Somewhere You’ve Never Been

Everywhere you go will be somewhere you’ve never been.

As you drive north on Highway 64 to the Grand Canyon,

the ponderosa pines give way to scraggly junipers.  The sky is wide,

wider perhaps than you’ve ever seen it, and it seems

entirely probable from here that this same sky stretches

beyond these horizons, from Budapest to Beijing.

On the drive you expect a glimpse of the canyon, a vista between

the trees, perhaps, especially if this is not your first visit to a

national park.  A little teaser shot would be nice, you think.  But

there’s nothing but a few nondescript hills, even more trees,

and sad, yellow grasses pushing up through the cinders.

Past Tusayan (am I pronouncing that correctly?), you’re back among

the ponderosa again.  Just when you begin to lose all hope of

arriving, doubting that this road might ever end, there are suddenly

stop signs, stone buildings, people, parking lots!  And so you park, still

wondering if all those miles you’ve driven were for naught.

Afterall, who hasn’t seen a canyon?

They’re everywhere, right, as common as can be?  Even so, you sling

your binoculars across your chest, camera in hand, you follow the signs pointing

toward the rim.  You make your way through throngs of people.  There

must be busloads of them, speaking languages you’ve never heard

until now.  Looking down, you pick your way along the uneven

sidewalk, not wanting a twisted ankle.  And so, it isn’t until

you finally, truly, reach that edge that you look up, expecting more

trees, more hordes of people, stone buildings, smelly mules.

But this is where your breath catches.  Your eyes, taking in 

the sea of canyon, struggle not to spill over.  How it is possible 

that the earth is so many hued?  How could an absence be 

so vast?  What could make a poet forget her words?

Guilt and Innocence

The other morning, I read a blog about one man’s recent experience on jury duty, which called to mind my own service as a juror.  I’ve only had to serve once.  I’d guess I was about twenty-one, about the same age as the defendant.  He was accused of burglary, robbery, multiple charges of assault with a deadly weapon, and first-degree murder.  The crimes didn’t occur far from the neighborhood I grew up in, and in fact, were within the boundary of my high school. 

The victims were returning home and found a burglary in progress.  The surprised burglar had no way out except to confront the victims who were blocking his escape.  In his efforts to get free, he stabbed them both, and also stole the woman’s purse, which was part of the evidence against him.  The accused did not testify on his behalf.  He was identified by multiple witnesses as well as by a victim of the assault and a victim of a separate, previous burglary.  His fingerprints were everywhere, including on items that had been stolen and recovered in both burglaries.  The defense consisted mostly of mistaken identity; basically, their argument was that it could have been any number of Hispanic hoodlums in the Phoenix area who committed the murder.  The defense tried repeatedly to question the memory of the witnesses rather than profess the innocence of the defendant.

Being a juror wasn’t terribly difficult.  The trial lasted a couple weeks and I enjoyed commuting downtown to where the architecture was more interesting, rather than out to the suburbs where my uninteresting job placed me in the bland monotony of a lame customer service job in a typical west Phoenix strip mall.  It was a task out of the ordinary, and therefore more appealing than regular life.  But there were some aspects of serving as a juror that were not easy.  The first of these was staying awake.  Testimony was generally rather boring, because as my dad says, a lawyer is never going to ask a question unless he already knows the answer to it. 

The most emotionally difficult moment was being required to view autopsy photos of the murder victim, a middle-aged man who was stabbed several times.  These were glossy 8 x 10s that were passed around the jury box.  We held these photos in our hands.  More than twenty years later, I can still recall what he looked like and what his body looked like after dying in that manner.  It was also not easy to hear the testimony of his girlfriend, who was also stabbed, and in whose apartment the murder took place. 

At the beginning of deliberations, I was chosen as an alternate, as was another young man.  I was relieved to be chosen as an alternate, in part because it meant the tedious trial was over for me.  But I also felt, in a very real way, that the accused was guilty.  While the jury began its discussion, the other alternate and I were allowed to meet briefly with the lawyers.  He revealed his same stance about the accused when he asked the defense lawyer how he could defend a man who was so obviously guilty.  In the rawest sense, it was a question of morality.  The lawyer replied that his charge is not necessarily to have his client be found innocent.  Rather, his task is to ensure that his client receives a fair trial.  At once, I was grateful to this perspective, as this is a very important task, and something that those outside of the courtroom often overlook and under-appreciate.

The defendant was found guilty on all counts, the same day that deliberations began.  He was sentenced to death, and as far as I know, remains on death row as his appeals are processed.  In the years since the trial, I have reflected on the experience from time to time.  With each year that passes, I become more relieved that I was chosen as an alternate.  It is not because I disagree with the death penalty.  If anything my feelings have become even more ambiguous, although in my younger days I would have said this man deserved it.  

As a mother of two girls, I can say definitively that there are crimes which can never be forgiven.  There are crimes for which my sometimes vindictive Scorpio personality devises horrifying punishments perhaps worthy of mention in Dante’s Inferno.  But in the wake of DNA testing, of new scientific methods, and of exonerations decades after convictions, do we really need more blood on our hands as a society?  What of the disproportionate number of people of color on death row?  Do we have a problem of crime, of poverty, or of opportunity?

In the case I served on, I believe the court did its best to ensure a fair trial, but what if some important piece of evidence was left out or artificially amplified?  The older I get, the less worthy I feel to judge the actions of another.  The world has become, for me, less black and white.  I struggle with words like guilty and innocent because they do not allow for degrees of either.  Without much doubt, I see our justice system as likely one of the fairest on earth for those accused.  It is not without faults, though, as it relies upon human beings to administer justice.  I still think of this crime – of its victims and of the perpetrator – and I still wonder if any of them has found some measure of peace. 

Playing for the Pioneers

I park the car at the entrance to the lot, and Madeleine and I walk up the incline with her fiddle and mandolin teacher, Doug, to a side entrance of the Pioneer’s Home.  We meet up with another musician, Mick, who also will be playing in today’s gig.  The fourth member of the group, Matt, is already inside with his mandolin.  The four of them are set to play an hour show for the elderly residents of the Home.   A full year before Arizona became a state, the Pioneer Home opened in February 1911.  Perched on a hill overlooking the county court house and heart of Prescott, it is a massive red brick building.  It houses a couple hundred old folks who have been residents of the State of Arizona for at least fifty years.

Madeleine is somewhat nervous, but Doug’s easy-going demeanor lowers her stress.  As we enter, Doug says the gig will be more like jamming in someone’s living room than a concert.  He adds that there will likely be a group of people already seated and waiting.  It’s likely the highlight of the day for many of them who are no longer able to go out.

Doug leads us down a hall, past unoccupied rooms, each with a bed, dresser, and window.  It’s somewhat depressing, but the natural light and real wood furniture assuage the institutional effect.  The residents are not confined to their beds or even their rooms.  Eventually we enter a large room with the occasional loveseat and chairs arranged in rows.  The cafeteria is off to one side and is busy and noisy as lunch service ends for the day.  On the opposite side of the room are large windows that look out on the courthouse plaza.  We are high on the hill and there is a sense, even far from the windows, that we’re on the edge of a precipice.  It doesn’t feel frightening, but more like we’re on top of a mountain with nothing blocking the view.

As Doug predicted, there are at least a dozen people already assembled and seated, ready for the concert.  The musicians gather chairs and prepare to play.  The set begins.  Doug announces each song, sometimes sharing some history or lyrics.  It is all very informal and simple and lovely.  The tunes are traditional and the four musicians easily find their rhythm together.

At some point, an ancient-looking man shuffles in during a song and sits next to me.  When the song is over, Doug nods at him and says, “Hello, Ray.” 

Members of the audience regard him and begin to call out, “Ray, where’s your fiddle?” 

He says, breathless, “Well, it’s upstairs.” 

This is no excuse.  “Well, go get it,” they call, one after another.

He says he will, but it’s a bit difficult to tell if he’s pleased that they want him to play or if he’s exasperated at having to make the trek.  He manages to get his stooped body out of the chair and wanders down the hall.

The group begins another tune, and Ray reappears as it ends, fiddle and folding chair in hand.  He manages, eventually, to get the chair set up and he prepares to join in on the next tune.  His hands shake quite a bit as he brings his violin to his chin and he holds his bow in a very unconventional way.  But when he begins to play, his tremor lessens significantly.  They play quite a few more tunes together, some that Madeleine knows and others she doesn’t.  But she’s poised and comfortable there on the makeshift stage.  During “West Virginia Waltz” one couple gets up and dances around the room.  Eighty years separate Madeleine from Ray, yet while they play, those years make no difference at all.  

When the concert’s over, several of the old ladies fawn over Madeleine.  They want to hold her hand and compliment her.  She beams, glowing in their appreciation.  One asks for a hug and she obliges.  Others call to her, urging her to never stop playing.  I think of the many proverbs across cultures about honoring the elderly.  By the time she reaches me, she is grinning and full of pride.

“I want to do this again,” she says.  “Old people are so cute.” 

Once again my shy, introverted daughter has found her voice in music, bringing light and joy and memory into these lives.  I think of how blessed I am to have two musicians living in my home, and that both of my daughters have found such good matches with their teachers, who seem to challenge and encourage them in such a balanced way.  As Plato said, music is the soul of the universe.

Hansel

The forest is dark, dank, humus-perfumed. 

Each footfall cushioned by the spongy floor of

needles-becoming-soil that betrays no clear

path.  You lift your foot and the print is swallowed

up, concealed.  You may as well be traversing

a bog or a swamp.  Has the name of your

destination escaped you, ingested by your

wandering thoughts?  Are you scurrying

from the oven? What happened to Gretel?  Birds

chatter and sing, in greys and browns they

blend into the dark canopy overhead.  You

cannot see them, but they must be there,

like the path you despair to follow, right?

In your pocket, not breadcrumbs, but a stale,

oaty granola bar.  Too hard to bite, too stiff

to break, small chunks rub off, burnishing

the bar that you dare not eat.  Not yet, anyway.

On the log where you pause, gauging

your progress, red ants commute back

and forth, with their miniature groceries, bags

of take-out sally forth, insect provisions,

each with more prudence than you possess.

How is it we decide we are lost?

Slowly, with piercing questions of identity and

self-flagellation, perhaps.  Why

pay attention now, when before you were too

caught up in the intricacies of moss,

say, or hunting for chanterelles.  (Do you

realize what they’re worth?)  Gingerly,

stupidly, you begin to leave your trace, those

crumbs from your pocket.  What is it

you are marking?  Already been down this

path?  You persist, remembering a gripping

story about one who didn’t give up, in whose

tale, the hero was played by that young

what’s-his-name with his forty-eight

hour shadow of a beard.  Later, when you

stumble upon your own breadcrumbs again,

you realize, ah, yes, it’s not a fairy tale, but

some kind of sick joke:  that’s how you’ve

been typecast.  Bumbling, anxious, searching

for grace, you stew, how will this end? 

Would you recognize the hero of your own story?

Shadow Puppets

I’m up before dawn again, dressing snugly for my morning run while talking down the shadow puppets in my mind.  Once outside, the season’s coldest day so far bites through my layers.  I pull on my gloves, expecting that I’ll warm up as I go.  It’s in the twenties at my house high on the hill, and down below it will surely be colder, as the heavy chilled air sinks to the low pockets of the neighborhood during the night.  I’m running alone today.  My running partner and fellow teacher, Roberta, isn’t feeling well, and although I’m afraid, I’m going anyway.  We’ve been running together for eight months now, but have been friends since before we were mothers, which is to say forever.   

            There is something sacred in the predawn hour.  Back when I was a new mother, watching the sun rise as each of my daughters sleepily nursed, I was aware of the sanctity of this time, when it seemed I was the only one awake in my time zone.  It is perhaps the quietest moment of the day, punctuated only occasionally by a vehicle or a dog’s bark.  And as we run in the darkness on a typical morning, we need only listen to the cadence of our steps against the asphalt, and focus no further than the scope of our headlamps.  We talk and can imagine we solve all the world’s problems while we run, or none at all.  It’s a sharp contrast to the rest of the day with our families and in our classrooms, where we attend to so much, proactively and reactively, with our attention scattered in so many directions. 

            There are dangers in running in the darkness, no doubt.  Our neighborhood borders national forest.  Deer and coyote are common to the area, more rarely bobcat and mountain lion.  Human threats lurk as well, like the newspaper delivery person, whose car sometimes races through our streets.  What frightens me most, though, is an encounter with a skunk.  Every morning I hope that my fear of this creature continues to be irrational and unfounded.  But in spite of these potential dangers, I am out here alone this morning.  There is little more gratifying than facing down a fear and realizing it was just a shadow puppet.  The fears that spend the most time lurking in our minds, though, are rarely the ones which actually show up to cast very real and scary shadows upon our lives.   

            Fear can’t be seen because it exists only in the mind, but it holds such sway over us.  It seems silly to me that I spend so much time worrying about encountering an animal in the darkness, and so little considering something truly dreadful.  It had really never occurred to me that I should fear, say, cancer.  That was before I was diagnosed with breast cancer this past winter.  It was a completely improbable diagnosis, at least in my eyes, because I just couldn’t fathom that it was going to happen to me.  I was young enough and had no family history to place me in any category of risk, other than being a female.  I figured breast cancer mostly struck large breasted, older women.  Or at least women who had been blessed with lovely cleavage.  I was in neither of those groups, sadly or not.  And by the time my doctor shared with me that I had not only one diagnosis of breast cancer, but one in each breast, I’d already made the choice to have a bilateral mastectomy.  It was by far the toughest choice I’ve ever had to make.

            The diagnosis and its ramifications were further compounded by the fact that my two daughters were on the cusps of puberty, respectively, and my awareness that my disease placed them in an entirely new category medically.  During those sleepless weeks before my surgery, I grappled with how cancer would change their lives as much as how it was affecting mine.  Throughout that surreal phase, I did what I needed to do to make it through each protracted day, in spite of the dread that each night brought.  But regardless of how eternal each night seemed, somehow day would finally dawn, and with it, light and potential.  I wasn’t running then, as my days were consumed by trips to doctors’ offices and tests in the Phoenix area, preparing for the extended absence from my classroom, and trying to keep life as normal as possible for my family.  Somehow, though, I made it through.  Each dawn, though, brought with it the relief that I was one day closer to surgery, which meant I was one day closer to recovery, and in turn, a return to whatever normal might mean post-cancer.

            When Roberta asked if I was well enough to begin running again about a month after my surgery, and if I’d want to run with her in the early morning, I was hesitant at first.  We’d run together occasionally before, but not for a couple years.  I’d had a boring yet stable relationship with the treadmill in my basement that I figured I’d go back to, eventually, if I could muster enough inspiration to create a fun, new playlist for my iPod.  I did not want to wake up that early.  I thought it was folly to go out so early that it could still be considered night.  I truly feared what we might encounter out there in the darkness - I still do, in fact.  But I relished the opportunity to renew our friendship by regularly spending time together, and so I said yes.  And our routine has yielded far more mental and emotional wellness than I’d ever have imagined. And thus far, the only creatures we’ve encountered have been bunnies nibbling in the yards and a very ancient yellow Labrador.

            As I step out into the cold darkness alone this morning, I sense the world opening wide before me.  The black sky is studded with stars and the silver moon hangs low on the western horizon.  I run, warming up on the easy downhill.  Most houses are completely dark, and it is silent except for the sound of my feet and the whisper of my jacket rubbing against itself.  I run, thinking of the day ahead and how I might improve upon yesterday.  I run, turning words and phrases like wood on a lathe.  I run, reflecting on the many lessons cancer taught me, the greatest of these is love, as they say.  I run, practicing gratitude for the ability to run, no matter how slow I am, even if it is difficult some mornings, and even if it hurts sometimes.  I run, even if I could be home in a warm bed instead.  I run, not so much for the exercise, but because I know that taking this time for myself makes me a more bearable person for the rest of the day. 

            By the time I make it back up the hill, I am warm and ready for the challenges of the day.  Who knows what dangers lurk beyond the bend?  We cannot know.  But we can choose to keep moving forward regardless, because we also can’t know what we might miss by helplessly watching fear casting its shadows.  On this particular morning, as my breathing slows back to normal, I am more than rewarded for waking so early and going out in spite of my misgivings.  The moon has set in the west, and from its position below the horizon, it illuminates the clouds above, which glow with its cold white light.  In the east, the sun has barely risen, but its warm yellow radiance has cast those clouds golden pink.  In this moment, I feel equidistant from the sun and moon, the center of my own universe spinning effortlessly around all I love, gravity cradling me close to this earth.