"North Star"

“Make your plans. Make them now,”

urges the light filtering through the curtains.

“Move honey, just move,”

calls out the road map from the trunk of the car.

“What are you waiting for?”

Asks the able-bodied adventurer in my heart,

shaking her head with impatience

from waiting - 

too long, 

pack ready,

to move forward on the trail.

See that compass?

See the sun moving across the sky?

Another day is passing.

Another moonrise is certain.

Which vista will be your viewpoint?

Are you paying attention, my beloved?

Will you see from inside the same room

and through the same window?

Or will you step outside?

Will you

let Polaris be your marker?

It’s time to open the front door and walk away.

Go deep into the woods and 

find the path though the underbrush;

roam the edge

of the desert,

turn away from the sign posts reading “Wait

Until Tomorrow,”

cross the ocean

and make passage along roads 

so well-seasoned by memories

and movement 

that ghosts of ancient travelers 

watch over you in sleep

and never let you lose your waking way.

“Take yourself by the hand,” whispers my soul,

“Don’t wait, don’t wait,

dear god....

don’t wait.

Just seize your heart -

and go.”

"North Star" © 2010 and beyond by Martha Lee Phelps

Squeak (Part II)

(A continuation from yesterday's post...
Death Valley, California
Monday, March 22, 2010)

Badwater Basin and the Salt Flats were incredibly beautiful. 

With Telescope Peak rising to its full 11,000 feet on the west and Dante's Pass behind us, we tip-toed around honeycombed basins of salt water. The rims of delicate crystal and mineral deposits, encircling each pool like lace-work and hand-hewn tatting, stretched for miles around us. The whole white scene was blinding to the eye and compelling to the soul. We simply HAD to look.

The girls picked carefully at the salt deposits. Mindful of the strength of their human hands on this hardy yet tender ecosystem, they touched with tenderness and marveled at the wet glistening gems on their palms and the sensation of soft chalk that it left on their skin. None of us could resist putting out tongues against our fingertips, as though our palates were the final authority of whether or not this was, in fact, a salt basin.

Heading back toward Furnace Creek, we detoured along the Artists Palate Drive to see an amazing crayola box of natural hues stacked upon each other throughout the surrounding cliffs and hills. 

This particular spot is a six mile stretch of tribute of the planet's age and ever-changing form - the layers of color showed us where glaciers, volcanoes, water, ice and heat have all conspired over time to geologically blend and separate varying colors and textures. It was powerful to acknowledge that whole mountains have uplifted and laid themselves upon one another, like great stone sweaters on a shelf. Moving mountains...now there's a concept.

Rich dark browns, tans, reds, black, beautiful swaths of palest blue, washed-out green and even an occasional stripe of lavender showed up for us as we roller coaster-ed through the looping narrow road of the scenic drive. 

 

The squeak had retired, both literally and metaphorically, as we made our way along in the Beckinator with mid day desert heat rising around us. 

Virginia's biggest concern was the number of images her wee Nikon would hold. Sarah was momentarily beyond concerns, as she was on an internal hike deep into a John Muir-ian state of being. I was just hanging out in a willingly suspended state of awe - for the day, the planet and the miracle known as "right now." 

Squeak (Part I)

(Death Valley, California
Monday, March 22, 2010)

We’ve been waking right around sunrise each morning. The desert birds have a lot to talk about, and their celebratory tones invite participation...that fact, and I’m needing to stiffly extricate myself from sleeping bag and sardine can tent.  I leave my sleeping companions alone so they can spread out just a bit more.(Did I mention that we accidentally brought the two-person tent instead of the four-person? Yes, the quarters are beyond cozy.)

Today, after a marginal camp breakfast, I underestimated how quickly over-easy eggs will cook in a good cast iron skillet at - 203 feet below sea level, we headed south to Badwater Road and points beyond. Our destination: Badwater Basin, elevation -282 feet, the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere.

As we navigated yet another long, mostly straight, two lane highway, a small squeak spoke up. “What’s that?” I asked Sarah.
    “Not us, “ she replied.
    “Hmmmm,” I responded with a frown.

After another mile, while passing a sign that read “Next Services 73 miles” another squeak - confirmed with windows rolled down for better hearing - that it did/does indeed belong to us. Or, it belongs to Becky, our steadfast bright red Cruiser. For this trip, we’re calling her “The Beckinator.”

Sarah and Ginny continued their gaze of appreciation at the Pinamint Mountains to the west and the Black Mountains to the East. I, on the other hand, immediately begin to fret about the Squeak. I moderated our speed, breathed deeply, and said my millionth prayer for no mishaps.

I decided to be proactive with my fretting. You know that old trick where you think of the worst case scenario, acknowledge it, contemplate all the ways one would deal with said horrific scenario - and then release it? I did that. I played out visions of tow trucks, being hauled to Las Vegas, putting the girls on a plane home, waiting for car parts, expensive mechanics and a long, lonely drive home weeks from now after having suffered the full wrath of the Squeak.


It then occurred to me: that’s not the worst that could happen.

The worst that could happen would be one of us getting hurt (or worse) and with a intuitive wash, I began to breathe deeply and peacefully.  We are well and whole, and all the rest is just idol squeaking and desert dust in the  cogs of the car.

Then, as if for confirmation, Sarah looked at me long and hard. “Are you worrying again?” She probed. I shrugged. And she raised her eyebrows and said in her most knowing voice of wisdom, “When you worry about stuff, I worry about you. Please stop.”

Do we all have a squeak that occasionally stops us from seeing the world around us and steals away our ability to be present and attentive? There’s no question about it. Sometimes, our squeaks actually manifest into something that requires action, but mostly they just work us over from time to time. The trick perhaps, is to treat the squeak not as an element of ominous foreshadowing but as a reminder that although we have no control over the events of our lives, we do  choose the attitude with which we’ll deal with it.

Not suddenly, but finally and wonderfully, the majestic mountains and the stunning whiteness of the salt flats and the brilliant cerulean sky climbed into the driver’s seat.