Discards

Candles in my home, which are often lit for celebrations and intentions, center me. But not if the flames are out of control, like fires raging here in the west. Smoky air has turned the morning sun red-hued—a stark reminder to me of those who live too close to forests ablaze. I thought of that age-old dilemma: if your house was on fire, what would you take with you?

Then, that worn gold shoe appeared on the sidewalk. Why was a single slipper left behind? Would the owner be relieved or disappointed with one less item to carry? I couldn’t help but think of Grimm’s fairy tale of Cinderella and her gold (not glass) slipper. With discards, flight, and fire on my mind, I started to write about what we take and what we leave behind.

In case of emergency what would I grab? On impulse, I pulled my bed-quilt free and threw in my treasures: the photo of my siblings and my drawing of an Indian woman, my father’s elephant bell, my Franciscan Praise, and dulcimer. And, of course, room for Angel. I imagined the bundle like a hobo sack thrown across my shoulders.

What I'd take (1)

Strange the catalog of what I left behind: tunics and sweaters, jackets and shoes, books and letters, identification documents and journals, energy bars and bottled water, matches and aspirin, dog kibble and flashlight. No thought whatsoever of packing computer or iPad, phone or flash drives.

In an emergency, my decisions would have made no sense. Prepare, we are told, as though you were going on a camping trip. Looking at my selection, I realized the impracticality regarding what I left behind—maybe like the person who surrendered only one gold slipper.

Years ago, before clear cuts and diminishing salmon, when the air was clearer and the threat of flame minimal, Robert Frost wrote “Fire and Ice”:

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

fire

Frost’s philosophical, cynical version of destruction links fire with desire and ice with hate. In the past I favored the blazing choice, but now fire terrifies me. I would run west—toward water—with my quilt of belongings. Before I ever reached the cooling ocean, my framed photos and dulcimer would be too heavy, and the bell and prayer book would drop along the way. Perhaps in the future someone would come along, follow the trail of items, take photographs, and write a book, (with a nod to Tim O’Brien) The Things They Couldn’t Carry.

Angel, precious belonging, would remain with me, bouncing safe against my heart, until I set her down to run free along that coastline—both of us cool, but stripped clean. And I would, once again, count her the most essential, and, like Grimm’s description of Cinderella’s slipper, worth her eight-and-a-half pound weight in pure gold.

HPIM1095 (1)

Purification

Catharsis finds its best depiction in Greek myth and Shakespeare’s tragedies, but it is never far from my experience. My eyes fill and my chest tightens each time Les Miserables’ Fantine sings, “Cosette, it’s turned so cold. Cosette, it’s past your bedtime.” And romantic that I am, catharsis can occur as I read books not quite equal to Greek tragedy, like Moyes’ Me Before You. And knowing the sad ending, I still chose to rent the movie. Catharsis—so good for my mind and heart.

Nature offers me moments of catharsis, a purification every bit as powerful as those times inside a book or theater. I have to “pull a geographical,” though, and move away from my own noise and my preoccupation with screens, big and little. What awaits me is the crunch of leaf beneath my feet, the flit of butterfly near my cheek, the feel of water cupped in my hand.

IMG_1097

Song of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

William Butler Yeats

 IMG_0025.JPG

Two weeks ago, I traveled from Hillsboro to central Oregon and the Metolius River. The cabin that two of us shared was a small space (we washed dishes in the bathroom sink), but the setting was exactly what the sign above the door promised: serenity. No Wi-Fi and no phone service meant that the main sound came from the river, no more than thirty feet from our cabin’s picture window. How many hours did I spend mesmerized by water, marveling at its ever-changing light and shadow, listening to a lullaby, both wild and soothing, that it sang through the night?

IMG_1118

For three nights and four days river purified me, released me from needless anxiety and silly fretting. Not quite the catharsis of an Oedipus, Othello, or Fantine, but I had the chance to sink briefly into a nature throbbing with life; into the rush of waters, into rebirth. Next year I will return to the woods, find a cabin called “Serenity,” and let the Metolius cool the inevitable fires raging inside my head.

IMG_1107