Call Of The Lover

Trembling, I felt unable to move. An eight-hundred foot drop on either side kicked into gear my existing fear of height. Crouching down on the saddle that separated arduous switchbacks from five-thousand-foot peak, fear had me frozen. Having twisted up three-thousand feet of elevation gain I had two choices. Retreat back to safety or finish the climb?

How was it that I ended up there anyway? The answer to that question lies inside of another question; where does it go? Where do those roads in every Dr. Seuss book lead? What does that line on a map look like in the flesh? A confluence of events led me to Cub Scouts. Cub scouts led me farther outside the city. Nature led me into beauty and adventure.

There are premises hard wired into us that when pursued lead to peace, ignored they lead to our detriment. Anxious and fearful in my teens, I felt no fear in the outdoors. No fear of snakes, bugs, or bears---and a limited fear of heights. Scouting was the vehicle God used to move me from sea-level walks to glacier high climbs.

My first major purchase; a dark blue, external frame backpack. My second purchase, a pair of hiking boots. The pack leaned against my wall, being filled or emptied, unloaded or made ready.  Short trips every other weekend. Long trips every vacation break. From rolling coastal walks in the Santa Monicas, to craggy climbs in the Sierra. An Easter trek down Hermits’ trail in the Grand Canyon, summer solstice in the the Bob Marshall wilderness of Montana. That backpack fit like a glove, those boots broken-in, part of my body.

Like the gentle feel of a lover’s finger on your cheek, are the feelings stirred by the outdoors. The sense that you can fly when the backpack comes off after an eight-mile hike. Your shirt wet with sweat; spreading yourself out on a large shale boulder for warmth. Feeling the world spin as the sun goes down and that first star climbs into the sky. That first band of sunlight warming the camp after a frigid cold night. A place to sleep that smells of pine and not like cigarettes. Gurgle and crash of ice-cold water over rock as you fill your water bottle for the day. Your lover keeps calling you back.

When friends bid you, come with us to hike the Virgin river and trails of Zion, you say yes. Celebrating your final day in the park you go all in for a day hike to Angel’s Landing. A straight-forward path to the top brings you to the final half-mile portion, bordered by a chain which you can grab hold of to navigate the trail. Hopefully avoiding the steep drop offs into Zion and Refrigerator canyons. This is where paralysis set in. So my friends encouraged and prayed me through the saddle. To the top of the landing where I sat in the middle, far from the edge. Having made it to the top it was easier to make the trip back down the trail. A trip which I would make again some years later. Same trail, same quaking prayers, same positive result. I knew somehow that straddling that precipice was central to who I am. Nature would always be a place I found self. The hard wiring is the call of the lover.

Photo by Gregory Brainard on Unsplash

The Pleasure of Breathing

 “As easy as breathing,” it’s said. Is it really? We understand the saying, take it at face value. We see the movie scene of the newborn, swat on the butt and baby’s breathing. That doesn’t mean it will do it right. Or that it won’t stop (God forbid). The American Lung Association says we take 20,000 breaths per day. Twenty-thousand times a day we do something wrong or inefficiently---maybe.

I was shy of ten years old when I learned I was breathing wrong; terribly wrong. Half-filling my lungs without involving stomach or diaphragm. With asthma, amazing that I got air at all. A friend of my mother, a visiting physical therapist, spent one summer training me to breathe correctly. I remember him placing a book on my stomach so I'd move it up with each breath. Difficult to do it correctly, To do it efficiently; not for most of us. Especially if we’re a singer, swimmer or brass player.

Swimmer Michael Phelps is said to have a lung capacity of twelve liters; twice that of the average human. Still he requires oxygen. In most sports the typical respiratory rate is between 50 and 70 breaths per minute. In swimming, the typical respiration rate is anywhere from 16 to 30 breaths per minute. To swim one has to breathe differently. The same is true for singers and brass players who must learn to use the full body, from cheek to diaphragm, to produce quality sound.

“Breathing,” says Alexander Lowen is “easily and fully is one of the basic pleasures of being alive.” Have you known the terror of not breathing? Cast down under an ocean wave; choking on a piece of food? Contemplating a discussion with God Job says, “He would crush me with a storm, He would not let me catch my breath.” In the love song, All of Me, Legend sings “I’m underwater but I’m breathing fine.” Our breath so wrapped up in our passions and physical bodies.

As easy as falling in love I’ve heard people say. It’s really not. Maybe it’s like breathing. Breathing is delightful. Lowen says breathing has a sexual quality. Breathing involves all of me. To do it right is quite difficult. To be deprived of it; deadly.

Photo by Brian Matangelo on Unsplash

How Bad The Fall

                                                  

How bad the Fall must have been. If the first cut is the deepest; how great the gash that severed all flesh. Angel and flaming sword separating us. The tale sung in aeons. Angel Eve, can you bring us back to Eden? So sweet and simple we were. Freely tasting all we were offered; unashamed by the wetness on our lips. Flowing as one.  

Why call it a fall at all? Simple bite of the forbidden? So it’s portrayed. No, rather a spit in the face; fist flung in the air. As lovers encompass one another; so we were encompassed by our Lover. Was it the flesh of the fruit I wanted so badly? Oh to know good and evil! How did we not know how safe and secure we were?

Though I love my fellow man it is easy to see the cracks and fissures emanating from that first fist flung high. Broken at every juncture. It’s genetic or it’s the way we were raised. Self-soothing every way. We can barely connect with ourselves. Our children at war to find their selves. The line of good and evil flows into our progeny. Children born bereft of innocence. In search of the perfect meme.

The voice of Abel’s blood crying out, “Can you bring us back to Eden?” the line stretches down the ages as another cries out. How great the fall that even perfect blood in perfect sacrifice didn’t set all right again. Certainly death the most horrible. Yet how harrowing the expulsion.

Aching pain, unrelenting emptiness and a reaching out only to grasp nothing. This is the pain of the first break up. Producing the fear of ever giving yourself away again. Not surprising then how difficult to let ourselves be loved. Though the destination is future we fight healing in the present. We are scarred visibly from that first encounter. No wonder that we do not give to the Scarred One unreservedly.

How bad the fall must have been. Eden awaits. We have run from Eden even as Eden was wrung away from us. Now we are living in this present place. How easy that first laugh; embrace, and release of self. Bending to believe it was all about me. How much work to learn to love. To give of self to another. To come out of darkness. To be loved by The Lover. The fall was great. The adventure into fulness; reclaiming what was lost; the greater adventure.

Photo by Andrik Langfield on Unsplash