Mountain Air (eBook)

Two—Loving the Land

Fall 2008

Within the first few months of my return to the antagonistic environs of my childhood, I found myself fighting against an old but common behavior—the need to rescue and to take care of others. Although I maintained a steadfast commitment to my professional goals and duties, I consistently gave of myself to family causes and concerns that moved me away from the center of my wellness. I knew what I was doing was not healthy for me; and yet, I slipped easily into the old patterns of wanting others to need me and to appreciate me. And when I felt that my expectations for helping others to achieve healthier ways of being were rejected or that my efforts were perceived as controlling, I fell into the old trap of toxic thinking. I started to believe the classic codependent lies—If I just gave more or did more, I eventually could change others for the better; I would finally be well-regarded for my efforts; I would feel more fulfilled. Instead, an angry and sad self started to emerge that had not visited me for years.

One fall afternoon after an extremely tiring weekend, I took a walk in the cookie-cutter complex in which we lived. As I moved past the clean manicured homes, I found myself barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Fatigue clobbered my mind and my body like a heavy wind pushing against trees causing them to bend and to topple. Because of celebratory events over the past couple of days, I committed myself far beyond the parameters of balance and self-care that I was so accustomed to. As I continued to walk, disappointment and exhaustion crippled my stamina. Not far from a man-made lake that was nestled in the core of our housing development, I sat down on a large smooth rock tucked in between a few long green tule and a small stream. As I looked into the clear rippling waters, I saw my reflection, and yet, I didn’t see myself. I had forfeited a long standing practice of wellness for a false sense of needing to be needed, and I had already lost of piece of me. I bent down and swept my hand through the cold stream; I touched my face with the drops still left in my palm. As I felt their coolness drip gently down my warm skin, I closed my eyes and imagined the brisk breezes that cleansed the mountain air at this time of the year. My thoughts drifted back to the first valuable lesson that Nature taught me and how that lesson had transformed entirely my way of being. I grieved its loss and craved its return.

* * *

There are sacrifices that come with living full-time in the mountains. “It isn’t for everyone,” as was often commented by so many of our acquaintances over the years.

“Why do you live so far away from the desert and from work?”

“Why would you drive up that dangerous mountain road every day, twice a day?”

“Why would you live so many miles from everyone and everything? I would never do that.”

It was useless to respond to such unknowing comments. The only convincing that could be done was to invite these foreigners to our place of peace and to let them experience it themselves. But for our family, it was never about the dangers that accompanied the extended windy driveway, or the early morning departures and late evening arrivals back home, or the lifestyle adjustments or hardships that were necessary to live in the pines. Our decision to live in Nature’s picturesque ponderosa was rooted in love; thus, our ensuing investment into the land grew from that inner abundant resource.

Over the years, I came to appreciate the tremendous amount of work it took to maintain the integrity of our property while protecting the mountain dwelling that had been imposed upon its presence. It was a fine balance of respecting the living gifts that framed and formed the landscape surrounding our man-made structure which we intentionally blended into Nature’s canvas of colors and textures. Although our home was perched upon a substantial hillside, a steep stocky hilltop rose up behind the house where it touched cheek to cheek with a bountiful national forest. Fire danger demanded that an invisible line be drawn between manufactured life and true life; thus, a checkerboard sparseness was carefully and delicately created for protection. For almost two dozen years, my husband planted, transplanted, and nurtured a blend of cacti and sage which served plural roles of preventing soil erosion, of replenishing the balding landscape, and of securing a sense of safety in our hearts. This balancing act was replicated within a designated circumference of our beloved dwelling, season after season, and year after year. Although there were times when I found it extremely difficult to cut away or to remove a living piece of our plant family, I trusted that the pruning would make way for new growth or make it safer for the growth that bordered the cleared space.

Loving our land also meant keeping in compliance with the mountain homeowners association’s rigid requirements. One such rule was that all fences which bordered the street were to be painted white and kept in proper repair. On purchasing our property, we inherited a weathered wooden fence that needed a severe scraping followed by a fresh coat of paint and over time, it called for numerous reinforcements. Over the first dozen years or so, we managed to mother our orphaned fence until it could no longer hold another coat of paint or withstand another limb replacement. After an inner battle between guarding the authenticity of Nature’s wooden design and giving way to the calls of practicality and cosmetic beauty, we succumbed to the adoption of a shiny white vinyl fence. I remember how I felt that Nature had been betrayed by this alien among its midst, and I recall how it took time to see how it served its purpose well by maintaining its strength for years to come. I remember driving up our driveway years later, thinking how its bright beauty actually enhanced the entrance to our home and set a tone of completeness.

While Nature, for the most part, took care of Herself, I felt Her presence on other aspects of my relationship with Her. Whether it was the various little varmints that snuck into our attic, or the thunderous storms slapping against the siding of our home while chipping away its paint and bending its flat surface, or the wood peckers awakening us as they pecked mercilessly at our sterile metal gutters, I welcomed the opportunities to embrace what She taught me and to improve upon lessons learned from Her. With every investment in my life on the hill came the appreciation and the knowing that what I was creating was a new way of being and a new truth—my truth.

I arrived in the mountains not fully aware of how damaged I was. What I did know is that my journey had not been an easy one. Plagued with feelings of insecurity, worthlessness, and inadequacy for most of my life, I had become accustomed to overachieving, trying to fill the voids within. Although successful in academics as well as in the performing arts, shyness masked a spirit screaming for a voice. Maturing into a young woman, I also lived with a restlessness that drove me from relationship to relationship and from place to place. A pattern of running away and escaping reminders of painful childhood memories slowed my racing mind and calmed my anxious heart for short periods of time. And then, I was off again searching for and not finding a refuge for rest and renewal. Wherever I went, the well of worthlessness awaited me, pulling me in and pushing me under. It wasn’t until my early thirties that a career opportunity in another part of California presented itself to my loving husband, and along with the job change was my hope that this move might finally bring me a sustained reprieve from the inner turmoil. All the pieces of relocation fell into place at a rapid pace. My precious young daughter, my supportive husband, and I drove away from the valley flatlands and headed into the mountain peaks of Southern California.

After years of floundering, I finally found myself safe in a place of peace, and I began to strengthen my inner core. The serenity, the stillness, and the silence of the mountains wove their way into the fabric of my being. Long quiet walks interrupted with the accompaniment of rustling leaves, the scampering of squirrels up dry pine bark, or of pine cones dropping to their final resting places soothed an inner scab concealing a festering wound. Splashing sparkling creeks gliding over river rocks drew out a portion of the chaos within as I closed my eyes and imagined them carrying tumors of anxiety with them downstream. As I walked briskly and breathed in the pure mountain air, there were days where the strong winds pushed against my will or the snow-covered trails surprised me with slippery steps and funny falls. Still, I walked. I loved the sound of my feet crunching the rain-soaked forest carpets or the tapping of rubber soles on the crystal-clear paths. In these magically serene moments, I raised my head and tilted my face toward Father Sun. The rays touched my skin and thawed a frigid soul. Healing began by being in Nature and by embracing what She had to offer me.

With time, loving the land as I did and reaping the rewards of this love gave me the courage to begin loving myself. Just as I faced the hard work of investing into our mountain dwelling, I began to work through the enormous task of learning to care for myself. This started with the realization that as with the land, in order for new growth to take root and...