Ethics Class
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Posted:Sep 27, 2013 10:57 am
Last Updated:Jan 4, 2014 10:57 pm
12221 Views
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It is interesting to be seated in class watching students, classmates, half my age learning about ethics. I find that it makes me reflect on my behaviour in class fairly often. The fact that I'm a former police officer and also the oldest in class means that, like it or not, I'm always being evaluated and monitored.
It makes me wonder what exactly these think about the study of ethics. Without a frame of reference for the consequences of unethical actions, I wonder if they can truly appreciate serious this topic is. I hope they are smarter than I was at their age and are actually taking it seriously and not thinking it's a load of shit. And maybe it's unfair or biased for me think that they don't take it seriously.
I wonder if they take it seriously because I know I sure as hell didn't. Not really. I've often stated that it's important to understand that actions beget consequences (the real ABCs) but I also think that consequences are like divorces, you don't truly understand them until you experience them.
Unfortunately I have experienced the consequences of unethical behaviour, both professionally and personally. I'll discuss more about the professional consequences in another post...
On a personal level, specifically in my marriages, I have behaved unethically. In my first marriage I was unfaithful. That sort of unethical behaviour really needs no explanation and I'm not about to discuss the details of it without alcohol sitting between us.
In my second marriage I was again unethical but in an entirely different way. Rather than demonstrate unethical behaviour as it related to my partner, I was unethical (in my opinion) towards myself. I wasn't true to myself and to what I had determined what I needed or wanted in a relationship or a partner. Even though I realized this fact, I stayed in the relationship for a few years longer than I should have because I didn't want to be alone.
Personal and professional ethics. It's amazing how every facet of life can be touched by them if you really think about it. It's only in the last few years that I've spent time actually thinking about it. I'm glad I have.
How about you? Have you figured out where you stand? Where your personal morality places you in the ethical stew we're in?
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My Tree
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Posted:Aug 19, 2013 1:16 am
Last Updated:Oct 8, 2013 6:57 pm
12129 Views
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When I was a , there was a large spruce tree in the middle of our field. I used to climb as high as I could into that tree and sit there for hours. The time I spent sitting there listening to the wind and letting that wind rock me back and forth are some of the most comforting that I remember.
The odd thing about it is that I was, and am, scared of heights. In spite of that fear, in that tree I found escape; I found freedom; I found comfort. For some reason, that tree was the one I felt confident and safe enough to climb to the highest branches of. For some reason, that tree was different from the others. Maybe it was the view, maybe it was the fact that the branches were placed just so and allowed me to feel safe when I was climbing. Maybe there is something to the belief that all living things have energy and sometimes, if the energy between two living things is in sync peace and comfort are easier to find. Perhaps it's none of that.
I didn't wonder why that tree was one I felt safe in. I never sat swaying in that tree's top and wondered why I wasn't scared. I never examined what made me feel safe.
I simply enjoyed the safety my perch and reveled in the peace and tranquility that I felt. The 'why' didn't matter, only the fact that I had a place to escape to mattered.
Eventually, the tree did what trees do. A strong storm came along and the tree, old and weakened by its age, succumbed to forces that we must all surrender to. I had long since moved away but my mom called me to let me know that "my" tree had fallen. Although it had been years since I had climbed it, I was a little sad. But only for a moment.
The memories of sitting in that tree were as strong as they had been. Those memories are still as strong as they had been. I still escape to that tree too from time to time. Perhaps I remember it more wonderfully than it was. Perhaps I'm missing some of the beauty that existed. Neither matters.
The reality, my reality, is what my brain tells me it is. The actually facts are secondary. I choose to believe that I remember it exactly. I choose to believe that I haven't created or missed anything important. And this choice allows me to remember that tree and to still access that escape.
What do you choose to remember about your tree?
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HNW
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Posted:Aug 15, 2013 1:32 am
Last Updated:Aug 19, 2013 10:52 pm
11771 Views
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I normally don't participate but I think GR and Zoe would smile...
That's all. Not much to see here...It's still HNW if I'm fully naked but not revealing all, right?
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They Were My Words
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Posted:Aug 15, 2013 12:48 am
Last Updated:Sep 27, 2013 10:55 am
11641 Views
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A friend told me that her abusive ex had torn up all of her writing thinking that it was evidence against him. She said that she felt lost, like she couldn't find her words again. Wrote this in reply...
*******************************
They were my words.
They were words that I couldn't say to him. They were words I couldn't say to anyone else. They were words I couldn't say aloud in a room by myself. They were words I couldn't say at all.
They were my words.
I wrote all the words I couldn't say. I wrote those words over and over. I wrote those words for the people that cared about me but didn't know how to help. I wrote those words for the people I cared about but didn't know how to help. I wrote those words for me.
They were my words.
He found them. He destroyed those words. He ripped to pieces every word that I had written. He tore apart the words I had written for my loved ones. He destroyed the words I had written for me.
They were my words.
When I lost my words, I thought I had lost a part of me. I thought I had lost the freedom that writing those words gave me. I thought I had lost the power I felt when I wrote my words.
They were my words.
I searched for my words. I tried to rewrite my words. I tried to remember my words. I finally found my words. I won't lose my words again. They were my words. When I thought they were taken I found another way to get them out.
This is my voice.
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Last Night
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Posted:Jun 22, 2013 5:58 pm
Last Updated:Aug 15, 2013 7:04 am
12602 Views
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It's been a long time since I posted. A friend of mine is a military wife and she mentioned that she always wondered what her husband thought about the night before a deployment.
Last Night
He laid there quietly as the sounds started to make sense.
The whir whir whir of the ceiling fan. The droop droop droop of the tap in the ensuite.
It was when he heard the soft rhythmic breathing behind him that he fully woke but still he didn’t move. He laid there listening to the calming sound of her breathing and let himself be wrapped in the serenity that it had always given him.
This happened every time. The middle of the night waking only happened on his last night before he had to leave. It was such a part of the routine that he would have felt unbalanced if he slept through the entire night.
Before he began the slow process of turning to face her without waking her, he already knew what he’d see: the streetlight through the window would give him just enough light to see her face; her dark brown hair would look black in the half light; the lines of worry that had been steadily growing on her face over the past few days would be relaxed by sleep. Softly, gently he turned to her. She was as she always was. The peaceful look on her face seemed to impart peace and he felt himself relax.
He took a deep breath as a small smile brushed his lips. As he exhaled, his body relaxed and he found a comfortable position on his side that would allow him to look at her, to see her.
She was beautiful. He didn’t need bright light to see her beauty, it glowed from within her…probably because that was where it started. On the heels of thoughts about’ how lucky he was’ came the ‘I don’t deserve her’ thoughts.
Sadly, this too was part of the routine.
How can I keep her happy? She deserves a husband that can be beside her all the time. I have no idea why she stays.
He took another deep breath. This deep breath wasn’t peaceful. It didn’t help him to relax into the pillow. This deep breath was more like the breath one takes before going into battle. After all, that’s exactly what it was.
With every deployment he had to convince himself that she’d be there for him to come home to, that she’d think he was worth waiting for. With every deployment, his confidence seemed to diminish. He squeezed his eyes shut, and with incredible effort was able to stop his breathing from becoming raspy enough to wake her. A few more deep breaths and he was able to open his eyes and look at her again.
With the same wish he made every last night with her, that some part of her sleeping brain would hear him, he spoke to her with an honesty he could never duplicate if she were awake:
“I love you. I love you more than anyone I’ve ever known and I love you more than I’ve ever known I could love. I hate leaving your side, leaving you alone. This wasn’t the life I wanted when I asked you to be my wife. I wanted you to be there to have my back because I knew you would every single time like nobody else could. And I wanted to be here to have your back every single time you needed me to because you deserve that. I hate leaving, I hate hearing people tell me how brave and wonderful I am because the only person in the world that I want to hear those words from is you and I’m walking away from you.
We talk about duty, about how we owe it to this or that. How do I tell people, how do I tell you, that I feel like I’m abandoning my first duty, my duty as a husband, every time I go. How do I do it? I don’t. I can’t. It’s not how it’s done.
I want to tell you these words when you’re awake. I want to tell you how much it kills me to leave you, how my heart breaks a little with each step. I want to but I can’t because you already have enough on your plate. How could I burden you with more?
And even as I say those words, I wonder if there’s a part of you that needs to hear them. I wish I had the courage to take a chance and say them but I don’t. The risk of saying words that burden you more is too great and so I stay quiet. I stay quiet and I wonder if we can survive one more deployment, one more period of being apart.
I know I seem cold before I leave and I’m sorry, love. I don’t know how I could leave at all if I didn’t start putting on my game face before the time comes. I know you understand but I also know that it hurts you. I know you feel the emotional distance I create.
I almost wish you’d find someone else and go with them. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about getting a knock on the door, about hearing that I didn’t make it back. That’s part of why I put the distance there. In some stupid way, I hope that if this is my last tour that it’ll be easier for you to move on. It’s stupid. So stupid and I’m sorry.
I wish I was strong enough to tell you how incredible you are, how wonderful you are. I wish I was one of those guys that could express emotions clearly. But I can’t. When I try to talk to you about how I feel about you, about being over there, about my fears or my love I get tongue tied and feel like a fool. And I feel like if I give in and let those emotions out, I’ll never be able to bottle them up the way I need to so I can get through the tour without going crazy.
And so I talk to you now. Every last night before I leave I talk to you and hope that some part of your brain is hearing me and making it a part of your thinking. Every last night I hope you are actually awake and hearing me. Every last night I hope more than anything that I’ll get one more night with you at the end of the tour. I love you. I love you more than anything.”
As he turned his head away and sank down into his pillow, a tear slowly traced it’s way down her cheek.
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HNW?
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Posted:Feb 6, 2013 8:12 am
Last Updated:Jul 19, 2013 12:47 pm
15765 Views
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So Gottaring told me today is HNW. I have to participate because she is the Obiwan to my Luke, the Gandalf to my Frodo, the Alfred to my Batman. Wait, those are all guys.
The only female to male partnership I can think of is: She's the Dorry to my Nemo.
I tried to convince my roommate to take my pic but apparently I should have explained the reason before I walked into his room wearing a towel and carrying a camera. As a result, I was left with no option other than the ever sexy and oh so classy bathroom mirror pic.
Oh well...
Before you judge the "tribal-ish" tattoo, it's a stylized ambigram of my 's name. Bonus marks if you can figure out what her name is
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They can get me.
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Posted:Feb 4, 2013 12:06 pm
Last Updated:Jul 19, 2013 12:39 pm
14907 Views
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**unfinished but I told Mustang I'd post it**
They Can Get Me.
When I close my eyes I can feel the sun beating down on me through the windshield. The smell of freshly cut grass drifts into the open window that I have my elbow resting on. I feel a bead of sweat slowly trace its way down the side of my forehead and over my temple. I lift my hand to brush away that bit of moisture and my hand then, almost magnetically, drifts to the air conditioner controls. I look down so that I can be certain that I was turning the dials to the absolutely perfect setting... Cool enough to overcome the heat but not so cold that I would have to adjust it again in a few minutes. There it is...perfect. I find it strange today that I was actually at peace at that moment. All was right. Sort of. I was on a call of a suicidal male with a gun, who had threatened the family members I had removed from the scene. I was now blocking the road on one side and my partner had blocked off the other side. But right at that moment, my air conditioner was set perfectly and life was good.
I still don't know how he got from the house to the road in the few seconds I had been looking down, but there he was. And when I looked up our eyes locked. He was 37 yards away, almost half a football field away and I was looking him straight in the eye.
A moment, a minute, a millenia: any of those might have passed before a puff of smoke broke that connection. Smoke from the end of the rifle that he was looking at me across. Smoke from the rifle that he had just fired at me.
My feelings of safety, of invincibility, of capability disappeared faster than a speeding bullet.
Disappeared with a speeding bullet.
A long time ago, I had heard a motivational speaker, a former military guy, tell a story about a company of men who had been trapped behind enemy lines. They were cold, starving, hungry and scared when they were reached by a special forces team. The leader of the special forces team said to the trapped and scared platoon leader "Get behind me, . I won't let the bastards get you."
“I won’t let the bastards get you.” I am a , a brother, a husband. I was that brother, that , that husband.
And I was that cop.
I was incredibly proud of the fact that I stepped in front of people to keep them safe. My sisters, my wife, my co-workers. That was the biggest part of who I was, my defining characteristic, at least in my own mind. On August 1, 2000 at 6:31pm, I had that identity stolen from me and I was left feeling scared. Helpless. Lost.
I thought I was prepared for anything. I was now face to face with the one thing I hadn’t prepared to be. Scared. I realized in an instant that regardless of the choices I made, my life could be taken, could end because of the decision of someone else, not because of a mistake in my decision making. I could die regardless of how hard I worked to control the variables that helped me to get home safe at the end of my shift. My "control" was nothing but smoke and mirrors.
Sadly, everything I had learned was to control the situation, control the variables and you control your destiny, your safety. It was one of the foundations of the "officer mindset", one of the tools that I used to overcome the horrible situations that the job had thrown at me. I hadn't worried about dying because I could control things and be safe, make things safe. That illusion was lost to me now.
The bastards could get me.
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His Story
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Posted:Feb 3, 2013 10:57 pm
Last Updated:Jul 19, 2013 12:37 pm
14916 Views
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The spark of life that she seemed to bring with her was gone. Ever since she died, the house has felt empty. Hollow. Without purpose. Like a light with a broken filament. Useless.
Like me.
Her picture still sits on top of the TV. Mom says it makes her feel warm and brightens the room like a comforting fire. She’s wrong. It’s not a fire’s light in the room. It’s a stark, cold spotlight that removes the shadow and the contrast; that reveals how empty, flat, and lifeless this room, this house is.
Like me.
She was my sister. We were just over a year apart but that didn’t matter; we were like twins. We felt each other’s pain, and we shared each other’s joys. I knew the moment she died. It was three years ago, but I still remember waking from a dead sleep, feeling a crushing pain in my chest. I cried though I wasn’t exactly sure why.
When the cop knocked on the door three hours later, it didn’t shock me. He sat at the table with mom, dad and me. He had a sad look on his face. He didn’t waste much time. He struck us with the news quickly. The same way the truck had struck her. His words had the same effect on us as the truck had on her.
The physical trauma she experienced killed her. The trauma we were hit with was just as physical. The world was spinning. I couldn’t see, think, talk, breathe. The strength left my legs and I fell, crashing soundlessly to the floor.
The cop tried to be compassionate, sympathetic. He was just pathetic. His fake sad eyes; his bullshit “I’m sorry.” He didn’t care. For him it was paperwork and overtime.
I felt guilty for every breath my lungs took, for every pounding beat of my heart.
I wanted her to take them. Wanted to give them to her.
Wanted her to be here even if it meant that I was the one dead. Especially if it meant that I was the one dead. I didn’t want to feel this pain.
And that made me feel guilty, too. Guilty because my pain wasn’t killing me. My pain wasn’t taking away my chance to see the sun tomorrow, to eat mom’s cooking or listen to dad’s boring old stories. But I didn’t want her to feel this loss, this pain either…the world just kept spinning.
Three years. Tonight, a little past midnight it would be three years. I feel it exactly the same today as I did that night. It hasn’t stopped hurting. The feeling of missing her hasn’t faded like sunlight in the evening. The sun hasn’t set at all, and I can’t take the light anymore.
It’s almost time. I’m going to shut off the light. Wrap myself in darkness and finally get some rest.
The burn of the vodka feels right. It hurts, hurts like I imagine she hurt. I want to hurt, and I want the hurt to stop. Every drink burns and further numbs the pain.
When the phone rings, I answer without thinking. It doesn’t matter anyway. Nothing matters at this point. I know what’s coming.
It’s my cousin. She’s calling to see how I’m doing today. Mom and dad are away and I guess she’s the one stuck with checking on me. I want to be angry but she doesn’t deserve that. She doesn’t deserve to have me yell at her. She doesn’t deserve to have me just gone.
“I’m finally gonna be ok, cuz. It’s hurt for a long time but not much longer now.”
The phone feels smooth in my hand, against my face. Smooth like the stock of the rifle. Warmer than the steel barrel though. I lick the phone; I want to see if it tastes as metallic and as smoky like the gun barrel tasted. It doesn’t taste like anything.
“I love you, cuz. Thanks for calling. I’m gonna say goodbye now. Goodbye so you can hear it. She never said goodbye, you know? At least you got that, right? “
Why can’t she just accept it. At least she’s prepared now. She’ll know what’s coming. It won’t hit her and smash her body, her brain, her heart. Not the same way at least.
“Ok. I’m not gonna talk about it. The gun’s loaded, and I’m just about ready. I love you. All of you guys. Tell them, huh? Thanks, cuz. You’ll be ok.”
As I hang up the phone, I think about how in the movies people slam down the phone. That’s so stupid. I’m not angry, I have no reason to slam the phone down. I’m finally kinda peaceful, just chilling now. I’m just gonna take some time to think about her. She was so awesome, she was so beautiful, the best sister, the best woman. Why did she have to go?
Go? She didn’t go. She was taken. Stolen. Killed. And the fucking guy that took her didn’t even get charged.
Didn’t get charged…nothing. She’s in heaven, I’m in hell and he didn’t even go to jail. That phony cop with his phony sad face, his phony sympathy. Fake fucking asshole. He’s supposed to keep people safe and punish people that hurt others. And he didn’t do a fucking thing.
His face. His phony face with his phony smile. I can’t even see her picture that I’m holding now. All I see is him.
The phone rings again.
“I already said goo…who the fuck is this? Who? Fuck you, you fucking pig! You don’t know shit you don’t know me or what my life is like…who? What’s your fucking name? Cst. who? You FUCKING asshole!!! You didn't DO ANYTHING!!” I look out the window and see the police car sitting down the road. “You let him kill her and walk away. You. You should be dead. I swear, before I’m dead I’m shooting you in the head or the fucking balls because I know your bullet proof vest doesn’t cover those parts.”
Now I understand why the phones get slammed down. I want the noise to run through the phone and break his eardrum. I want him to hurt before he dies.
Her picture is looking up at me from the floor where I dropped it. She’s smiling up at me, and I know she agrees. I know she supports me. We were like twins. I know.
“For you, sis. See you soon.”
A final burn of vodka and I’m ready. I walk out to the road. There he is. I lift the gun and after the muzzle flash, drifting smoke blocks the world from my view.
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Alone
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Posted:Jan 30, 2013 8:23 am
Last Updated:Jul 19, 2013 12:46 pm
14161 Views
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Life through a filter;
Gray, shadowed, muted.
Listless agreement;
Life undisputed.
Mumbling, rambling, muffled, unclear;
Not really listening, can't really hear.
Groping, fumbling, can't feel;
Alone, lonely, nothing seems real.
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It matters.
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Posted:Jan 30, 2013 8:18 am
Last Updated:Jul 19, 2013 12:46 pm
14032 Views
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Why try harder, it hardly matters at all,
the higher you climb the harder the fall.
Maybe its time to just give up and give in,
get used to living without a chance for a win.
Gotten used to hands that won't help you rise;
with every push back, another piece of you dies.
Screaming and crying but nobody's listening,
it'd be so easy to quit and just stop resisting.
Your voice and your spirit, are ready to break;
something strange comes...a hand that you take.
Its said without words yet spoken so clear,
words you dreamed of but never did hear.
"I see your wall," she said, "there's nothing to it"
she gave you her love and floated right through it.
Memories of pushing hands, they're being erased;
the best version of you, it's being embraced
Climbing higher so you can see it all.
Trying harder. It matters. Thats all.
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What Does She See?
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Posted:Jan 27, 2013 11:28 pm
Last Updated:Jul 19, 2013 12:42 pm
15972 Views
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There were times when I would catch her looking at me. No. Not looking at me, looking through me. I would call her, try without success to get her attention. Wave my hand to break her gaze, if only to tell her that her cigarette was burning her fingers. She couldn’t see me. She rarely saw me. It happened so often that I got used to her looking through me, to her not seeing me. I grew used to her staying lost, to cigarettes burning down in her hand.
Cigarettes and stale beer, wrapped like a hand around my throat. Necklace and shirt, torn from my body. Cold evening air taking the breath forced from my lungs. Why did I wear a skirt? I should never have worn a skirt. Stop. please stop...
I grew accustomed to making up stories wherein my mom was as attentive as the mothers my friends had. There were times when she was attentive; she could be fierce and protective, loving and nurturing. We would make eye contact and I would know she was seeing me. She would see me so intensely, her face full of raw, confused emotions, that I wanted her to look through me again. These rare times when she would squeeze me against her and tell me she loved me left me confused and upset.
Those eyes. Stop. His eyes. Stop! Fight. Scream. Do something. Push. Get him away.
Those eyes. Stop. Not his eyes. Stop! Calm. Breathe. Do something. Pull. Hold him close.
When she looked through me, was she remembering the violation? Was she thinking about the innocence she lost, the innocence she birthed?
Is this innocent? Does he carry a part of the monster that created him?
Was she trying to find peace in her mind, seeking an equilibrium? Perhaps trying to find the balance between a life torn apart and a life created? Or maybe she was just trying to wall away the memories to protect herself (and me?) from the hurt that they caused? Was she wondering how to see me without seeing him? How could she show me that she loved me in the face of all the hatred that bubbled up around the memories I carried for her, the horrors I forced her to relive? I got used to blaming myself, to thinking that I had done something wrong.
I learned that it wasn’t my fault. Nor was it hers. I was thrust upon her. I wasn’t a begotten of love and affection, of tender memories and remembered romance. I was 19 when I heard the story, the story of when she was 19. The year she gave birth to me, the year she can’t forget. In a halting voice, she skipped through the story. She related the bare bones of a story about her bare body. Suddenly I could see what she saw.
She stopped when I couldn’t hear any more.
I told her I was ok because she couldn’t have heard any less.
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Those Eyes
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Posted:Jan 26, 2013 11:13 pm
Last Updated:Jul 19, 2013 12:41 pm
14960 Views
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This talk had been a long time in the making. It needed to happen now. It should have happened a while ago. I know that; I knew that. I just hadn’t been able to work up the courage or the words until now.
As I looked into those eyes, eyes which had, over the years, been alternately full of tenderness and love, anger and hate, a huge up-well of emotion threatened to delay this conversation yet again. I’m not sure what was more difficult, feeling the emotion in my heart or seeing the emotion in those eyes.
I knew what I wanted to, what I had to say but being on the brink of talking filled me with a melancholy that I didn’t expect. I lose myself in those eyes; eyes filled with confusion, with fear, and with resignation. A sigh escapes my lips. I use that involuntary sigh to inflate my shoulders and strengthen my resolve as I begin.
“Listen, I know that you’ve been struggling lately. Trust me, I know. Every single thing that you’ve been dealing with, I’ve been right here with you for. You’ve tried to wall me off, to keep me shielded from the worst, to save me. I see that, too. I know when you closed yourself off that you were trying to protect me and I love you for that.
And a part of me hates your for that.
When you shut yourself down, you prevent me from knowing you, from experiencing ALL of you. You take from me the joy that having an open you brings to my life. The way having you in my life helps me to experience the world is a gift that I have lived without for a while now. Losing the part of you that you have kept hidden has taken some of, a lot of, the joy out of my world.
It makes me sad to think that you have decided to remove yourself from me. It hurts to think that you don’t trust me enough to accept you as you are, that you don’t think I will love you if you let me see everything about you.”
I see moisture welling in the corner of those eyes and feel a tear trace it’s way down my cheek.
“I love you. I have always loved you. Yes, it has been a struggle. Yes, there have been times when I wasn’t sure, when I questioned my resolve. And yes, there have been times when I hated you so much that I wanted you gone or wished you were dead.
But that’s not the case anymore. I have learned a lot. I have learned that I was scared and that rather than face my fears and overcome them, I was running away from them and lashing out defensively. I know my words and my actions have hurt you. I felt every pain I’ve inflicted on you.
As I watched tears rapidly blinked away, my voice caught. We mirrored each other in our efforts to catch our breath as the struggle to maintain control waged.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t stand to see you constantly self destruct. I can’t continue watching you make decisions that you know hurt you and the people around you, the people that love you. I can’t continue like this because your decisions hurt me.
You have sacrificed yourself to protect people from your hurts and you have ended up passing on more hurt than you’ve experienced precisely because you haven’t let people love you and care for you. Your walls keep people who want to be closer at arm’s length and I can’t stand at a distance anymore. For my own sanity, for my own emotional security, I know that if you won’t let me engage fully with you then it’s time for me to disengage from you completely.
I do love you. I will always love you. I see your hurts, your scars, your wounds and I feel them. I have loved you even when you didn’t love yourself but you never saw it, you ever accepted it. That is what hurts the most. You had no reason to doubt my love and you did.”
I’ve tried to save you but you haven’t let me so now I need to save myself. This is the last time I’m going to look into your eyes, the last time I’m going to give your fears and your insecurities acknowledgement. I love you but I can’t let you continue draining away the happiness that my life should be full of.
Good bye.”
The lump in my throat prevented me from saying more. Seeing the tears streaming from those eyes was more than I could handle. With a deep breath, I took a final look into eyes I would never see again and turned away from the mirror.
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The Trail
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Posted:Jan 26, 2013 11:39 am
Last Updated:Jan 27, 2013 10:01 pm
14602 Views
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The simple act of packing my gear and loading the car helped bring the smile to my face. After the past week, the past few years really, I needed this trip more than ever. Thinking about the fact that a 35lb pack was going to be easier to carry than the stress I’m used to carrying made me laugh.
I mentally catalogued my gear, both to make sure that I had everything I needed and to see if there was anything that I could leave behind. Safety gear, camping gear, food, water, and spare clothes: necessary; flask of scotch: absolutely necessary. Ok, enough of that, I was ready and had been for a few days.
The drive to the trailhead was forgettable. I used the time to separate myself from what I was leaving behind, from what I was escaping. The calm music I had playing helped but I couldn’t tell you what was playing if you asked. As I got into the mountains, I switched to music with a faster beat, music that reflected my excitement. I was close to parking the car and heading out to a campsite that I’d been told was beautiful. Mountains and winter being what they are, I had a secondary location in mind but my plan was to go where I had been told to go to.
As I set out I couldn’t help but think about how much I loved making my own path. I loved the fresh untouched snow in front of me, a fresh white canvas that I would be painting my own adventure on. A quiet voice in the corner of my brain reminded me that I was setting out on my own; I was leaving support and help behind. Although I was alone, I knew that I was safe and that I would be ok. The confidence in my own abilities, in my capability, quickly drowned out the quiet doubting voice.
As I moved along, the beauty of the sun reflecting of the snow covered peaks took my breath away and reminded me of why I was here. The celebration of the moments seemed to reinforce the old adage about how life is about the moments that take your breath away. Maybe there was something to that old adage. Little decisions made my path for me. A desire to have a closer look at a unique tree stump, a squirrel that left a mess, the fading sun that I wanted to stay in.
Although I had a destination in mind when I left the car, the snow conditions and my own whims had made me decide to camp at my secondary destination. I crested a ridge and saw the beautiful valley that was my destination for the night. For the second time today, my breath was taken. With nothing but a short slope and a few deep powder turns separating me from my home for the night, I looked back over my shoulder and realized that I could see the path I had taken to get here.
I looked back and examined my trail. The series of small decisions played through my mind and I was amazed by how such small decisions had gotten me to this point. I was amazed by how quickly and simply my path changed. I was surprised that although I would be camping at my second choice, I didn’t mind at all.
I started to turn away from my trail and stopped. I realized that the adage was wrong. Life wasn’t about the moments that take your breath away, life was about the struggle to get to those moments. I had been living my life from moment to moment, reveling in the beauty of those moments and thinking that those were the moments that made life worthwhile. Like the view of the snow covered peaks or the valley I would be descending into, those moments were wonderful but the beauty was in allowing myself to make the decisions that got me there. I looked back one last time and smiled as I remembered why I had made the turns I did, why I chose the path I chose.
A peaceful smile settled on my face as I turned forward and began picking my path towards my home for the night.
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