The Wanderer

There was a time in my life that I got paid very well to just listen. To simply pay attention. I have been asked lots of questions. I answer some of them. Sometimes, I just smile in understanding.

I am not any smarter than most, I've just lived through a lot. “Wisdom from experience,” they say.

I listen carefully. I tell a lot of stories. Sometimes I make people feel better; help them learn something new. I am not a therapist, although occasionally I feel like one.

As I trudged down the first hundred stairs descending into the gorge, it’s not like I saw many. The few that hiked by me didn’t utter a single word. In almost every case, my existence wasn’t even acknowledged as I squeezed by on the narrow trail.

The second hundred stairs past just as uneventfully. I was enjoying the relative isolation; the escape to the privacy of my mind, heart, and soul.

It wasn’t until I could start to hear the thunderous rushing of the river close to the three hundredth that I began to pick up bits and pieces of a conversation.

Do you know how much farther down? Asked a fresh faced, if not a bit overweight young man to a thin man with a gray beard.

The other hiker frowned and pointed his finger in the direction of the river. It’s not that much farther. I detected the unmistakable sound of irritation in his voice, as if the conversation had gone on far than he was willing to be involved.

It’s my first time here. Can you tell me what way I should –

I gotta go, kid. Have fun.

Without another word the gray bearded hiker turned and headed up the stairs passing me without making eye contact. I sort of felt bad for the kid. I was less than twenty feet away from him now.

I flirted with the idea of passing him full steam ahead to avoid any exchange. After all, the sole reason I was here today was to enjoy solitude in my secret place that I discovered a few months back – a sheer rock cliff a few hundred feet off the trail where at the bottom the roaring river surged through the gorge. Another 20 minutes of hiking and I would be in that special secluded spot.

I eventually succumbed to the pained look on his face. I made eye contact and said hello. I hoped to pass by without further dialogue, but somehow I knew that outcome wasn’t part of my destiny today.

It’s my first time here. It’s really beautiful…

He fell in step with me and together we descended the remaining seventy steps to the bottom. He asked me lots of questions about the trail and gorge to which I gave short but accurate answers. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I still hoped that when we reached the bottom, he would take his leave and I would still be able to salvage my private retreat.

Instead, his pace and direction synched with mine. It appeared that whether or not I wanted it, I had a companion on my journey today.

So much for solitude.

While I didn’t much feel like chatting, I couldn’t help to notice that this man had a lot on his mind.

So, I listened.

Admittedly, not very carefully at the beginning. But as his story developed, so did my interest. Over the next several miles, I learned more about this wanderer. He was 18 and fresh out of high school. He had recently been accepted to the local community college. He was interested in science, but decided on taking liberal arts classes. Both of his parents had some sort of disability; he cared for them and tried to contribute to the household income. He didn’t have many friends. He wanted to experience life. He was scared about the future.

As he admitted his fears, it almost seemed like confession of his soul; his deep dark secret that he just wanted to get out in the open.

For the first time I actually looked right at him. He seemed almost relieved. As if he was afraid that somehow I would disapprove.

Sometimes I think a person just needs someone to tell them it will be okay. So, I did just that. He actually smiled.

When we finally completed the round trip of the trail, I sat down for a brief rest before climbing back up the 370 stairs. I assumed he would turn around with me and head back. I was surprised when he said that he finally felt great and wanted to continue exploring in the opposite direction.

With my foot on the first stair, I heard him shout. Hey, by the way, thanks for listening!

I had to smile; I hadn’t even learned the kid’s name. I didn’t get the solitude that I had in mind and I a bit surprised that I wasn’t in the least bit disappointed. Yes, somehow my mind felt clear, and I was content knowing that the young wanderer no longer seemed so lost.

Sanity at the Edge

The day started out much like any other day. A bright beam of light streamed in through the slats covering the windows; its destination, as usual, was a spot on my head just above my left eye. I could feel the warm spring breeze flowing through the open window and over my body carrying the perfume of lilac. Birds were beginning their raucous spring dance in the branches just feet from my house.

Given that the day started out so painfully normal, I am more than a bit surprised to find myself in my current location – gazing down into the chasm from the very top of a five-hundred foot cliff.

Yes, the start of the day was the tediously the same as every day before it, with one major difference. My head was pounding as if my brain was trying to hammer itself free from the confines of my skull. It was the banality of the morning, and the throbbing of my head that fueled my unusual desire – to get away from it all.

Somehow, with the persistent thoughts of escape running through my mind, I managed to pull myself out of the bed, pull on a t-shirt and jeans.

Minutes later, I was in my truck headed in a generally northern direction. After miles of highway shot by my window, I glanced into the rearview mirror to see my scruffy face staring at me mocking my getaway. I smiled a big goofy grin back at it. Windows open and coffee in hand, I pushed the pedal harder intently leaving the ordinary morning miles behind me.

And somehow, I ended up here. The top of a rocky precipice.

I sat down on the edge, peering down over green-gray water crashing over jagged rocks. Even at five hundred feet up, the noise of the powerful river below was deafening as it flowed through the sun-drenched gorge beneath my vantage point.

I am not sure where I originally intended to end up that day. I just knew that there was a daunting task ahead of me. Befitting my dubious mood, I chose to abandon my truck in a small parking area just off the highway.

I hiked through the valley for an hour with no objective in mind. I knew I reached the destination when I gazed forward was astounded by the complex beauty as far as the eye could see. The first buds of spring were showing on the trees; shrill noises from woodland creatures rivaled the sound of the crashing water for my attention. A small snake moved over the ground and hid in a pile of last year’s fallen leaves.

In the distance, I could barely make out the form of fisherman standing knee deep in the river. His pole was arched severely as he reeled in his catch.

As I contemplated my own situation, my thoughts eventually turned to the reason I found myself there in the first place – the “Runaway.”

On that dark night several weeks ago, I was indeed the last person to whom he spoke. It was he who said “at some point or another, everyone thinks about running away, but who actually does it?” Hearing the words chilled me. Maybe he was on a precipice just like this one; on the brink of insanity as he considered how quickly his situation deteriorated. Except me, nobody knew the whole story.

I didn’t understand. How could I? He had gone through more in the last few months than most had gone through in a lifetime. But I was drawn in; affected more than I could ever dream possible. I wanted to help. I wanted to understand.

Knocking a few small rocks into the boiling water below, I looked farther over the edge. Mulling over the Runaway’s last words, I could almost feel the pain in his voice. Aspirations and dreams shattered, the situation is just too out of control.

The Runaway found himself on an edge – of sanity?

So, he did it; without a word to anyone, he packed up his truck in the middle of the night and just left it all behind.

The departure left me with a tremendous sense of failure and guilt. It is irrational, but I somehow felt responsible.

Abruptly, I pulled back from the edge of the cliff. After hours of gazing into the abyss, I suddenly found that “piece of me” that I had lost. The realization was as clear as the water below. I stopped blaming myself.

I knew the Runaway well enough to know that the plan was simply to put as much distance between himself and his troubles; to rationalize the state of his affairs. I can only hope that with every state line that the Runaway crosses, he finds those pieces of himself.

I picked up a small stone at my feet. As a reminder of my experience, I carved a few private words on the stump of a dead tree. I turned away from the spot and began my long hike back to my truck, and home.

Eventually, I intend to return… my secret sanity asylum at the top of a treacherous rock wall.

Anatomy of an Eternity

The radiant sun shines through the large window. Children are in the street playing hockey and laughing in the cold air of the not-quite-spring morning. The neighbors across the street are sweeping the driveway for the first time since the snow melted. A woman in pink waves as she jogs by; a small dog keeps proper pace. By all accounts it looks like it can't possibly get better.

A stark contrast exists on the other side of the window. He sits at the table absently sipping coffee. He can't taste it. He can't stop thinking about it.

He feels his heart beat faster. Memories are racing through his brain.

"Why?" his mind screams as a whimper escapes his lips.

He feels his chest tighten; unimaginable weight compresses his lungs. He tries to suck in precious air.

He stares out the window unblinking, trying desperately to focus. The children children have stopped moving. A hockey puck was hovering just feet from the net. The neighbor froze mid-sweep. Floating dirt was suspended inches from the broom; each perfect swirl of dust preserved in motionless air.

He is suffocating. He can feel his oxygen deprived heart hammering as pain shoots deep through his eyes to the back of his head. Suddenly the sun is too bright; harsh spots fill his field of vision. He squeezes his eyes closed to shield against the feeling of a thousand needles converging on his retina.

The air in the house is crushing him. He tries harder to breathe but no precious air reaches his lungs. He can hear every panicked breath, every beat of his heart as oxygen deprived blood courses in his ears.

The coffee smells acrid as he slams his cup back on the table.

He can no longer hear the children laughing. Instead he hears a cacophony of familiar voices; bits of old conversations surface. He tries to make sense of them but he can't focus. His mind is racing in a myriad of different directions.

He hears a splash as loud as a crashing wave. He hand feels like it's on fire. He lifts his hand in front of his face; he can see every detail on the surface of his wet skin. He becomes abruptly aware of a burning stream of tears flowing freely down his face.

He jumps up. He barely notices the chair crashing backwards as it falls over. He can't breathe. His stomach rebels against his abrupt movement and he heaves dry air.

He looses his balance and begins to fall. Time moves agonizingly slow. His downward descent to the ground is filled with dread at the impending crash. He hears every heartbeat as ticking like a clock as he watches the ground rush up to meet him.

All at once he feels the excruciating pain ripping through his body. An explosion of whiteness blinds his vision for a horrifying moment. His heart is beating, trying escape from his chest. He can't move his limbs.

In terror, he forces himself to retreat into the blackness of his mind. Each moment is excruciating.

As he lays on the cold stone floor, his panic begins to subside. He can feel his breathing and heart rate slowly return to normal. The thunder of voices in his ears dissipate as his vision turns dark and then begins to clear.

He vaguely realizes that only a few moments passed in the space of what seemed like an eternity. He rubs his wet face, wishing he could brush away the uncertainly and bitter emptiness inside as easily as he wiped away the tears.

The Pivotal Moment

At that particular moment, I danced as I never had before. Flashing lights, pulsing energy, sultry bodies in vigorous movement. Tick. I laughed. I hardly noticed it pass. For almost a year, similar pleasurable moments filled my days.

Flash. I was all alone. Depressed. Chilled. I sat in the dark, disheartened and despondent. I waited indifferently for the moment to pass. Tick. A tear tracked down my cheek as I slid into my cold bed with a shiver and tried to fall sleep. I was resigned to the acridness of melancholy moments that surely laid ahead. They spanned a year.

Flash. Rage coursed through my blood. I was engaged in a bitter confrontation; the "beginning of the end" as I came to knew it. Tick. The continued effect reflected throughout the year. Unusual hostility, sickness, pain, and tragedy surged.

Flash. I was surrounded by friends and acquaintances. Music and laughter pleasantly filled the air. I enthusiastically sipped a tall glass overfilled with fragrant champagne. As the moment approached, I passionately promised myself it would be the best yet. Tick. The ensuing year was filled with astonishing moments.

Flash. I was forced to cancel on the event I planned to attend. I laid on the couch in misery. I could barely move. Even the act of drinking water was enough to wear me out. I waited for the pain meds and the antibiotics to start working.

The moment is quickly approaching. On TV there are celebrations taking place from all over the world. I shiver and wrap myself tighter in the fleece blanket.

I worry. I think about the past. If history remains consistent, that particular split second in time when the moment passes will be captured and echoed throughout the next full year. I am concerned. Shortly, when it slips by I will be alone and dreadfully ill.

When the Pivotal Moment passes, will I be condemned to a year of misery? Impossible. Could a Pivotal Moment actually exist?

Pivotal or not, the moment gets dreadfully closer. In New York, the Clintons push the button; the Ball begins its famous descent through the frosty night. There is electric in the air at the anticipation mounts.

Tick. It passed.

Is the power of the moment a cosmic coincidence? Or some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy?

There is nothing to do but wait. Or is there?