Looking for Johnny Muir

December 15, 2013.

I was on the phone. Somehow removed, and listening to my emotionless tone.

Actually no,

I wasn't just listening to my voice, I was watching. I was watching me on the phone. Imagining my dissociated self sitting in a broken lawn chair, my legs crossed, and watching me whine and pace. And tuttuttutt ing, just hating my voice, and this story, and the whole drab scene. Thinking repeatedly in my rickety chair, "What a shame."

I had been disconnected like this for a while, but the recent months started to show real wear. I was coming out like a ripped slip; indifferent and withdrawn, and filling with blue-knit drag. A weight blanketed and lay gently on my bones, making me super slow. Slow, slow… but not broke. Slow can be worse than broken, I think; slow is grey, invisible at dusk. Slow is a bully pushing you back two steps. And slow had become my every day norm. It pressed on me, and poked my forehead, and no matter how commonplace it had become, the slow pitted me with a debilitating anger. Such a weird sensation. My self, my enthusiasm was always just out of reach, and had become so, so uncomfortable. I knew it was bad, but today, watching from my chair, I was disgustingly hard to watch. I shook my head at how the redundancy had bore its way into my physical realm. I had become encased in a sort of skin of lazy resentment. My impetus needed reminding, and my head bent into a mechanical loop of following suit. I felt it. Humming. Lightly rocking. I dared the rusted legs of my chair to snap. Peeling the nylon weave of the chair and spinning it between my fingers, I fidgeted, wished I still smoked, and looked away.

During that phone call, seeing my duplicity plain, I suppose I hit a wall, and had enough. My psyche rose out of the lawn chair, letting it's frame close up and crash behind me, and pressed pause on it all. Breathing white and still, knowing that I am not predictable monotony. I'd let that repeat. I'm really not. Untangling the furrow in my face, I pet my eyes closed, and swam through everything that hurt, and decided to blow up this hole.

My boys and I live in Cambridge Massachusetts, where we file in with the small city stream. They attend a great public school, are regulars at burrito, burger and pizza places, can maneuver the streets with confidence, and know who they are, and where they are going. Living among people requires thought and effort, (which I like), and I believe it builds an awareness and appreciation for observation and wit and community. Whether we acknowledge it or not, we all work together in this city to abide by an unspoken social code, and a sense of camaraderie hovers above all of us. We are a part of something, and I take full advantage of the energy here. The boys and I live in a one bedroom apartment, right next to the park, and across the street from Harvard University, (where the boys are known by most of the janitorial staff, security guards and many Professors). From our third floor window, the guys say hi to the building super, and many of our sweet neighbors walking their dogs. We roast marshmallows or stare into our fireplace on cold nights, we listen to records and dance and we read chapters before bed. Here we do not need or want a car, and instead walk to school, to the doctor, to the square; everywhere is our backyard. We fall into the cross-section of humanity, dressed in a candy assortment of shapes and melodies, shuffling along the sidewalk. The students, parents, cell phones, social clubs, legacies, outcasts, loafers, privileged, smart, lucky, driven, all pour through this transient stratus cloud that is, to us, our neighborhood, but to them a stage in life. Some settle here; fancy people, secure, successful, published, safely controversial, applauded, academics, the Landrover- and Lexus-driving leftier one percent. And some are left here, asleep in doorways, staggering and drunk, crying, laughing, loud, silent, scary, invisible and always too real; "people on the edge of the night," (said Bowie with Queen). In a blink I could be them...any one of these neighbors. The boys could be any one of them. Hanging on by fingertips, (M. Kilroy 2013) I lead my family through it all; they are our landscape, they are nothing new, and this here is the only life my boys know.  

What a life, though! We are incredibly lucky. The fortune granted me as a passionate learner, fills me with hope and dearsweet gratitude for all I have, all I have known, and where my resources can take me. There is no limit imposed, and so we can be (!), we can learn, we can reach--and we do. But presently, I see these gifts in life, in our time, have grown to be expected, assumed and entitled. Treasures grown ugly. Perhaps every generation speaks out in this way, but this is my time, these are my kids, and parenting and navigating through this [nation of face and posturing and unaccountability], has been tricky. Keep in mind, however, that the motherhood imperative is superhero scary. Smart strength. If you pay it due respect and attention, you will see the depth and gold in women, who otherwise glide by and slip through the cracks, unnoticed. I see them all, now. The magical, burdened, graceful, human, flawed mothers; who anonymously embody the woven hands beneath us all. These powers come with a delicate tenuity, that can actually see and absorb emotion, energy, fear, happiness and strength. The ability to juggle, bat and own these powers in all dimensions, is the definition of grace. But motherhood is something more than just grace, there's some magic laced in. I see it in the natural ease and hypnotizing aura, haloing an older woman holding her daughter's newborn. I feel it in the spot of my neck where Nate's chin fits perfectly, or in the way Max's cheek on my face feels like a rush of ten years of emotion. It's a different kind of love. They are a part of me, attached but just flailing out there, with barely a skin, no experience and only me to guide them. The inexplicable wherewithal to be anything, give anything, do anything needed, no matter what, is exhausting but almost unconscious..it's just how you do. And it is my responsibility to be my best in the face of, what I believe is, a disjointed humanity. I admittedly tried to assimilate, thinking that maybe I was the stubborn peg. I could be grown up and rushed and absorbed in the millennium bubble, if it would help the boys fit in, right? But it was harder for me and didn't take; it was unnatural. The speed of acquiescence, in this enveloping culture, would swirl around me and the boys and shove us. My guys can bounce with resiliency supreme, and we can totally keep up, but god, it sure isn't any fun. I hated racing out of breath to maintain an "acceptable family front." The sort that, I guess, everyone strives to meet; the job and the house and the car and the plans and the stories of how everything got to be so great. There is an impetuous, indignant, advantaged and luxurious status quo out there now, that makes my nose crinkle, because I can't see anyone living in the present. It doesn't feel real to me. Hard as I tried to fit my boys in without a wrinkle, something inevitably gave us away. And while, as an individual, I never ever needed to fit into some other mold, somehow as a mom I felt obligated to give the boys a fair starting point; to try to be the normal, that seems to be what all the kids are doin'. But I felt wrong, I'm sure they felt wrong too, and I was embarrassed and so tired...because I knew better. 

Raising two boys in antagonistic objection to this imposing wheel, while attempting to make it look easy and happy, was starting to eat in on my super powers. And that was what spawned that conversation on December 15th, when I rattled on the phone: Am I fighting a battle only I can see? Am I wrong? Can I raise strong, kind boys who embody enthusiasm and drive? Can we even teach accountability and confidence? I was really feeling like I had hit my bottom, and that I might not be able to raise my guys the way I wanted; a painful realization. Until I remembered this: I am a teacher, I am an artist, I believe in heart, in passion, in love, in excitement, in people, in pride. And as a mother, I am an example. So I stopped being sad and mad and bullied, and instead I asked,

"Have you ever heard of the John Muir Trail from Yosemite Park to Mount Whitney?"

The John Muir Trail (JMT) is a long distance trail in the Sierra Nevada mountain range of California passing through Yosemite, Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks. From Happy Isles in Yosemite Valley to the summit of Mt. Whitney (the highest point in the contiguous United States), the trail's official length is 210.4 miles. The trail was named for naturalist John Muir, who was an author and a voice for the preservation of wilderness. His activism helped to protect Yosemite Valley and Sequoia National Park, and thanks to such dedication, the JMT walk stretches through some time-freezing, humbling, painfully perfect beauty. I have never seen anything like it. The path has been described as "America's most famous trail,” hosting about 1,500 thru-hiking attempts each year (including Pacific Crest Trail thru-hikers). The weather is generally sunny and dry with occasional, quick thunderstorms, and the temperature is mild. There are park rangers, several resupply points through the northern half and also easy exit access from the trail, if problems arise. The trail is well traveled, but still pure. And, not coincidentally, this trail has been dwelling in my heart for some time; calling. From the moment of its conception, the plan to walk this trail held only a wealth of promise (all of which you will read about in our blogtales). Feeling coherent and excited, for the first time in so, so long, I said to my friend, "I think I am going to walk the John Muir Trail."

This trip could be about my frustration with society, and my railing against our little work/big reward, antisocial/but pretty on facebook, disrespectful and structureless world--which is really makin' it tough for me to raise my kids with the hard work, kindness and honorable ethic. This trip could be a metaphor for our life as a family of three, and the steady, uphill battle faced in making it all work--with two boys and a mom. This trip could be about appreciating the power and enormity of our precious planet, by putting them in it, like game pieces in a fantastic diorama. And it has been all of these things, and none of these things over the last five months of preparation. I might rant because I do that sometimes, but this isn't about making a statement. It is simply something I believe in. I believe that we will all be changed deeply, on so many levels. I believe that we will feel proud, together--whether we make it 2 weeks or 6 weeks. Motherhood has taught me to expect the unexpected, and I have no idea what to expect in this case. But I really do believe in it. So follow us. Watch us go, and we will tweet and continue to write as we walk down the John Muir Trail.

[Out with a song: This song has meant different things at different points of my life. Today it sang to me about finding ourselves, reconnecting the plugs, seeing vivid, soaking it up, owning and loving it all..or maybe I just heard it that way. But I sure do like the way he sings]

We'll be the passenger
We'll ride through the city tonight
We'll see the city's ripped backsides
We'll see the bright and hollow sky
We'll see the stars that shine so bright
Stars made for us tonight...

And everything was made for you and me
All of it was made for you and me
'Cause it just belongs to you and me
So let's take a ride and see what's mine
Singing la la la la.. lala la la

--the passenger, iggy pop