Walking Sky- Fort Stevens State Beach

I am not sure if given wings to fly that I would immediately jump up into the air and flap myself crazily about. I would most certainly not be graceful about it if I did. I do dream, however of falling in flight. I do not remember if I smile when I wake up, but that might be worth the mental note to find out.  Regardless, wings or no wings, I still like to walk the sky.

Today I am at Fort Stevens State Park, on the Oregon Coast. I am walking in a world between two skies. My footprints behind me hesitate before disappearing into the clouds. Off in the distance the horizon smudges becoming more of a concept than a definition of an idea. When the waves roll out, people bend down to greet their shadows.

This is line I walk between the worlds, is familiar to me. I seem to be obsessed with the search for duality. When I was young at my elementary school there was a merry-go round. Late in the afternoons when I was waiting for my mom to pick me up, I would spin myself, lying my flat back to metal and falling, flying into the fathomless blue sky. The sensation of experiencing two places at once, the metal grounded earth and the equally airy blue sky, grounds me. When I lived in Alaska, I looked to the ice beneath my feet for glimpses at the cosmos, often drawing connections between the star patterns and the cracks in the ice. Here, along the Oregon coast, I look at the waves on the beach. When a wave slides back down the sand, a thin film of water is left, hovering, carrying a mirage of the sky. This is what I am walking upon.

The concept of duality seems to be emerging as a strong theme within my artwork lately. My suspicions are that since I came out, and accepted that once dual side of my persona that it gifts a clarity towards other aspects of my dual nature and it’s representation in the surrounding environment. There is a certain amount of distrust left within me since that experience.  I am grateful for the realization but also horrified by the mind, my mind’s capability to deceive itself. As I seek to understand the implications that has on my personality I find myself drawn to these sort of grounded sanctuaries where I can experience both sides of the duality at once, extroverting an expression of my thoughts as a realized environment.

 The beach is peaceful to me today. With the constantly moving energy of the coming and going of the waves, the tumbling and sifting of the sand, and the scrambling, picking about of the local volunteer group cleaning the beach, I would think I would be irritated and taking my anger out selfishly on a stowed away chocolate bar. But I am not. Instead I am at peace walking the between-the-worlds where the sun is a washed out negative and the sky ripples silver and blue beneath my feet. I am comfortable on the edge of this perceived sanity. I am comfortable knowing my shadow connects me to the ground and my feet connect me to the sky.

Drops From the Sky

 Drops from the roof splattered the sky into liquid glass. My hiking boots seemed small on the edge of the porch, where I sat, exhausted and watching the water. I am inside a wooden shelter built by volunteers and donors to the Audubon Society's Pittock Sanctuary Pond. The steps of the shelter, like a temple, lead into the water. This morning it is sunny, and quiet. The sound of the drops falling drown out the quiet hush of the nearby freeway. I breathe in. It is a cold morning as well, as stifle a cough. I breathe out. The clouds of mud part, and a mini- leviathan swirls and swims between the pond weed. The epiphytic chorus continues to drip and I watch the salamander hover in the sun. His tiny pink fists curl in and out. I am reminded of my niece Emily's hands when she squeezed my pinky for the first time- in, out. Skaters skip over the images, threading the clouds and weeds into the ripples. The sun is a sometimes friend. It is hard to breathe, but it feels good to be outside and slowing down. I think about what I want in my future garden. The light shifts again. The salamander is gone in a puff of brown, but the sky still remains. I listen for the next drops to fall from the roof. I breathe in.

The Beginning Kind

The path between the different falls is a long one- plenty of time to have conversations, plenty of time to have the beginning kind. Behind me, in pair, are Wenzl and Jacob. They are at that stage in their relationship where each conversation forms a building block for the future, though today is tenuous. Jacob is still unemployed and there is air of uncertainty for what that might mean in the long run. I am not worried, but then again I am not in their relationship.  I am happy to see her happy. They may not know it now, but this is healthy for them, and will lay a strong foundation for their future. Their conversational probes are gentle ones, but not idle, and some are followed by long silences. They talk of houses, places to travel, roommates, employment, and paint colors, and circle around, and circle around.  I purposely keep a few practiced steps ahead of them with an unashamed curious ear open. It is refreshing for me to be surrounded by the beginnings of a relationship- one that seems so fortuitous and filled with care. For me though, this place is not about a beginning, not today, this place is where a conversation ended years ago. This is a place where plans had been made when another one of my we's had it's beginnings. 

 

I don’t write about him often or ever now that I think about it. I am still tender, though time heals. But before you all judge, there are few items you should know. He was aware of me, before anyone else was. He knew what I wanted and said no. I didn't listen to him until it was too late for us both and I hurt him. This is not easy to write, nor easy to feel, but nowhere else in the world, is there a place that speaks of him more. I first met Greg as a sophomore in high school. He was a funny, angry, sensitive, quiet, six foot two, blue-eyed straight man. We liked the same films- Willow, toys- Legos but more importantly we shared a love of the outdoors- swimming in Folsom Lake, or walking out at Rattlesnake Hill. Eventually day hikes turned into barely manageable  grandiose trips to different national and state parks with our friends, but always with the we, the us at the core. The trips became a staple of our friendship. Early on, we started plan broadly, we talked about Alaska but not till we had explored the Cascades, starting the long tour first with a detour to Silver Falls State Park. Greg had a passion for waterfalls and it was always worth the detour to hear him laugh like they roar.  This park promised to be the pinnacle of water fall experiences for him, and us.

  

Those who lived this story would say that the end came about because of a girl, but they are wrong. Yeah, there was a girl, who loved us both and it almost tore us apart. But neither of us, understood then why I reacted the way I did. As I got older and I recognized myself for whom I was and what I wanted, I imagined my life with him and said so. He said no. I said okay, which meant I will wait. I did, for years. The trip to the falls kept being put off and became something we only talked about once in a long while, as life intervened with parties, unemployment, and tons of movies. When I was 26 I realized he would never say yes, he didn’t know how, or the heart physically couldn't.  So, I did what I do best, I ran and left for Tahoe promising to come back after the end of the summer. But I never did.  It broke my heart and I know his. He is everywhere here. I am overwhelmed at being here, and surprised that the feeling still lingers however faintly.

Wenzl and Jacob are now sitting on the stone ridge outside one of the waterfalls, exchanging foods. I open, decadent mint chocolates from Alma’s, and share them- a hiking tradition left over from my days with Greg. The chocolates are a welcome, sinful delight.

There is a place at the park where the river runs over, at the first approach to the falls. There you can lean close and see the power of the water and wind roar and fall, turbulent, chaotic to a thousand or so feet below to a calm pool. There is a bench there at the top, which I highly recommend you take a few moments to sit down. The roar drowns out the tense beating of the heart. The mist on the face hides the sting in your eye. And when you put your head in your hands, visitors think you’re at prayer.