The quality of my sleep has declined since arriving in Tutzing, which is surprising because our small apartment is facing the Starnberger See lake with its beautiful clear waters and waves that rock loudly at night. Each morning we're greeted by the sounds of seagulls, German being spoken off in the distance, and this week since school is now out the sounds of children gearing up for their fun filled days at that yacht club youth week, a sort of summer camp where they learn how to sail, make sport etc. And although I am sleeping, it is not peaceful as I wake up several times a night to readjust pillows, covers, my bladder, or simply my dreams.
I continue to dream about my grandmother Wilma, this is the 2nd or 3rd time this week. I cannot remember the first dream, but I have since talked to my parents and learned that she is having a tough time with arthritis in her hips, that its painful and has limited her mobility, the doctor gave her a walker! Although, my grandmother just turned 92 on July 14th it is still quite unsettling to picture this strong, independent farmer unable to move about her old country home to cook her meals and sew her quilts, to answer the phone calls of her many friends and associates. My father says if she makes it through this one she'll be okay. The IF is the unsettling part, I've perhaps naively always assumed that my grandmother would be around much longer. That there would be some opportunity down the road the pay all of those visits I should've made, that her yet non-existent grandchildren would have an existent great-grandmother, unlike myself who was born after the deaths of both grandfathers, and who grew up far away from my grandmothers when both were still living.
My dreams are beginning to jumble now, but they have been an interesting mix of Mississippi, mostly about my family and the friends and life I've left behind on the Gulf Coast. There was an incident with a teenage black boy who had killed somebody, was taken into custody by the police, and then magically disappeared (according to their reports). In a valiant effort which took all of 12 minutes to coordinate, roadblocks were set up at a point in the city (some sort of large metropolis) where they could anticipate the assailant making a run for the border so to speak. Without much more than a description of black male in a black car, the police plucked from a road block a young man with a name that echoed clearly in my sleep state but evades me now, something long an invented by a mother who took full advantage of creating his name. Something in the spirit of Anteronephus Jones.... I was still an attorney, and was able to speak with him immediately after his detainment, however it was a private conversation between friends in a living room. He shared the mistakes of the police, how they merely detained the first black male who ft the description. He had an alibi that was somehow related to his mother's heavy drug usage, that he was tracking her down at the time of the murder and was taking care of her, his mother the only real witness and not particularly credible.
Flash forward I am then in my office at the Mississippi Center for Justice writing out a memo about our conversation, in summation asserting that the police engaged in erroneous racial profiling and that their mistakes would soon be exposed. The office was brighter and sunnier than I remembered but still full of the bustle that accompanies the first day back after a good weekend. I could hear John talking to Denise about his weekend shenanigans and setting out their plans and tasks for the week. Bonnie was quietly milling about the office with a kind acknowledgment on her face. Reilly even stopped in to share that he went to the bowling alley that we had discussed the week prior and that while it was a bit trendy, it was completely empty and he was able to bowl several games in peace. Its seems that it took me the better part of the day to write this one and a half page memo. Even in my dream state I recognized that feeling, of the pressure of seemingly easy legal tasks that I always felt took me too long to accomplish. My self imposed inability to ask for help left me feeling quite alone in a yet another task that I knew was pushing the limits of what fell outside of MCJ's mission. I was going to use my memo to really push for developing a “Know Your Rights” training for youth in the Biloxi-Gulfport area, but one with teeth and legal support once they had been involved in altercations with the police. I knew that these efforts were in vain though, and could feel myself not entirely in it. From what I recall there was no Kiya around either to bounce my ideas of feelings off of, she too was no longer in it.
Cut to the next day, the police scandal is all over the newspaper with a description of their approach to basically stop the first person driving towards the border of the city who somewhat fit the description after their suspect's disappearing act. Their acknowledgment of having arrested the wrong person was splattered across front page news along with a less then flattering mugshot of my client's mother, her hair scattered about her head as if a cat had been sucking on it. Again I was talking with Mr. Jones, and while he was affirmed in his alibi he was concerned that his mother would be embarrassed that the details of her addictions were exposed. Fortunately, and quite sadly she was not, in some deluded way she was proud that her exploits essentially bought her child back his freedom, giving her leave to continue to abuse.
Now this has all passed and I am sitting in a house in the country that reminds me of my grandmother's house but it is much nicer. I am talking to Nelson Walker about the Jones incident, and he is sharing his own experiences with profiling, strengthening my desire to pursue the “Know Your Rights” (with teeth) campaign. We go on to talk about Tina Salazar and the last time either of us had seen her, and she appears on the couch and engages in our conversation. These are two young people that I've mentored and love deeply. In familiar fashion I am inviting them to come out to Foxfire Ranch, bribing them with food and great blues. I suddenly remember that there are videos all over YouTube and proceed to hook my laptop to the tv and show them one of Bill Perry Jr. and Cadillac Funk rocking out on two large perpendicular stages. While the appearance is slightly off, the feel is all Foxfire. At this point my mother comes in the house, after an evening spent playing cards and reminiscing with Bonnie Nunnally somewhere down the road. I quickly instruct Nelson to put out his cigarette (in real life he doesn't smoke), and introduce him in the context of the Jones case....I run some bath water for my mother....Then I woke up.
This morning I lay in bed wanting to call my parents and grandmother, although right now the time difference prohibits it. I also want to call into the MCJ office and just say hello, and while I'm sure that everyone would be happy to hear from me I still feel guilty about leaving, as though I had abandoned my post at a time of war against BP, against Haley Barbour and the Port of Gulfport, against brain drain.
There are many other posts that I wish to write instead of this one. Europe has been an amazing experience, very comfortable and somewhat familiar, but also very foreign at times or what the US should be. There's that SHOULD word again. I've mostly left the blog writing to Hamilton, reserving my varying observations, admiration, and sometimes harsh critiques of his writing for the internal monologue in my head. Its hard when one doesn't have a girlfriend around to vent to, although a husband SHOULD do just fine. So here are my small additions.
Paris:
An undeniably beautiful city, ancient in its layout and in the style of its citizens. We were greeted with a society of racially and ethnically blended people, so much so that I could not tell from where they originated. There were beautiful shades of olive, pale, and brown skins. There were white looking people with hair textures as nappy as mine. Part of what I can't help but track are the mixed race couples throughout the world, and being in Paris left me feeling as though this were the norm and not the exception in a way that was comforting, as if we were all doing our part in bringing forth the next race of brown and completely indistinguishable people. And then there is the fashion! The beautiful Parisian women with their slightly pouting lightly applied faces, their chignon hair styles, short funky crops, and sleek ponytails. Lots of classic horizontal stripes, be it on shirts or pants, a white top or pair of trousers, and always always brightly colored shoes the funkier and higher the heel the better. The men were gorgeous with their well manicured hair, tailor cut shirts, and also the occasional pair of white pants, and super funky pointy toed shoes or fancy sneakers. I walked throughout Paris wishing I had stepped up my shoe game and had a leather jacket in my wardrobe for this year. And while I am not yet allowing myself to shop for anything really, one of my first clothing purchases will eventually be a striped loose fitting shirt that shows off my collar bone.
Our Air B&B host Corinne was particularly engaging. A white Tunisian woman living in Morocco among Bedouins, a true nomad in the since that I will never be. We talked of her early life growing up in Morocco with parents who lived out of a suitcase, and how even now she has to move every year or two. She shared about living in Barbados with her husband, a "blue-black Barbadian man", for 15 years and the difficulty of inter-racial relationships in the 1970s. She asked about our experiences with family and friends in the Deep South, and we happily relayed that it had all gone relatively easy with a few minor exceptions. We spoke at length about children, her life and interior design work in the U.S, and often returned to the subject of her son Scotty and his wife Natsuko as she glowed with motherly love. She spoke of the Arabic principle Maktuob, that our destiny was already set in the stars from the day we were born, but that where we end up is all a matter of our choices. She then dug out two necklaces with the Occidental Star, used by the Bedouins in navigating the desert, to bring us luck and remind us to choose our destiny well. She complimented us on our decision to take this year long trip, and in a familiar sentiment, entreated us to do this trip for her as she was no longer healthy enough to go where we are headed. For me, our conversations with Corinne were Paris.
She also helped settle (temporarily) an ongoing argument we've had about Africa. In planning our travels I've been routinely disappointed about how people spoke of our plans to travel the continent. It was always, oh well you can do this this and that in Europe, but when you reach Africa all bets are off essentially. Oh you can't camp in Africa, despite the fact that we met a couple of Barbadians in December who did just that for a year. Hamilton was advocating for 2 months to explore the entire continent, despite the fact that I had regularly expressed my interest in potentially living in Western Africa (Ghana) and a desire to stay longer. He has accused me of romanticizing the Motherland as many African-Americans do, and I have pointed out that his overall lack of enthusiasm is unfortunate considering how moved he will be by the experience. I shared this with Corinne, and although during our stay she had made a handful of less that flattering comments about black Africans, she helped to settle things in my mind. As she spoke her eyes filled with tears, she was moved by the spirit of her people. That Africa is the cradle of civilizations and the birthplace of all nations, and that you can feel that when you are really present in the country whether you are Swedish, Asian, whatever. Those distinctions melt away when you encounter people in some areas that have so little in comparison, and give so freely of themselves, their love and hospitality. I am tired of arguing about how distinctive an experience it will be from India or Southeast Asia, or how the ancestors take hold of you in Elmina slave castle, or in a late night conversation. I will let it unfold for him as it has unfolded for me since that first visit when I was 12 years old.
Amsterdam:
Finally we were off to Amsterdam, a city that I was particularly curious about, my husband had been when he was 19 years old with a motley crew. Hamilton was initially trying an extreme party pooper, selecting a campsite that was almost an hour outside of the city. Even though were would be making it in at around 7pm he was advocating for waiting until the next day before heading into the city to indulge in the local fare. I was steadfast in my desire to head out that night on the metro and finally won him over. We once again had Donner Kabab and french fries with mayonnaise for dinner, and proceeded to wander through the red light district, examining the women in the windows who seemed occupied with texting and phone calls, and not the least bit interested in a handsome young American holding his wife's hand. It was only afterward that I had the thought that maybe we both would have enjoyed the walks more had we not been so clearly spoken for.
The next day we slept in late and went into the city in the afternoon with the intention of finding truffles and heading to the Van Gogh museum. We arrived at the museum an hour before it closed, and opted to just go for the truffles instead. Hamilton has quite elegantly relayed a partial account of that trip, however I would like to supply the remainder. The truffles came with a detailed instruction guide of how to take the dosage, what to expect and how to know when you're having a bad trip. It advised that it is common to have a singular reoccurring thought, and that to interrupt this or a bad trip to take a walk or eat something. After taking a few hours before we ate the full quantity, we ended up in the Bulldog, a bar that has many chains in the city and leaves you with the feeling of having been there before. This particular bar was designed as a jail cell, we sat on benches without cushions that prisoners would typically sleep on. There were cell bars forming the walls all around us, and behind the bars were pictures of imprisoned mob bosses. There was also a bar in the cell, leaving me with the impression that just as depicted in the movie Goodfellas, this is what prison is like for the mob, bartender included. While I was busy taking in the scene of people rolling joints and listening to music, I was slowly becoming aware that my husband was having a text book bad trip.
There was a period of about 10 minutes (or at least it felt that long) where he was trying to figure out the point of life. His voice was slightly cartoonish, a tone that he and Mara often play with, which led me to believe at first that he was joking, however as I watched the wheels of his mind work in that way that leaves him to question absolutely fucking everything, I realized that he was quite serious. “The point of the life is just going with the flow...the point of life is being in the moment...the point of life is being happy....what is the point of life?” And so he continued on in this monologue for some time, and I was actually able to suspend my usual annoyance and have compassion for him. This is what he does, he has to figure everything out....or else he becomes a scared little boy. He went from siting across the small table from me to sitting right next to me on the small bench, hemming me in between the table and the cell wall, slightly claustrophobic even for me. Somehow this was more comfortable for him as he was growing more and more scared. “Amsterdam is a trap” he proclaimed, “you come here to have fun and smoke weed, but then you spend all of your money and have to work at a cafe just to get out of here.” He looked at the pretty brown skinned bartender and other women who were present and accused all of them of trying to sell sex, that this was an evil place, and the end result was prison (which was a logical conclusion considering we were sitting in a jail cell). He then confessed that he was scared, and asked quite earnestly “why do I always want to go home? I want to go home, we have to go back to the tent now,” he kept repeating. “I'm going to pass out, if I pass out would you leave me?” I assured him that I wouldn't do that. “Please don't leave me baby, I don't know much but I love you and I just want to make you happy. I'll follow you anywhere, just promise that we won't leave each other.” I was grateful for his voicing a fear that lurks in the back of my mind as well. And eventually he returned to his earlier sentiment of wanting to go home.
I began to appreciate what I perceived was happening. My smart confident husband, with his plans and lists and incessant questioning, was really underneath just a scared little boy. I am grateful to the truffles for moments of revelations like this. Quite often I mistake his questioning of my every thought or action as demonstrating his lack of trust of my own judgment or reasoning. In actuality, if he doesn't have it all figured out he doesn't know what to do and wants to recoil somewhere safe, home. At this point, feeling very much the mother in the situation, I comforted him assuring him that its okay for us to leave this place, “its a jail cell after all, and I'm scared here too. But we can't go home yet because its early, the tent is all wet, and we haven't danced yet.” I stood up, placed his hand on my hips and led him out of the bar, which for him was a maze, for me was a choice of 2 doors. We walked in the rain, feeling noticeably better, without a particular direction in mind. I made a few turns and magically it seemed we came across a pirate themed bar that was bumping great dance music, I led him inside. As the music played and the lights flashed, I saw the look on his face transform from fear to joy, as we looked around and realized that everyone in the club had thrown their hands in the air and were singing in unison the new Pitbull and Neyo song, “Grab somebody sexy, tell them hey! Give me everything tonight! Give me everything tonight, for all we know we might not get tomorrow!”
In that instance all of the annoying pop/dance/club music that we'd been hearing on the radio waves from California to Amsterdam wasn't so bad anymore, particularly if all of the world really just wants to dance and sing together. Give peace a chance. Since this experience, we've both been a little more tolerant of Katy Perry, J-Lo and all of the other icons ruling the airwaves.
Hamilton started in again, “Oh this is what you mean about living in the moment, right? This is what she means. Just trust your wife, just trust your wife.” After we started sweating, but before I was fully satisfied, we were headed out again. My husband still subscribing to the just trust your wife camp followed me obediently until we came across a small cozy bar (God knows where) and were beckoned in by a cat sitting in the window. We headed upstairs and grabbed a table in a lightly populated room. Although Hamilton had sworn off anymore drugs, I went downstairs with the intent of grabbing us some snacks and a beer. The bartender was an older man attentively awaiting my requests. “May I have cheese please?” At this he raised his finger in the air and asked, “Ah, de very old one I sink?” I agreed. He reached into a small refrigerator and pulled out a large sandwich bag of cheese and dumped it onto a small saucer. I was slightly concerned that this was too much cheese, however I then asked for sausage. “Ah, dee Spanish one,” he cooed, pulling out a larger bag of sausage, and slightly larger dish and emptying the sausage and the very old cheese chunks on it. I thanked him and looked over at his beer taps. I asked to sample the Palm, and upon meeting my approval I ordered 2 of them. After poring the beers he then pulled out a round tray and placed the beers, sausage and cheese there. This whole display of musical plates was quite entertaining for me. I returned upstairs with the goods to Ham's delight. Eventually, once we had settled down from the pace of the dance club we were able to appreciate the soft jazz music that was coming through the stereos, sweet and low. The set ended with a live recording of the Staple Singers doing gospel music.
It wasn't until it was time to catch the bus home that Ham and I switched roles, me reverting to the confused pedestrian and him to the confident navigator. After some time and with some sprinting we were finally on the night bus headed back to our soggy tent and sleeping bags. That night we slept in the car.
Hamburg:
Hamilton did a pretty good job at recounting Hamburg, which was an amazing time. We stayed with Nancy, a friend from our Landmark Community in New Orleans. We stayed in a really comfortable flat in the Altona neighborhood, at the top of 6 flights of stairs, whew! The décor inside was an eclectic mix of a fantastic library (unfortunately all in German), Buddhist prayer beads and bowls, framed pictures of children from a previous marriage and travels in India from a previous life. By the window in the room where we were sleeping was a small 4x6 picture of a scene from Roman Holiday, with Audrey Hepburn's skirt billowing in the air after receiving a shock in front of a statue with her leading man Gregory Peck looking on. As a lover of classic Hollywood Cinema, I took this as an omen that we will in fact make it to Rome.
This was also my first period while on the trip and more than anything I just wanted to be left alone, to rest and be silent in whatever manner I saw fit. Unfortunately, when living in close quarters one is not afforded such luxuries. So instead I was forced to engage in the expected niceties (anyone who really knows me is aware that I detest early morning chatter), and sharing our room which housed the only computer with access to the internet. There is something about being around someone with similar Nola roots that is difficult for me. In Nancy, Hamilton had someone to compare everything we'd seen in Europe thus far, to New Orleans. The lay out of Paris was like New Orleans, downtown Hamburg which is a city of the future was like the CBD, how Octoberfest was like Mardi Gras!! Its taken an amount of control not to call my husband out every time he tries to make that which is brand new, fresh and unknown some close cousin of New Orleans. I have to think back to Amsterdam and appreciate that this is how he makes himself most comfortable, if a city is “like” New Orleans than this means that he has it figured out, he is instantly more reassured.
I also find it hard to be thrown back into a context with all of the Hamilton fans. Granted, I'm one too obviously, perhaps the biggest one because I married the guy. But I hate to be forced to indulge in certain behavior or else feel like the evil outsider/loner, while he is the glory boy. I realize in writing this that its all ego talking, and that I have to get off of it. But this feeling was only magnified by my current menstruation cycle which was heavier than usual, clearly my body could sense the intensity of our current travel plans. I had to share the task of hunting for pads with Ham, and he followed me to several stores as I looked for Always with wings (wings being the essential point). I had to explain once again for the upteenth time why I as a woman will always use more toilet paper than him. Upon Nancy's generous offer to perform Reiki treatments on us, Hamilton quickly suggested that I go first in the hopes that it would fix me. Not understanding that the last thing I wanted was for someone to touch me, while I lie flat on my face hoping that my pad didn't leak.
The visit with the Heidelman family was a nice change of pace! The family was delightful, the dinner delicious, and the libations flowing. We talked about their life in Nashville, and their travels in Ghana. Hugo, the father, sent us on our way after sampling alcohols from around the world. The rest of Ham's account is on point, except he was not present when I disappeared with Hannah and Errol to have my first drink at an absinthe bar, despite the warnings that it makes you go blind!
Our final day there I was finally able to connect with my god-brother William Delano Scott IV (Billy) for dinner. We all met up at a nice Spanish tapas restaurant in Altona, which was also his neighborhood. He spent 12 years dancing on cruise ships around the world until his partner, who was not really a team player, “broke his biceps” he shared as he showed scars from his surgery. He had been living in Hamburg for almost 2 years now and was teaching English language at a local university. He detailed the process of emigrating into the country, and going from working “black” to having the appropriate visa and paperwork to remain in Germany. He spoke with the authority that comes with having personally experienced the ineptitude of government immigration services, enlightening us all. I had the reoccurring thought that a law practice that caters towards helping expats navigate local systems would be really interesting work.
After leaving the restaurant we joined him back at his apartment for some wine and a smoke. He continued to share funny stories about his experience teaching his students, and the nuances of German culture that he has observed. He clued us into some local slang, and now whenever we here “Ganow” in a conversation we know that this means exactly, right on, I dig it. We started talking about people of color in Germany, and he spoke of riding on the metro one day and the entire car being completely silent as they listened to 3 young brown girls speak in a patois that is for the most part extinct. People were in awe, and his friend had to explain that this was such an old way of speaking that is rarely ever heard anymore. My mind went wild thinking of all of the patois of all of the places we will visit, or even the high German that we will never hear spoken. As Hamilton likened it to New Orleans' Creole speech, I sensed a loss of culture and languages that must be occurring all over the world at this very moment. What a documentary that would be!
Although Billy is my god-brother, the age difference between us is significant, so much so that as a child when we would visit his parents' house my sister and I would play in his room an rifle through his things, as he was already out of the house at this point. He is an artist, and his room was the first place that I can recall really seeing sketches of the Xmen and other Marvel characters along the walls, along with comic books, and lots of super hero swag. Upon entering his good sized room in Hamburg, I was pleased to see that he still had a superman emblem on his wallet, a Wonder Woman figurine on the shelf, and other treasures, although fewer than in his childhood bedroom. The night was cut shorter than I would have liked, but it was awesome to catch up with him. I failed to take a picture of him, but he is as handsome as ever, with his high cheekbones, and sharp eyes accentuated by his well manicured facial hair.
Schwitzingen:
Our next stop brought us to the Bush household just outside of Hiedelburg. Ham was super excited to see his old friend recounting some of their former escapades, which in hindsight were pretty dangerous. In the courtyard outside their flat we were greeted by an Explorer with a bundled baby inside and all of the doors open. Matt appeared shortly thereafter with a create of empty beer bottles. I jumped in the backseat next to Dahlia, Ham got up front and we were headed on our first beer run of the weekend. Dahlia, is gorgeous and within seconds its seems she was flashing me her amazing toothless grin, her stunning blue eyes sparkling. And as I stroked her undecided strawberry blonde baby hair, I had that increasingly familiar twinge, I want one of these. Young children have a way of pulling me out of my head, and making me live moment to moment. As impressive a baby as she was, I had no doubt that I would love the woman who contributed a fair share of these lovely Irish genes.
We returned to the house and met up with Clare, and instantly she became my new favorite wife. I can't remember the initial conversations but she spoke with such passion, and a mastery of words like “fuck” and “shit” (true to her blood) that I was instantly a fan. We had a great weekend full of beer, hiking to an old Nazi auditorium in the mountains, and the even older ruins of a monestary overlooking Heidelberg. However, the most memorable evening for me was the day of the Oslo bombing and shooting spree. We learned of it that morning and throughout the following days kept checking for updates on the culprit, his motives, the fatalities. However, shortly thereafter we learned about the passing of Amy Winehouse. I think that Clare and I took it harder than the guys, and that evening Matt hooked up a projector screen and we pulled up videos of her off of Youtube. There were plenty of drunken performances to see, however Clare instructed me to pull up early interviews with her when she was 19 years old.
Those interviews revealed a young woman who was raging against the pop icon machinery, and principled in her stance to write good music that speaks to her experiences. We continued to watch as she got older, more popular, skinnier and addicted. Her chilling rendition of “Rehab” took on a melancholy feeling, no longer an upbeat club banger. We took mental health breaks and pulled up Beyonce performances to raise our spirits and aspirations. We continued on to look at more videos of those who met tragic ends (and a few exceptions) Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, then Jethro Tull, Jefferson Airplane, Issaac Hayes, R.L. Burnside, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and a bunch of Hill Country shows and artists out at Foxfire Ranch (never missing an opportunity to bribe our friends into coming to see us in MS). It was quite a fitting memorial which kept us up until 3 am.
I will skip over the return to my childhood stomping grounds of Bad Windsheim for now, as I have only written that post in my head, and continue on to hiking.
Hiking around the Eibsee near Garmisch (Bavaria)
At the start of our trip when discussing our dream jobs that would enable us to travel the world, my husband and I espoused very different preferences. For him, he'd be happy to adventure hike across the planet. For me, I'm more interested in meeting people and hearing their stories. Needless to say we have been getting an admirable mix of both in without the salaries. Today we went just outside of Garmisch and climbed the edge of Zugspitze mountain range. There is nothing that brings as much excitement into my husband's being than the approaching view of a mountain range. He becomes absolutely giddy, the air smells clearer, the foliage is greener, the views evermore expansive. I do not share the same excitement, although I do find the mountains beautiful and remarkable and am in awe of creation. I agree to go on these hikes because I know that it makes Hamilton happy, and because I welcome the exercise. However, as long as I can remember I don't really like running or walking up sharp inclines, while I appreciate the benefit for my ass, heart, and lungs I just don't enjoy the inclines.
For me a mountain is a never ending incline, a drawn out exercise routine that I look forward to finishing although I don't really now how much longer or further I have to go. On our last climb, I pushed on and went to the top of the highest peak that Ham could point out, despite the endless uphill climbs.This time, I decided that since this was a workout (and a place for solitude according to Ham) I would bring my Ipod and listen to some motivating music, mostly new stuff that I downloaded from Jason when we were passing through Phoenix. I listened to the Diplo album Florida on the ascent, and to the Marie Antoinette Soundtrack on the descent. I was wearing the purple Nike Dri-fit workout tights that I bought in the 11th grade and a straight face.
Diplo was a perfect mix of bass heavy tracks and sort of pensive melodies, whenever yet another series of uphill battles arose (at least 2 hours worth) the rhythms helped to push me a little bit further, further still. Ham stopped periodically to wait on me while I caught my breath or a drink of water, pretending that he didn't mind me slowing down his natural pace. I appreciate it when he lets me hike in front of him, it helps to push me a little more than when I'm lagging far behind him, imagining how sorry he'd be if I busted my head on one of these rocks, or slipped off the edge of a hill leaving nothing behind by our new camera (how convenient). He frequently stopped to snap pictures of the scenery and of me struggling up the hill, urging me to pose for the picture. I decided that I was done posing. Why should I smile when I'm sweating profusely, my heart is beating out of my chest, and almost nothing can slow my heaving lungs. I decided to keep my face however it was, which more often than not is not a bright smile. Enjoy those authentic pictures coming to a facebook album near you.
After reaching our destination, I explained to Hamilton that for me hiking was exercise and my goal was to get through it and get it over with. I explained that I have friends who run marathons, but hate running or training, but they still do it. I confessed that I make these climbs because he likes to and its really the only form of exercise that we get to do together, which before our trip was not nearly as often. He challenged me to enjoy the journey, the beautiful nature around me, and be more in the moment instead of trying to get it over with. Its funny how the context shifts, I'm the one who can't be in the moment when hiking, sometimes its so difficult for him to just be in the moment in a conversation without jumping to what needs to be done for dinner, what emails to send etc. The story I recite is that I'm not a mountain girl, I didn't spend my summers leading outward bound trips, and I might never be that type of woman. I prefer a long walk over a steady climb, and while he might kick my but on mountain exploration, I kick some serious ass riding horses in the wilderness.
The truth is that I mostly live inside of my head and am rarely present in my life. I am still learning how to turn off the autopilot machinery that reacts to Hamilton and circumstances as if they really MEAN something. Its my ego clinging to my opinions and values as if that was who I truly am, and that any challenges in those areas are life threatening. As I climbed I kept thinking of the words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr about reaching the mountaintop, getting to the promised land. For most of the climb I was enthralled with this monologue, what does my resistance to reaching the top mean about my work ethic, my stances, about me? How can I seek justice without appreciating struggle and blah, blah, blah. I guess I'm just not there yet, who knows what this year holds. I will look back at these posts and be embarrassed at how selfish and hardheaded I was being. For now, I think its enough that I make the climbs with him, who says I have to love it too?!
I attempted to be more present on the climb down, but as Ham blazed ahead or downward that is, leaving me almost out of earshot, I put my earbuds back in. The Marie Antoinette soundtrack is just beautiful, with lots of harpsichords and a mix of 1980's style pop songs that may have been more appropriate for the French Alps. The mellow sounds were a nice contrast to the rocky steep downward trail, that threatened to come out from underneath me, every step daring my ankles to pronate a little harder. Once we reached the end of our hike we stripped down and jumped into lake Eibsee, bathing ourselves in the crisp cold water for about 3 minutes before deciding we'd both had enough. This is the part of the hike that I most enjoyed, the cool down.
A few days later I read this excerpt in my Eckart Toole book A New Earth:
"The mind is more comfortable in a landscaped park because it has been planned through thought; it has not grown organically. There is an order here that the mind can understand. In the forest, there is incomprehensible order that to the mind looks like chaos. It is beyond the mental categories of good and bad. You cannot understand it through thought, but you can sense it when you let go of thought, become still and alert, and don't try to understand or explain. Only then can you be aware of the sacredness of the forest. As soon as you sense that hidden harmony, that sacredness, you realize you are not separate from it, and when you realize that, you become a conscious participant in it. in this way, nature can help you become realigned with the wholeness of life."
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