Going Dark

And just like that, it’s over. The shrieking voices, the jubilant splashes, the shrill drone of motor boats slicing through waves. The aroma of cut grass and grilled meat. That cacophony of sensations vanishes. Sometimes the door of summer is slammed shut and locked. The sun is consumed by gloom and the rains begin. Sometimes it’s gently closed, a gradual recession into darkness. This year it’s left ajar. The sunshine persists. The rains, when they come, are warm. The forest seems unsure how to act. Where are the bright reds that are usually the first to appear? Instead, the aspens are the first to draw inward. Their leaves brown and wither and are cast off.

September is for us, is what the locals say. There’s always one last. One last barbecue, one last swim in the lake, one last sunset at Sturgeon Bay. For me, it’s not one last, but one more. I savor my final long hikes, mesmerized by the rasp of dead leaves under my feet. What a privilege it is to live here.

It is time to go dark, fall silent, immerse myself in the beautiful melancholy of my beloved autumn. Season of surrender, hard truths, letting go. Of relentless remembrance. I draw my light inward. I wander through the many chambers of my heart, switching off the lights and shutting doors in some, so that it can glow brighter in others. The levels of access are now clearly defined. Those who aren’t already in the innermost realms have little chance of getting in.

The bronze-tinted sunlight of Indian Summer contrasts with the inky black fog that seeps into my being. Tread gently here, little one. You’ve navigated this dark realm so many times before. The pain just means that your heart is alive. Ride it out. Breathe. Allow yourself to grieve.

Remember: the way a person treats you is a reflection of that individual, not you. Remember this. Again and again. Until the light illuminates the abyss and you find your way out again.

Remember: we carry everything within us: past, present, future. Do the lessons we go through truly make us stronger, or is that what we tell ourselves so that we keep going? Memories are constant companions tripping us up, holding us back, but also urging us on. Remember the pain so that you don’t allow it to happen ever again. Remember, then let go. Move into the now. Move on.

Turn towards the future. Envision, crystallize. In order to get what you deserve, you need to believe that it exists. You’ve done it before. Look at this place you call home. You knew, many years ago, that you would have this little cabin. Become the solitary woman in the wilderness. The shy black rabbit who now shares your life appeared in your dreams, remember? Her garnet-colored eyes and shimmering blue-black fur. Raven. You recognized her immediately.

Grand accomplishments and little details. I deserve this and so much more.

I lie in bed at night and gaze out the window. Where once I saw fireflies dance and lightning flash, stars glitter through naked branches. When you let go, Heaven shines through. I burrow deep under the covers. Thoughts flow through my mind.

A flashback to Prague. It was spring. I was walking home from the Smichov metro station after work. One of those episodes I sometimes get, dare I call them visions, took hold. I was in a crowd of shadows, interspersed with rare lights. Some shined bright and clear. Others were intermittent and some were dim. I was one of the lights. And I understood. Some of us are beacons. Not for the shadows, but for each other. To reassure each other that we’re not alone.

Those of us who come into existence with a gift have some obligation to share it. I have fulfilled that contract. Now I long for deeper realms of silence.

The majority my days are spent deflecting chatter. Everyone has returned to work. I am pleasant, but distant. No one notices. How easy it is to slip away from invitations and conversations. The sharing of memes and videos and articles. Something called TikTok is what’s cool now, I’m told. Here, Julie, look at this funny video. A polite glance and a stifled grimace, as the broadcast of desperation unfolds on the tiny screen.

So many empty souls clamoring to be seen, but terrified to look in the mirror. Oblivious to the technological wasteland in which they are imprisoned. The person who most needs to see you is your Self. The point of looking in the mirror is not to see the good or the bad, but to see the truth. It’s never too late to reclaim yourself. Don’t be afraid.

October. The deer go into hiding. Camo-clad humans lumber through the woods. I send a prayer out to the young buck and the little sister he watches over. They are frequent visitors to Ravenwood. It got to the point where they stopped fleeing when they saw me. The last time we saw each other, he approached me, tail and ears twitching with curiosity. I stood very still and smiled until his instinct took over and they bounded away. Together. Always together.

I clothe myself in orange and stick to well-used trails or my brother Grant’s vast property. At least one bear calls his land home. A mischievous smile lights up my face as I remember the immense blackberry patch I stumbled into while hiking last summer. I was greeted by a meaty gasp, shuddering bushes, and the retreat of a massive body. It was either Bigfoot or a bear that I had just startled. “Sorry,” I called out with a giggle, not even surprised at my complete lack of fear.

But that doesn’t mean I want to sneak up on one again. I clap my hands and sing as I sweep my eyes over the trees, searching for autumn treasure. A lump forms in my throat when I find it. A careful extraction from the bark, leaving some behind for next year. I stroll back to my car, my heart aglow.

Weeks after the official peak, after the leaf peepers from Ohio and other southern territories have gone home, the show begins.

Forest ablaze in a controlled burn. Leaves drift to the ground like embers. And now a cold wind stirs the ashes of brighter days. Summer’s butterfly flutter becomes autumn’s phoenix. It spreads its wings and ascends.

The Beauty in Me

Hawai’i, U.S.A. – August 1993

The highway from Honolulu to the North Shore slices through naked orange earth. A desolation that I didn’t expect. “Those are pineapple plantations,” Pebby explains. Her battered beast of a car sputters. She blanches. There’s an electrical problem of unknown origin. “If it starts to smoke, we need to pull over and get away,” she explains. “It might catch on fire.” Beater cars are the norm on the North Shore of Oahu, it seems. It’s even a source of envy to have one. As we descend into Haliewa, the problem subsides. She gives me a quick tour of the town before heading to work.

My little sister is a professional daredevil. She dives off the waterfall at Waimea Falls Park. When I sit in the audience and watch her, I see the high-strung little girl who dreamed of going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. She is living her dream. She is twenty-one and has lived in Taiwan and Thailand. I visited her in Bangkok a year ago. So much has happened since then.

Photographer Unknown

I clasp my hands in my lap. I’m on the verge of twenty-five. I’ve made it as far as California. But that’s nowhere near far enough away. What would it be like to live such a life of freedom? More than anything in the world, this is my wish. I’m still unable to visualize too far into the future. I’m unable to see past today, really. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be.

While she works, I explore the park. After her shows are finished, we meet up at the entrance. She places a crown made of palm fronds and flowers on my head. She hands me another creation. “This one goes around your ankle. I make them in between shows.”

Back to her place we go. Rents are astronomical on the North Shore, if you can even find anything. Pebby resides in a shack in the middle of a banana plantation. She pays more per month than I do in my shared house in Palm Desert. Light streams through the cracks in her walls. Her bathroom consists of a toilet, sink, and a tub with a rubber hose. Cold water only. I wash up, gritting my teeth against the cold, keeping an eye out for cane spiders. They have leg spans the size of my hand. They are too rubbery, too cartoonish, however, to be frightening. But that doesn’t mean I want them on me.

We spend her only day off hiking into a narrow, green valley. The jet black slopes of solidified lava are blanketed in the richest green I’ve ever seen. Along the way, she tells me of the spirits that inhabit Hawai’i. The Menehune, the Little People. And the Huaka’i po, the Night Marchers. I listen in silence as the gulch constricts around us. I can feel we’re not alone. The trail ends at Sacred Falls, a thin white ribbon that cascades down a shiny black groove. People frolic and soak in the murky baptismal font below.

The next morning, I drop Pebby off for work and drive to the beach. I’ve been back in the Southern California desert for a couple of months now. I live in a place of perpetual sunshine and warmth, and yet, no matter how much light shines on me, I’m surrounded by specters. Dad’s death, my breakdown, the night in the hospital, and lingering, always, the bad thing that happened two years ago. The betrayals that followed. All of that which finally drove me home to Michigan. In utter defeat.

But the darkness is dissipating. I am able to be touched again. I even have an almost-boyfriend. He had tears in his eyes when I said goodbye. A week apart can be forever, sometimes. I know he’s seeing another while I’m gone. Just to prove to himself that I’m not so important. The things we do to protect our hearts. I just want mine to be alive again.

I sit on my towel and watch the surfers bob in the waves. So serious and yet so comical. Congregations of beach bunnies await their return to shore. Perfect bodies in tiny bikinis. Hair color and physical features may differ, yet they are indistinguishable.

Not so long ago, I was just as pretty as they are. I look down at my pasty white body with a sigh. I’m nowhere near overweight, but my limbs are flaccid, hesitant. I’ve just re-emerged from the primordial ooze. I’m in the process of taking form again. Of re-becoming.

When I showed my driver’s license at a convenience store, the clerk, a young dude, exclaimed, “Woah, that’s you?” He looked at the license again, then at me, and shook his head.

“Yes,” I said, too numb, still, to be hurt. Still just trying to stay alive. And have you looked in the mirror lately, dude? I took the bottle that I’d bought and left without another word.

I squirt sunscreen into my hands and begin to rub it into my skin. A gust of wind blasts me with sand. It sticks to the sunscreen. I flip onto my knees and cower under my towel until it passes. I peek my head out. The wind seems to have spared the beach bunnies. Of course. A movement out of the corner of my eye. A guy is sitting on the sand a few yards behind me. A camera hangs around his long neck. He’s laughing, but it’s not unkind. I roll my eyes in embarrassment. Whatever. With a giggle and a shrug, I lay my towel flat again. The sand and sunscreen mixture has now hardened on my skin. I go for a swim to wash it off and rinse the knots out of my hair.

When I get back to my towel, the guy strolls up to me. His name is Vava. He’s from Brazil. He’s a photographer. Black curls, deep brown eyes, and soft features. I’ve heard that many Brazilians have African ancestry. I answer his questions with an amused frown. Why would he choose to speak to a dork like me?

“You have personality,” he says, as if reading my thoughts.

We melt into easy conversation and the day passes. He tells me of a place he’s heard of, not too far away. A sacred place on a hill. We find it as the sun descends towards the waves. We walk softly amid the primitive monoliths. Neither of us speak. He cradles his camera in his long delicate fingers. I back away and observe him as he works. He is in another realm.

He lifts his head and smiles at me. “Thank you.”

I shrug. “You’re welcome.” The conversation starts up again as we walk to the car. We make plans to hike to the top of Ka’ena Point the next morning. I drop him off in town and head to Pebby’s. I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. My skin is glowing and blonde strands have begun to appear in my hair. Two days in Hawai’i have achieved what months in California could not. I’m beginning to shine again.

We scan the jagged edges for the trail. No markings are visible. We walk until we come upon a dead end. I peer over the side of a deep green chasm. So far down. The uncanny stillness within me. Not much is frightening anymore. We give up the search and pull ourselves up the side of the cliff. We’ll worry about how to get back down when the time comes.

We stand at the edge. An instant of panic. He could so easily push me off. But it passes. I turn to look at him. His gaze is piercing, yet gentle. His camera in his grasp.

“Take off your clothes.” His mouth twists into a smile. “I dare you, wild girl.”

I stare down at the distant waves, my heart pounding in exhilaration. An instant of hesitation, then my clothes fall to the ground.

“Turn to the side. A little more. No, that’s too much.” His soft touch on my shoulders. His delicate fingers tilt my chin up. The whimsical sparkle in his deep brown eyes. “Look into the sky. Okay, perfect.” He pauses. “There is so much beauty in you.” He kisses my cheek and steps back.

The wind’s embrace. The sharp clicks of the camera. And the sun, flooding my heart with joy. Finally.

Pebby meets us at her shack for dinner. We share the story of our adventure and a bottle of crappy red wine. The daredevil hasn’t yet climbed Ka’ena Point. After the wine is gone, she leaves for her boyfriend’s. And Vava and I are alone.

We giggle and smooch and grope, but never quite get to the act itself. We doze for a while, fingers interlaced, and then he leaves. My address tucked into his backpack. His flight to Tahiti leaves in the early morning. Maybe he’ll write to me, maybe he won’t. It doesn’t really matter. I do a quick search for cane spiders, shut off the lamp, and burrow into the blankets. Smiling. When I get back to the desert, I will tell my almost-boyfriend. He will pretend not to care. Soon we will no longer be almost. I don’t even know how I feel about this. I close my eyes and drift into dreamland.

A couple of months after my return to Palm Desert, a manila envelope materializes in my mailbox. No return address. Inside are two black and white photos. Me at the top of that serrated peak. Head thrown back, beaming at the sky. My body in profile, a flattering, elegant pose. Tendrils of hair caught in the wind’s grasp. I cringe. The monochrome tone accentuates my acne scars and cellulite. Then I see the words scrawled on the back: Ka’ena Point, August 1993. Look at you there. Just like the day you were born. So beautiful. Vava.

Make a Wish

It was June of 1997. My favorite place on the riverbank. “C’mon, smile for me,” my boyfriend said. I lifted the sides of my mouth. Some of the tension ebbed away. It was hard to be upset when I was here. I had moved into my own place by then, but he wouldn’t let me go. Relationships are work, he’d say. Over and over. His fingers digging into my shoulder.

The following year. Same place, same season. That boyfriend now banished from my life. Banished, but now obsessed. His grip on reality had completely shredded. I saved the incoherent threats that he left on my answering machine. Just in case they were needed as evidence. I would soon be leaving for Arizona. A safer place. The turmoil in my heart. The river’s voice telling me, Go. You will be back one day. I will be here. Always.

The sound of footsteps and voices behind me. I turned to look. A couple stood there. The woman had her arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes were wide and terrified as she looked all around her. She gasped when she saw me. “Aren’t you scared to be out here all alone?”

I smiled and shook my head. “No.”

A spasm seized her face. Fear mingled with contempt. They moved on without another word.

I smiled again, to myself. And whispered, “No.”

Spring’s awakening softens into summer’s daydream. I melt into the warm soil. Summer is lushness, indolence. I used to believe that people who preferred summer over all other seasons lacked personality. It’s the easiest season to love. But this year, I allow myself that guilty pleasure. Luxuriate in every precious day. All too soon it will be finished.

Why is it that we so often make things more difficult than they need to be? Who made up the rule that only that which comes from struggle is valuable?

I now live in my little cabin. I walk softly within these walls. Sweep my gaze and run my hands over the work I’ve done. Cosmetic work, but still arduous. The dark-stained ceiling and the whitewashed shiplap walls. Yes, I really did all of that. Yes, this paradise is really mine. My mother unearths a couple of storage tubs from her garage. The things I’d saved before I moved away all those years ago. I find the black and white photo of me by the river. My mother had it framed. I hold it in my hands for a long while. If I hadn’t been driven away, I wouldn’t have had the incredible life I’ve had. The nineteen years with Monsieur Riso. The travels. The most important thing that I’ve learned: if life is putting up roadblocks, stop trying to tear them down. Take the detours. Go.

Summer. That feeling of passing through the gateway to Heaven on Earth.

A night, I lie awake and watch the forest lights outside my window. Sharp flickers of lightning, like knife slashes. The languid blinking of fireflies. Eerie, drifting beacons inviting me into the night’s mystery.

In late June, a robin builds a nest in my bedroom window. At first, she fails. The material she gathers falls to the ground. I try to help, first opening the window a little more, then closing it. Finally she succeeds. The eggs hatch. If I stand on tiptoes, I can see the little beaks poking out of the nest. Tiny, shrill voices emanate from within. The male robin stands guard in the trees. If I get too close to the window, he flies towards me, his neck feathers raised in outrage.

One afternoon, the parents are absent. I walk to the window, startling one of the babies. It flies out of the nest and lands on the ground. It does not move. My heart withers. I go outside and stand over it. It stares upwards. If I come too close, it opens its beak as if to bite me. I lift my eyes to the trees. Where are you, parents? I look down again. Leave it alone. You’re not helping it by helping it. It has to learn how to survive. Let it go.

In the other world, people gather, high on reclaimed freedom. I retreat to the trails. My heart once again battered. My mind a maelstrom. The same lesson comes back to haunt us. Different incarnations of the same phantom. We only ever harm ourselves by the choices we make. Others cannot hurt us without our decision to let them in.

Feel how you damn well feel like feeling. Feel it all. The deluge. The ebb. The exhaustion. Walk it off, is what coaches often tell you when you injure yourself. Mud-splattered legs, soggy shoes. We never truly get over anything. Do we?

I look at the ground. My heart stops. A raven feather lies by the side of the trail. I bend over to pick it up. A single croak is released from the treetops. I look up and whisper, “Thank you.”

I move along, twirling the feather. We process, assimilate, shift. Alter our behavior. For better or worse. We teach ourselves how to survive.

Every hike is a story. The twists and turns and ups and downs of the trail. The chance encounters with animals I’ve only seen dead in the middle of the road. I stop and observe. The porcupine. The baby skunk. They scuttle along, indifferent to my presence.

I pass by lotus-filled lakes and tannin-stained streams. Through forests of pine and hardwood. Until I get to the end. Even though the view is different on the way back, it somehow always seems shorter.

I gather serenity from the wilderness and build a sanctuary of my presence. Stand guard. Until I can discern who is worthy, no one is getting in. In the deepest, darkest corner of my labyrinth, I corner the oldest of phantoms. It looms over me. No matter how many lost souls you try to heal with your love, it won’t make up for not having saved your father. I shake my head and sigh. It’s not my job, anymore. It never has been. The time has come for you to go.

August. I write by the light of a sun tinted by the smoke of distant wildfires. A coppery light that further dilutes the boundaries of memory.

It was last summer, around this time, that I crossed paths with some little girls on the trail that runs behind my property. They came out of the woods next to the meadow, flowers in their hair and sticks in their grasp. I recognized that look in their eyes. All feral mischief. Were they pretending to be fairies or witches or squaws as I used to do when I was their age? What spells had they just finished casting to the sky? What incantations had they composed and sung to the trees? They walked up to me and introduced themselves and said they were part of another family that had owned a cottage here since the time of my grandpa.

“I used to play out here, too, when I was your age.”

“We know,” the older one said.

They headed towards their cottage and I headed up the path. I had reached the middle of the meadow when I saw the hearts. They were etched in the trail every few steps.

Deep breath. Close your eyes. Open your heart. Make a wish and let it go. The dreamy drift of a bloom’s dissolution. Such beauty now in pieces. Transported on a breath – a breath not taken away, but unleashed without reservation. A passionate dissemination of new possibilities. Now: surrender to the mystery. Wishes are always granted, but not always in the form you expect. A gentle tumble into fertile soil. Earth’s soft embrace. And it all begins again.

And so I wish to stop wishing.

And so it comes to pass.

And so I discover that I already have everything I’ve ever wanted.