Yesterday I pulled a pair of pants from the back of the closet to wear while I did some chainsawing and other yard work. They had been pushed to the back because for quite a while they had gotten a bit tight, thanks to Tamoxifen and other cancer drugs, and then I just forgot about them. With all the running I've been doing this past year, they fit comfortably once again.
In the pocket, I found a small piece of stone. It had remained deep in the pocket of these pants through repeated wearing and washings. I remember precisely when and where I picked it up.
Ten years ago, I headed out on a hike, wearing army fatigues borrowed from my little brother. It was a brisk, late Autumn day. The sun was shining through the trees, creating a dappled pattern on the leaf-covered trail. My goal that day was a ridge above Timp Pass. I had to stop frequently to catch my breath as I struggled up the steep climb to the pass. After a short break at the pass, I scrambled up onto the ridge that looks down into the pass and across to the top of the Timp.
I pulled my hat off as I came up to the ledge to feel the sun on my bald head. It warmed my skull, in spite of the cool breeze. I sat, breathing the crisp air, feeling the warmth and the cool on my skin. A peregrine called out as it flashed above the treetops. I was happy.
I found a small piece of quartz, white with edges tinged in black. I liked the way it felt and the way it looked. I put it in my pocket to remind myself of that moment. I didn't know how many more times I would be able to make it up to that spot, so I took a little piece of it home with me.
My brother had been in New York a few weeks earlier and had brought me some of his old fatigues. I had requested them; I was amused by the idea of wearing army fatigues with my newly bald head.
My brother - the wounded vet., the hero, the former Army Ranger. He had come to New York for the taping of an interview about Somalia, about the Battle of Mogadishu. He knew something about the delicate frailty of human bodies. He knew of looking into the face of your own mortality. He knew how fear can steal the breath from your lungs, how it can siphon off the feeling and the strength of your legs. And he knew the astounding force of will to keep moving forward because to stop was to die.
We didn't talk much about such things - about death. There was no need. I don't know what he went through; he doesn't know what I experienced. But we both understood the truth that is impossible to describe to someone else. The truth that talking doesn't change. The truth that only time can make more comfortable, like a well-worn pair of boots.
I liked wearing those pants of his. They made me smile. And I like that I found them - and my stone - again this last week, a fitting end to the year.
Although most of the world marks decades beginning on the zeros, the end of 2011 marks the end of my decade. Ten years ago my clock reset. A decade has passed. I look forward to a new year, a new adventure, and a new decade. I look forward to wearing those pants on a hike up to the ridge above Timp Pass.
I wish you all comfort, health and happiness in the new year.
Julie
In the pocket, I found a small piece of stone. It had remained deep in the pocket of these pants through repeated wearing and washings. I remember precisely when and where I picked it up.
Ten years ago, I headed out on a hike, wearing army fatigues borrowed from my little brother. It was a brisk, late Autumn day. The sun was shining through the trees, creating a dappled pattern on the leaf-covered trail. My goal that day was a ridge above Timp Pass. I had to stop frequently to catch my breath as I struggled up the steep climb to the pass. After a short break at the pass, I scrambled up onto the ridge that looks down into the pass and across to the top of the Timp.
I pulled my hat off as I came up to the ledge to feel the sun on my bald head. It warmed my skull, in spite of the cool breeze. I sat, breathing the crisp air, feeling the warmth and the cool on my skin. A peregrine called out as it flashed above the treetops. I was happy.
I found a small piece of quartz, white with edges tinged in black. I liked the way it felt and the way it looked. I put it in my pocket to remind myself of that moment. I didn't know how many more times I would be able to make it up to that spot, so I took a little piece of it home with me.
My brother had been in New York a few weeks earlier and had brought me some of his old fatigues. I had requested them; I was amused by the idea of wearing army fatigues with my newly bald head.
My brother - the wounded vet., the hero, the former Army Ranger. He had come to New York for the taping of an interview about Somalia, about the Battle of Mogadishu. He knew something about the delicate frailty of human bodies. He knew of looking into the face of your own mortality. He knew how fear can steal the breath from your lungs, how it can siphon off the feeling and the strength of your legs. And he knew the astounding force of will to keep moving forward because to stop was to die.
We didn't talk much about such things - about death. There was no need. I don't know what he went through; he doesn't know what I experienced. But we both understood the truth that is impossible to describe to someone else. The truth that talking doesn't change. The truth that only time can make more comfortable, like a well-worn pair of boots.
I liked wearing those pants of his. They made me smile. And I like that I found them - and my stone - again this last week, a fitting end to the year.
Although most of the world marks decades beginning on the zeros, the end of 2011 marks the end of my decade. Ten years ago my clock reset. A decade has passed. I look forward to a new year, a new adventure, and a new decade. I look forward to wearing those pants on a hike up to the ridge above Timp Pass.
I wish you all comfort, health and happiness in the new year.
Julie
