounting of Nevadaville, including the fires that destroyed it more than once.  He walked me around the foundations of the long gone structures and told me what once stood in their place.

He had purchased one of the remaining buildings only recently.  As I looked closer at the building, I wondered how much longer it would stand.  It was leaning a bit too much, even on the slope it sat on.  The floors sagged, the stairs were crumbling, the boards were rotted, yet its beauty was apparent.

He, himself, was an explorer.  He combed the hills looking for artifacts from a time gone by.  He had some prized findings to show me.  He opened his truck and pulled out the small display case he carried around with his most precious finds.  A child’s shoe, a cup, a fork, a framed picture of a family, the barrel of a gun, a tool of some sort.  Rusted, dirty, tattered, bent, broken.  All exquisite remnants of past lives.  He was proud of his finds, and even prouder to share them.  I was delighted.

He had pictures of the town in its various incarnations.  He carried them in the cab of his truck as well.  He brought those out, showed me the buildings, and pointed out their location in relation to where we were standing.  He even showed me the building he owned, a photo showing the building before some additions were attached on.  I was engrossed in another era.

I spent over an hour with him, but could have spent hours more.  He had to get back to his work, he apologized.  I appreciated every minute he spent with me.  Why had I been so frightened of him?  Am I that afraid of life and people?  Certainly there are lessons in there for me.

That unexpected experience is the type of adventure I will gladly sign up for, but often appears out of nowhere.  A gift, really.  Life is full of such experiences if we simply allow them to happen on their own time.  All it takes is a little curiosity, a little openness, and a lot less fear.

If that makes me adventurous, well okay.  I didn’t go far, I had a working vehicle with gas in the tank, I was close to a populated town, I still had a signal on my phone.  That is not much of an adventure.

If you call me “curious,” that might be a better description.  I will proudly wear that badge, with no qualification or explanation necessary.

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Forgiveness

Posted on January 19, 2015 by Wendy Lee

Forgiveness

By Wendy Lee

January 18, 2015

Forgiveness is the sunrise, bathed in crimson, orange, purple, pink and yellow.  It is the promise of light, a new day, a chance for peace. Forgiveness is for you, and not necessarily the other person.  If you are lucky, it is for both you.

I sit here across the table from Brian, a bit surreal, yet comforting.  I felt compelled to contact him just as I feel compelled to get out of bed each day, to feel the sunshine warm my skin, to nurture my garden.  He was receptive, gracious actually, so we sit.

I can’t find the right words, so I say the only thing that will come out.  It takes a little liquid courage.  I look into his eyes and manage to offer, “It’s fine.  I’m fine.  We’re fine.  It’s done.”  It comes out a little flatter than I wanted, but the meaning is still there.  I make him shake my hand in agreement.

What he is feeling, I don’t know.  I’ve known him forever, yet I don’t know him at all.

Still, it was important to me to say it, more for my benefit than his.  I can’t leave it alone though.   I reach back across the table, hold his hand, and tell him that all is okay.

“Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.”  —Mark Twain

Forgiveness hasn’t come easy to me over my lifetime.  While I have continued on with marriage and friendships and family relationships, I have neither honored my pain nor have I completely forgiven.  Like most of my feelings, I have buried hurt in a deep, impenetrable container later manifesting itself in nothing but anger.

I didn’t learn how to forgive overnight or easily.  That lesson has been slow in coming.  Like all of my life lessons, I chose the path of most resistance.  It has taken an enormous amount of introspection and therapy and spiritual studies and hiking and sunshine and writing to find a new path.

Actually, the hardest and most liberating part of forgiveness has been letting go of blame, letting go of feeling victimized, and letting go of feeling I have no voice.  I am in charge of my own life.  If I am going to let someone else’s actions impact how I feel about myself, that is completely on me.  How I react is a choice.  As Deepak Chopra puts it, “If you see yourself as healed in advance, there is nothing to forgive in the first place.”

The most profound way I learned to forgive was through reframing whatever the hurt has been  inflicted upon me by understanding that everyone has their own reality, their own coping skills, their own pain, their own momentum at the time.  Everyone acts according to their own consciousness at the time.  With that frame of reference,  I started to forgive and let go of all of the hurts I have quite studiously collected over the years.

This reframing applies to all of the hurt I, myself, have inflicted on others.  Through this, I have been able to forgive myself.  Not all at once, of course, but a little at the time.  All I can do is take what I know now and endeavor to be a better person as I go forward.  Some days I am better than others.

As for Brian, he long ago offered a sincere and heartfelt apology, one I somewhat dismissively accepted.  It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the apology.  I did.  But, I wasn’t expecting it, and I had buried quite deeply what the apology was all about.  I simply never processed it because I had no ability to do so.

So I sit here, anxious and relieved to have said my peace to Brian. It has actually been a fun evening, despite this serious conversation.  We’ve had plenty to talk and laugh about.  I don’t want the evening to end, truthfully.

I care deeply about Brian, more deeply than I probably should, and more deeply than makes any sense.  I always have.  He has had his own struggles, struggles he has been completely open about.  His vulnerability in sharing his story is remarkable.  I admire that.  I want to take away his pain, but know I can’t do it for him.  All I have to offer in that regard is to be a good friend.

I feel courageous and blessed today.  It is the morning of a new relationship, a friendship, bathed in the rich colors of a desert sunrise.

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Chapters

Posted on January 16, 2015 by Wendy Lee

Chapters

by:  Wendy Lee

January 16, 2015

 

Hello all:

You may have noticed some postings in the category of “Chapters.”  For some time, I have wondered if anything about my continuing journey through transformation would benefit others.  Are there any nuggets of wisdom I have learned along the way that might help someone?  Are there pieces of my own struggles that others might be able to identify with, so at the very least they know they are not alone?  Will someone recognize that setbacks are simply that, and that it is possible to dust yourself off and try again.  I have no answers, just information about my life to share.

I haven’t quite figured out yet how to pull this off, especially since I have such a long way to go on this path.  I still struggle.

For now, I am going through my old journals and pulling out stories that at least speak to me.  Looking back, these stories represent epiphanies, turning points, new beginnings, reframing of old issues, hope, insight, and progress.

At times, I will attempt to write in the first person, present, which is sometimes difficult to pull off.  The drafts I post are first drafts, riddled with errors, occasional switches from present to past tense (accidental, I assure you), unedited, raw cuts.  When I figure out what to do with this nonsense, I will revise my essays and have them properly edited.

For my grammar focused friends, you will have to endeavor to not cringe when you read my essays.  I know it will be painful for you, especially the number of times I start a sentence with ‘and’ or ‘but.’  It is my particular writing style and I may break some rules along the way.

As I post these, I am reminded that I shouldn’t let great get in the way of good enough.  I don’t want to wait for perfection to share, because the real point is to get the stories written and out there.  I no longer fear opening up and sharing deeply personal stories, or sharing my writing, even if it is just pure crap in first draft form.  It is a starting point.

What will these become?  Perhaps nothing more than a collection of essays I share with friends and family.  Maybe a book.  Maybe articles.  I don’t know.  I am not putting expectations on it.  I am just writing without limitations.

One big thing to point out is that the essays will come out completely out of order which may be confusing if you are trying to follow along.  I will sequence them later.  I can’t write the chapters in a linear format because certain stories just call out to me at particular times.  Please be patient.  And if you read a story that seems particularly raw and painful, keep in mind that it may be from two or three years ago.  On the flipside, it could be from yesterday.

Whatever you do, don’t worry about me.  I am completely fine even if I hit a few bumps in the road.

Blessings to all of you and thanks for your continued love and support.

 

 

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Red Rock Rising

Posted on January 14, 2015 by Wendy Lee

Red Rock Rising

by Wendy Lee

January 14, 2015

It’s cold out this morning, chillier than I expected.  I wish I would have packed my gloves.  I need to suck it up though.  I know in about an hour I will be pulling off the layers and complaining about the heat.  Such is life on a high desert hike in the middle of winter.

I like hiking at sunrise, there is something quite mystical about it.  Plus, truth be known, I really don’t care for the crowds, especially the tourists.  I should be nicer about this point, but I am not.  Tourists drive this local economy and I fully recognize that.  That isn’t really the problem.  The problem is that the tourists don’t seem to understand my spiritual connection with nature and the beauty of the red rock formations.  Instead, they insist on climbing down to the trailheads and screaming at the top of their lungs.  I am not tolerant of this.  It is extremely annoying.  I avoid this problem by hiking at sunrise, when the tourists are sleeping off a night of partying.

I’ve always liked hiking, but did it infrequently.  I started hiking in earnest about a year and a half ago for a few simple reasons.  I needed more exercise and I feel most alive when I am out in nature.  I am not a good hiker, really.  A good 5 – 6 mile hike is usually enough to get my head on straight and to burn a sufficient number of calories.

Today I am struggling, cold and tired and sore.  I am hiking my 5.25 miles anyhow.  Suck it up, girlfriend.

There are particular points on my favorite trails that I always pause to appreciate.  At mile .5, I descend into some scrub.  It is delightful to quickly leave the desert in favor of tall bushes housing myriad birds.  I never actually see the birds in this area, I only hear their songs.

At mile 1, I run across two tall, dark, and dead trees. They are kind of handsome too. I don’t know what happened to them.  Were they struck by lightning?  Were they burned by fire?  Was the desert heat just too much for them?  I don’t know.  It doesn’t matter.  They greet me warmly on every hike.  They have become my friends.

At mile 1.35, the magic happens.  There is quite a climb to get to this spot.  It is definitely not far into the hike and would seem an unlikely resting spot.  I walk my dog farther than that every morning and don’t need a rest afterward.  I feel lazy taking a rest but it is entirely necessary, not because I am too tired to carry on, but because something quite moving happens to me at this spot.

Red rocks speak to me in a language few can or take the time to understand.  The language is old, millions of years old from a scientific point of view, infinite in time from a spiritual lens.  Physically speaking, the red, orange and brown rocks are due to iron deposits and exposure to elements.  This exposure has created a striking palette of wonder often overlooked as people hurry to get their photos and move on to the next activity.  I am here to listen, observe, ask my questions, and hear the answers.

Communing with nature at sunrise, this is my church.

First, the auditory bliss occurs when I tune out any residual noise from a hiker off in the distance or city noise that sometimes creeps in, such as a helicopter flying nearby.  I tune in to the sounds of nature.  It is usually the birds calling as they awaken from their slumber, calls that are so cheerful I make up stories about what they are saying.  Depending on the time of year, I sometimes hear the soft rattling of desert animals.  I don’t see them.  We’ve made a pact to leave each other in peace anyhow.  If I saw them, I would surely let them to their business while I imagined their life in the wild. The wind blows softly through the canyon and I hear the whoosh as it reaches some scrub.

Second, the visual splendor of the rocks, carved out of the magnificent forces of nature.  In this particular area, some of the nearer rocks are large, bulbous, and relatively smooth.  The jagged edges are only apparent if you choose to sharply focus on them.  Nearer, the rocks have an interesting skin, somewhat resembling the beautiful endangered desert tortoises.  I stare at them in awe of their rough beauty.  Far above me in the canyon there are lighter colored rocks, not having been exposed to water or iron deposits.  They are a beautiful contrast to the red hues, calling to you to look at them like a bad toupee.

But the real magic happens when I sit there in silence with my eyes closed.  Some people meditate in a quiet, peaceful room.  Others kneel in church and pray.  I sit there with my eyes closed, contemplating life’s obstacles, and I ask for answers.  In the tranquility and the spiritual feeling of the canyon, I hear the answers I need.  The answers are in me all along, but I need to take the time to ask questions about my troubles and hear what my heart and soul offer me in return.

I always get my answers.  Always.  I feel as if I am being watched over by some force beyond explanation, buried somewhere in the crimson canyon.

Today my question seems superficial.  I am embarrassed to ask it, but it has been nagging at me.

“Will I ever find love?”

I am sad today, feeling somewhat frantic in my need to be in love and to have that same person be in love with me.  I am not usually so motivated to experience something that few can explain, but I have had multiple triggers recently.  The triggers seem ridiculous to me, somewhat juvenile, but they are very real.  My ex-husband got engaged, one of my friends started a new relationship, and someone I have cared about for a long time also started a relationship and with someone other than me.

My spiritual side should tell me to be ecstatic for them.  How wonderful that these people have found love, have found a partner they care about.

I endeavor to be aligned with my spiritual side.  Today I am not.

Today, I am definitely selfish and hurting and sad.  Why can’t I have love too?  Of course, this needy side of me isn’t exactly a good way to attract “the one.”  I don’t care, I am sad and not thinking logically.

I close my eyes, ask my question, try to clear all thoughts out of my head, and just wait for my answer.

The answer isn’t long in coming, I just needed to be in my sacred space.  The answer is strikingly straightforward.  I already have love in my life, a complete abundance of it so great I can’t contain how blessed I feel.  And if the right person hasn’t shown up from a relationship standpoint, it simply isn’t time yet or I am simply not ready.

The love I do have in my life shows me two things, I am capable of loving and I am capable of being loved.  It is that uncomplicated.  It might not have resulted in a relationship…yet.  But it has resulted in love from friends and family that I value even more.

“It is just not time yet, so stop focusing so hard on it.  Surrender to all of the love you already have in front of you.  And don’t tie your value to a relationship that isn’t here yet.”

I am satisfied enough in the answer to open my eyes, take in the scene again, and get ready for the rest of my hike.  To be honest, I wanted a better answer.  Like I wanted the right guy to show up right there on the trail.  He didn’t.  Perhaps I missed the right guy when he did show up, like the guy who had to rescue me when I fell off the side of the trail.  The one I was too embarrassed and flushed to look at in the eyes.  Maybe one of the many silly incidents like that scared him away.  I know, though, that trying to force love to appear is futile at best.  It’s just not time.

The rest of my hike is just as wondrous as the beginning.  There are micro climates in the canyon that are fascinating.  As I reach the next trailhead and start heading into the tanks, I remember how glorious that part of the hike is.  The hike is through trees and brush and sand more like beach sand.  It is always cooler in this area, with lots of shade.  At certain times of the year, there is plenty of water here as well.

I also have a favorite resting spot on this trail, although not quite as spiritual.  Today it is chilly and the rocks are freezing my backside so I am not siting too long.  I climb off the rocks a little too quickly and head back.

The parking lots at the trailheads are starting to fill, but aren’t full yet.  The tourists are waking up and getting their last minute pictures.  I have received my answers so I am ready to begin my weekend.

I am satisfied.

But still a little sad.

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Harmony

Posted on January 14, 2015 by Wendy Lee

Harmony

by Wendy Lee

January 14, 2015

 

Reflections of the past

Shadows of the former life

Reframed in forgiveness and possibilities

A new relationship, a friendship

Conversation and laughter

Openness, sincerity, honesty

A touch, a look, an expression, a musing

Teacher and student, each one

Healing, beginning and ending

A lifetime in preparation

But in one evening, harmony

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Portrait of Light

Posted on November 30, 2014 by Wendy Lee

charles-gurche-flowering-dogwood-in-foggy-forest-appalachian-trail-shenandoah-national-park-virginia-usa

Portrait of Light

Wendy Lee

November 30, 2014

The painting is entrancing, a mixture of color families.  Green, blue, gray, white, black.  Few other colors are present.  Trees in a forest, fog lifting, the sun rising and light rays stretching to the outer reaches.  Where is the source of light?  I can’t find it.

I guess I shouldn’t call a large, mass produced work a painting.  It is more of a print on canvas, but what do I know about art?  I like this one.  I’ve seen so many over the years, sitting in a similar position, staring intently at the picture so as to not tip my hand by making direct eye contact with my therapist.  A game I never win.  I do appreciate that she sits just to the right of the painting so I have a choice of where to gaze.

Today I am staring in detail.  It is truly bothersome that I cannot figure out from the colors and shadows where the source of light is.  It would be obvious to an artist.  I am no artist.  Still, shouldn’t I be able to tell exactly where the light is?  Where in the sky?  How off-center?  I am merely trying to distract myself from facing the conversation I pay dearly to have.

I always feel that my topics are menial compared to the problems others have in the world.  I have been told that comparing my pain to others does nothing to make my pain go away.  My pain is my pain, and no comparison will lessen it.  And lucky for me, I have also found out that there are simply highly sensitive people in the world who feel everything to the depths of their souls, whether it is something that happens to them or to others.  I am one of those.

I finally say something.

“When will the pain go away?” I ask.  “If I keep working at this, are we talking three months or six months or a year or never?”

I don’t really want the answer because I know there isn’t one, and if there is one, my highly sensitive ass would pick the timetable the farthest away from this very precise moment in time.

Her answer isn’t unexpected. “It depends.  How much stuff do you need to work through to unpack this specific hurt?”

I have come to like this particular word, “unpack.”  The only meaning it ever held for me before is to explain what you do after a trip or after a move.  Open it up, empty out the box or suitcase one or many pieces at a time until there is nothing left in there.  A simple concept.  In this context, it means pretty much the same thing.  You have a particular hurt or problem area, enclosed in a container that must be unloaded.  The problem is that the individual hurt might be tightly wrapped in the bubble wrap and tape of a much larger hurt.  It is rarely as simple as a single piece of pain in one box.  There is just a lot of junk stuffed in there that you have to get out of the way first.

What is the one item I am trying to unpack right now?  I can’t even articulate it, much less unpack it.  Staring now fixedly at the green hues of the painting, I ponder what I am feeling.  Is it the loss of hope?  Is it the feeling that I will never find love?  Is it the shame I feel about being a complete cliché, the proverbial result of a mid-life crisis?  Is it the anger of being so lied to with no remorse?  Is it that I feel that I lost while someone else won?  Is it is that I feel taken advantage of?  Is it is that I am angry that someone simply stopping caring about me?  Is it that I feel I was never cared about?  Is it the loss of the life I expected to lead?  What the hell is it that I want to unpack?  What a waste of money to pay to sit here when I don’t even know what I’m trying to get out of it?

I am getting angry.

I found it!  I found the little speck of light is the sun burning through the fog.  I am satisfied.  At least I have accomplished that.  I’m not sure if it was worth the price of admission, but I have this damned painting figured out.

And perhaps I have come to what I am really concerned with.

I feel old and tired and bitter and angry and entitled and lonely and sad and ashamed and blamed and guilty, in the midst of hope and love and new friendships and passion and happiness.  I can’t reconcile it.  Yet the one overwhelming feeling I have is that no matter what I do, no matter how I grow, no matter how I transform my life, I just don’t feel good enough.  There is always the beast trying to beat me down.  I say it out loud.  “I will never be good enough.  I will never be pretty enough.  I will never have the great body.  I will never be smart enough.  I will never be attractive enough.  I will remain invisible.”

She looks at me with such sadness that I feel I need to comfort her instead.  “You sit here judging yourself so harshly, but you would never treat a friend that way.”  I glare at her, finally making eye contact but with no emotion behind it.  She continues, “You are this amazing person, you have fun hobbies, you have a great job, you are making strong friendships.  It is a new and exciting time for you, yet you won’t let yourself feel the joy.”

I feel defeated.  She is absolutely correct.  I know how much I have transformed already.  Everyone I know sees it.  I get many positive comments on it.  I feel so blessed that I have friends and family who will prop me up with such compliments.  Yet I just won’t allow myself to believe that I am enough, just the way I am.

“Perhaps we should start there.”

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Behind the Wall

Posted on November 16, 2014 by Wendy Lee

Behind the Wall

Wendy Lee – November 16, 2014

 

Her radiance, enchanting

Her sweet soul glowing through

She felt invisible, not entrancing

Not aware the surge she drew

 

And it didn’t matter

What the world saw

She was trapped behind the wall

 

Her eyes, mesmerizing

Her spirit shown in the blue

She was blind to the hypnotizing

Unknowing what was her due

 

And it didn’t matter

What the world saw

She was trapped behind the wall

 

Her smile, magnetic

Her heart’s transparent clarity

She was asleep to her own lyrics

Sung out in beautiful rarity

 

And it didn’t matter

What the world saw

She was trapped behind the wall

 

Her personality, captivating

Her essence soft luminous being

She was lost to her fascinating

Not witnessing what they were seeing

 

And it didn’t matter

What the world saw

She was trapped behind the wall

 

Her generosity, stunning

Her compassion’s liberal tender

She thought there was no discerning

Her impact on the world’s splendor

 

And it didn’t matter

What the world saw

She was trapped behind the wall

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It’s Illogical

Posted on October 3, 2014 by Wendy Lee

October 2, 2014

{This is a chapter in a project I am working on.  It hasn’t been edited.  I will try to do that soon.}

My friend Dave (not his real name) and I rarely agree on anything, especially life philosophies. If it weren’t for our small threads of interconnection through history and Las Vegas and nature, we would have little to frame our friendship.  I am positive he tolerates me only so he has someone to argue with.  I accept this.  I’m hungry and my sandwich is layered with amazing flavors.  A little company, even if it is wrapped in such a cantankerous package, is perfectly welcome.

In today’s spirited conversation, Dave is agitated about people who think that things happen for a reason. Why this has bothered him enough to pick a fight, I’m not sure.  He is a mostly a pleasant fellow, polite, solid, sometimes funny, and a man of his word.  He is not happy though.  I don’t know him well yet but I would say he is at a crossroads in his life.  Dave seems burned out with his job and life, he’s bored.  If he were married, I could imagine him leaving his wife and trading her in for a younger model who prefers tanning to intellectual conversation.  Although this younger friend would satisfy his boredom in certain ways, he would quickly become disenchanted with her for she would lack everything else important.

Dave is not married and doesn’t have a girlfriend. With no one else to blame for his misery, all he can be is cynical.  When he is like this, I think he is a supreme curmudgeon.  What young thing wants a curmudgeon?  While he is keenly handsome, has just the right spots of gray in his hair, and has piercing blue eyes, a grouch is a grouch.  I’m not fond of this particular mood of his.

I’ve always found him attractive. I, however, am not his type nor do I fancy him my type.  I try to avoid relationships with cynics, it dampens my fun.  That’s my excuse anyhow, but as it turns out I really have no prospects waiting in the wings.  I digress.

“Why does everyone always say that things happen for a reason?” he asks with frustration, just priming for a debate. “Everything just happens, no rhyme or reason.  And it’s so cruel sometimes.”

I have no argument for this. Some amazing people have had some horrific things happen to them.  No matter what your beliefs , it is always impossible to truly reconcile why bad things happen.

I can’t resist the bait though. Dave knows this.  He is pushing a big button.  Generally, I don’t like debates because it feels like arguing.  I don’t have a big need to win.  When put on the spot, I have a hard time formulating my response.  I prefer to ponder issues, and don’t think well on my feet.  And in most cases I don’t care all that much if someone doesn’t have the same opinion as mine.   The button has been pushed though.

“Can you prove that things don’t happen for a reason?” I question with a slight smirk on my face. He rolls his eyes, gives me a grunt, takes a bite of his sandwich and finally offers, “No, nor can you prove that they do happen for a reason.”

“Bingo! Exactly.  So why can’t everyone just believe what they want and what gives them some measure of comfort?”  I am just getting warmed up.

“Because it’s illogical,” is all he can answer. Dave reports facts for a living but can’t come up with anything more .  Blue eyes or not, looking at him now is just making me mad.

Rather than make a counter-argument, I am sitting here feeling angry and hot, and trying to figure out why. Why am I so passionate about this topic, so much so that it makes me seethe that Dave is so dismissive and matter of fact about it?  Why do I even care?

“Because,” I finally blurt out. Dave is mystified by my response as there was no part of the prior conversation that would require such a reply.  He is actually starting to laugh with a twinkle in his eye that makes me want him and want to smack him at the same time.  I am suddenly embarrassed that my internal dialogue found its way out of my head.

“Because you don’t understand,” I start, I am fumbling over my words and thoughts, trying not to sound crazy but not convincing him or me.

I stop, for I now know what this is all about.

This has nothing to do with winning my argument or beating his cynicism. It has everything to do with a feeling of knowing, knowing what it is like when you believe in miracles.  The miracles just start showing up regularly.  I want Dave to feel it too.  The magic.  Sadly, I look at him and know the truth.  He will never feel it if he can’t open himself up to believe it.

“I never believed before,” I say slowly and deliberately, “until I hit the bottom of the well emotionally. I didn’t think I would live through the pain.  I didn’t think I could feel so alone and isolated for even one more day.”  I am suddenly completely frightened to be so forthright with deep feelings and yet I feel compelled to continue.  “I read something that stuck with me,” I say as I stare just past him, avoiding eye contact.  “I read that miracles show up as soon as you want to see them.”  Dave is no pushover.  He is not going to just believe with so little to go on.  He is looking at me for more though, silent, waiting for me to continue.

“Instead of looking at the pain, I decided to make myself aware of everything amazing happening. The feel of the air.  The mountains peeking between the apartment buildings.  The spring sunshine warming my skin.  Then my first set of new friends.  Then more friends.  Then a great new job.  Then my passions woke up.”  I stop.

“What do you mean, ‘woke up’?” he asks, almost timidly. “I like to write, but also feared it.  But all of a sudden I am writing about everything.  I started hiking for exercise but realized how much I have missed it.  Then I am hiking every weekend.  I became alive.”

He ‘s looking at me, still skeptical. We sit silently for a few minutes, then he finally manages to say, “But that doesn’t explain things happening for a reason.”

I know that I’m not explaining it well. “You have to be open to it.” I say as I shake my head.  “Getting divorced was the most painful thing ever in my life, and I have been through some pretty painful and scary things in my many days.”  I am now staring at my plate.  I can hardly talk.  “But if it wasn’t for that, I would have never awakened.  I would have never found my strength.  I would have never found my passions.  I would have never reconciled the pain.  I would have never learned to forgive.  I would have never become someone I love and respect.  I would have never started living my life on purpose. ”  I am shaking now.  I don’t know if I have said too much.  But it’s out there now.  No turning back.

“The bottom line is that I believe things happen for a reason. Believing brings me comfort.  It makes me aware, and makes me see all of the wonderful things in life.  It makes me wonder what people are here to teach me.  It makes me focus on trying to be the best person I can be.  And the miracles of my life keep showing up.”  I am crying now, more from being grateful for having reached a place of peace after a lifetime of inner turmoil.

“I have met people that I know were put on my path to awaken my passion for writing, for baseball, for Las Vegas history. Hell, maybe that is why you and I are friends, so you can teach me something about history and keep my passions alive.”  I laugh a little.  Dave shakes his head but manages a smile.

“I have made friends that I am sure showed up to teach me that I can make friends. I have made friends with people who have lives very different than mine, and I think they are here to teach me how to be open to things that weren’t on my radar before or maybe I wasn’t as open to. ” I can’t stop now.  I go on, “What if I was put in someone else’s path to help them or inspire them or say the one thing that made them look at life differently?”

Dave is looking at me, sympathetic to my obvious emotion and fervor but still not believing.

“Dave, you don’t have to believe it. All I can say is that I believe that things happen for a reason and that people cross your path for a reason, and believing it has made my life infinitely better so stop being such a curmudgeon already.”  Dave gives me a full laugh now.  We stand up to leave and he gives me a hearty hug goodbye, but can’t resist repeating to me, “It’s illogical.”

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The Last of The Sahara

Posted on July 13, 2014 by Wendy Lee

The Last of The Sahara

March 13, 2013

The Sahara closed in 2011.  Even then it was clear what the future held.  The Sahara would be no more, sadly to be replaced by a future non-descript hotel development.  A company daring to rebuild on the North end of the Strip that has been sadly neglected for years, next to the failed Fontainebleau and across from the long gone El Rancho Vegas.

So why am I mourning the loss of the Sahara today, a few years after its closing?

The big Sahara sign finally came down yesterday, after standing proudly, sadly and defiantly in front of the failed but historic property for the last two years.  Even though the Sahara was closed, the sign gave us a little hope that old Las Vegas still exists even just in our memories.  The porte-cochère was demolished too.  Another reminder of the loss of an era where the approach and entrance to a Las Vegas hotel/casino was almost as exciting as Las Vegas itself. 

The Sahara was opened in 1952 as Milton Prell’s Jewel of the Desert.  Over the years, it hosted the Beatles, launched one of many revivals of Louis Prima (with Keely Smith, of course), and provided a platform for comedic careers of the likes of Don Rickles and Red Foxx.  It housed the famous House of Lords steakhouse, The Casbar Lounge, and The Congo Room.   

Through the years, the Sahara became a dated and isolated property.  Even a remodel shortly before their sale couldn’t bring in new customers, presumably because of the lack of quality renovation of the hotel rooms and the remote location (in Las Vegas Strip terms). 

Still, there was something alluring about the relic.  The same way the other dated properties from the 50’s & 60’s, such as the Flamingo, the Riviera, and the Tropicana are alluring.  It is not because they are the most swank properties on the Strip, because they surely are not, but because they represent something.  The wonder of Vegas.

Sure, I am one of those old timers who thinks of Las Vegas in terms of the Rat Pack and Wayne Newton.  But I applaud progression and thoughtful development.  I like imagination, creativity and fun.  That is what the new Las Vegas is completely lacking.  Where is Jay Sarno when you need him?  A highly themed hotel/casino is just plain fun.  It makes Las Vegas unique.  A theme doesn’t need to be silly, like Excalibur.  It can be sophisticated like The Venetian or Paris or Caesars Palace. 

What all of the new developments lack is the fun factor.  Disneyland wouldn’t be the same without Main Street or Pirates of the Caribbean.  Why do we have to take the themes out of Las Vegas?   Sorry Mr. Wynn, but I find the Wynn and Encore a little dull.  Why?  Because if you have seen one fancy hotel, you have seen them all.  Seriously.  Yawn.  Yawn again.  If I wanted just a fancy hotel, I could go anywhere.  What I want is something different, something that makes me want to explore one casino after another. Something I can take pictures of and remember the fun times.  Oh, and I promise to drop some money in the casinos while I am there. 

While on this topic, some good lounge shows would be great too.  I don’t want to drop my entire entertainment budget on a Cirque de Soleil show or have bottle service in a ridiculously loud and dark nightclub where they are playing non-music.  What I want is a good singer, a comedy act, a band, some good old fashioned (yes, again I am admitting that I old fashioned) lounge act.  I want to dress up, go to the lounge, have some cocktails, flirt with the singer (hopefully the singer is male), and then gamble the night away in the casino.  Casino owners, take notice.  I will still spend a lot of money in your casinos, but the difference is that I will actually be entertained.  Oh, by the way, since I am older than your typical bottle service crowd, I actually have money to drop.  Perhaps you should remember my demographic. 

So the loss of the Sahara sign has brought about my mourning for the old Las Vegas.  Sure, the old Las Vegas may be more myth than truth, but I sure miss it anyway.

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