the complexity of trust

“To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.”
― George MacDonald

Ask anyone, and they will tell you a story, perhaps a few, about betrayal. There are many songs, movies, poems, and so on about betrayal. Yet, trust is at its core. Trust, the opposite of betrayal, is wrought with emotion, duty, and obligation. After all, isn’t it our humanity that compels us to trust? Is trust a basic human trait we cannot wrestle our way out of, or is it a moral fabrication?

At birth and through infancy, there is an ingrained bond between the child and caretaker that requires survival. As we move from that state of helplessness, we quickly learn that absolute protection and trust isn’t always guaranteed. At this point, trust can sometimes be a liability and the antithesis for survival. Knowing this, do we prepare ourselves in such a way to place our trust in ourselves? I would argue NO.

Society breeds dependence. Through the educational system, religion, and moral teaching, it is emphasized that trusting in someone (usually, the system or someone with greater power) is what we should strive for at all costs. The emphasis on trust extends itself to human relationships and social constructs, but leave out trust in oneself. It disregards the individual’s ability to navigate the world with a healthy dose of skepticism and the knowledge that everyone, in some way, will fall short of that trust.

We live within a paradox of being pushed to trust in what’s outside of ourselves, while simultaneously being pressured to get what we want. This is why we feel caught and disgruntled. You see this in broken marriages, those who are fed up with their political party, teens who rebel against their parents, and those who fall away from their religious beliefs because one of their leaders fell out of grace. I could go on.

I have examined the concept of trust at various angles and have resigned myself to the belief that complete obedience to trusting anything outside of yourself is self-sabotage. I can count the number of people I trusted in my life on one hand. This is because I got to know them well, and more important to that — I trusted them to be who they are, not what I wanted them to be. I trusted that they would be who they are, even the aspects of them that did not bode well with me.

Some people have faith and trust in something “higher” than themselves, such as God, a cause they can support, or a creative calling. Some people have learned to trust their own common sense, intelligence, or inner knowing, and leave it at that. These people who have found trust in something that would not falter are often the most content with the world.

My trust has been tested and rebuilt over time and experience. Some of this process has been excruciating. Lessons learned. I have also found that the more a person desires happiness through external things, the less trustworthy they are. The greater the self-interest, the less likely they are to garner real trust.

I have found my trust in something that cannot be betrayed or misguided. It is that *power* that has kept me going through the worst points in my life. It is that comfort I found as a child, wandering through the forest and fields. It is ever-present and does not require me to believe or not. It is in the trees, my breath, the beating heart of everything.

It speaks to me and tells me I will be alright, whether my heart breaks or I fear this direction the world of humans embrace. There is nothing that can corrode this faith. I trust this intuition at all costs and lean into it.

To trust humans…That’s the tricky thing. To paraphrase Hemingway, the only way to know if you can really trust someone, is to trust them. I am afraid that’s the truth. And so we jump into it, hoping for the best.

Another Flight

When I walk in the woods, I am lost in my own time. Out of time, or out of step, I walk with wonder. The roots of my heart bend down to meet creek beds. I listen to the mountain jays, those old friends sounding off the hours. I lose track of myself and my desires, as sand wiped free of tracks. There is nothing and no one, and there is much relief in that.

Occasionally, ravens pull at my hair. I watch another oak leaf fall. Walking with a kind of wonder is magic. I have seen twigs turn into instruments, ants fly backwards, and sometimes I could swear there are whispers from tree stumps. I see the pale moths, lovely nymphs of forgotten ancestors. My family is here, this wild bunch of travelers like me.

Did you ever get lost following a butterfly? A trove of blue butterflies, Celastrina echo, lift upward in the wind, driven madly to scatter. There is a need to be out of view, out of the picture. I come here to disappear back to my old solitude. It’s a friendly place. I have no regrets about my lack of social ties, but for all purposes, I have my connection to the land and there is a friend to be found everywhere. That is, if you don’t limit your concept to human friendships. Fellow woodland wanderers understand.

The other side of despair is transformation. After weeks of hopeless sadness, the angel of change is upon me. Coming here, I face the truth of myself — the knee-deep, baptismal truth. It is a matter of time, after such a submergence, when one can come to the surface again. Heaven and earth are one and the same, they just blend to the curve of our beliefs. We wait it out, and whatever it is we need to surrender to also waits for us.

Living on Less

Traveling light is in my DNA. This is why I am about to go on my 22nd purge of belongings. There’s something about leaving behind piles of non-essentials that I delight in. Never much of a pack rat, I like the freedom of just picking up and going, not worrying about someone watching my valuables, watering my plants, or gathering up my credit card bills for the things piled in my house.

Over the past week I have been living out of a large day pack. My sole possessions are in this pack, along with a bag for my laptop and camera (both are essential technologies, although I recognize that a person can certainly live a full life without them). Basically, I own clothing, toiletries, and tech. Everything else has been left to donation boxes, friends, and collateral damage from break-ups. There were times I didn’t exactly plan to lose things, but it happened to be the way it ended up. No love lost. I scantly recall what I even owned.

There are so many things to delight in without possessing them. I love plants, of course, but enjoy them growing wild. I love art, but I am satisfied seeing it at museums or galleries, or on the walls of friends’ places. One of my cherished possessions at one time was a painting of a black horse. Interestingly, I happened to see a wild horse of the same coal-black hue galloping through the underbrush of a mesquite bosque near where I camp. There’s art everywhere, poetry in movement, music in the sound of water.

You might think I am being too extreme to live an austere life. Yes, there are times I miss having my collection of tea pots, plants, cozy quilts, and other fun, comforting items, but when I think about the absolute ease of moving around, I wouldn’t wish it all back. My life is in my experiences. Home truly is in the love you feel when you occupy a favorite place and interact with a cherished friend.

Traveling light takes patience. It means less about convenience and security and more about whimsy and wonder. It means less time cleaning and maintaining and more time tending relationships and honoring time, the limited time we have on this planet.

“Desire to possess nothing in order to arrive at being everything.” St. John of the Cross

The Christian Mystics wrote of eliminating the needs of the world in pursuit of a greater connection to God. This spiritual thirst is something that drives me to seek that connection. As a woman of modernity, I’ll admit that search for the sacred is hard. There are so many distractions that keep is locked in a profane chase for people, places, and things. It is no surprise we have the enormous task of tackling addiction, neuroses, mental illness, a general malaise of modernity. In having, we are always in a state of wanting. We are in a state of comparison, of wondering if we made the right decisions or have the right make-up to achieve what we see others achieve.

There are days I get caught up in fear and worry about my future. If I don’t have a prescribed lifestyle, will I survive? Then I remind myself that today I have enough. Today is the extent of what I have in front of me. As I write this, crowds of blue butterflies congregate on a still puddle in the middle of an unknown forest road. What a shame to give myself over to worry when wonder appears in all forms and in all ways. Miracles.

The Deliberate Path of Gila Monster

I dream of monsters. Reptiles who crawl into my slumber, I yearn for the teachings, for their company. Over the past month, I have seen an uncanny number of Gila monsters on my hikes. They’ve (almost mysteriously) appeared in my path and have sparked a curiosity in me to learn more about them.

The most obvious of reptiles, the Gila monster is one of the few lizards that are venomous. Of course, unlike rattlesnakes I have encountered, who are quick to strike, Gila monsters are meandering creatures. They are reluctant to interact and simply want to continue on their way. They are passive. You’d have to put your hand under their mouth to get them to attack, or else try to pick them up.

What I know of Gila monsters is that they want to get where they are going with a deliberate intention about them. They’re focused and intent, going about their business under the hot morning sun – a true desert soul.

The Basics of the Gila Monster

The Gila monster, Heloderma suspectum, is a venomous reptile who’s native to the Southwestern United States and Northwestern Mexico. They range in length between 10-14 inches and weigh approximately 4 pounds. Their distinct markings of orange (sometimes appearing pink or yellow) and black patterned beads (not scales) cannot be missed. One of the showiest of lizards, they are beautiful by all accounts.

Their bite contains a powerful neurotoxin that causes necrosis (death of the tissues) in the unfortunate victim. The quintessential hermit, they spend most of their time in burrows (95% of the year) and emerge only to warm themselves in the sun and seek out other species’ eggs, their primary diet. Because of their body composition (mostly fat), Gila monsters can live for a year on about 3-4 meals.

Symbolism of Gila Monster

There is much mythology and folklore about the Gila monster. I don’t wish to get into these stories, however, since they are not mine to own. I also think we do a disservice to the species who appear before us with something to say by consulting Madame Esoteric’s Guide to Animal Totems, or what have you.

The patterns of the Gila monster are especially intriguing. There is no mistaking these creatures, with their blazed orange and black – maybe a warning to stay away from them. I gather, though, that they stand out because they are animals of authenticity. There is no denying who they are. They are their authentic selves.

This asks a question…Am I being my true nature, or do I throw up a facade? Can I be this real, bold, and authentic in my life?

Gila monster is a master of survival, an original preservationist, as they can go without food for months. This species presents the lesson of living life within one’s means, of conserving resources and energy, whether that be your time, emotional or mental health, or finances.

Am I guarding my health, resources, emotions? Or am I releasing them foolishly, without thought of the future?

This elusive monster spends the majority of their time underground. Guarded from the intensity of the summer months and possible predators, Gila monsters show us that going under is life-preserving. Burrowing beneath the earth, there is power in finding respite, a place to dream and emerge stronger. Gila monster tells us to pay attention to our dreams and to find shelter, whether it is within one’s body or the physical world.

In my own interpretation of the Gila monster, I am called to heed the warning of giving too freely of my resources. I should focus on my true nature and what I am called to do. To keep my decisions on a critical plane, where all options are before me.

Walking with Gila monster is a call to watch my ass. Where am I in danger, or at risk of losing what I need to survive? It’s not a cry of paranoia, but one of good sense and self-protection.

I adore this amazing species, who has grown on me over the past few years. The Gila monster is an emblem of home, the Sonoran desert. A slow pace and careful judgement are how you survive in a tough terrain of limited food, water, and cool shelter. Gila monster is the god of true survival, where only those who are deliberate in action and purpose thrive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ghosts in the Camera and Lion Caves

I wanted to show you photos and videos of today’s exploratory journey into the Goldfield Mountains – and specifically to Sunrise Arch. Alas, I came home and attempted to transfer my images off of the photo card to have something curious occur. They were wiped. Nada.

After having a small cry fit, I will tell you about my amazing morning in the rough-riding reaches of miner’s country.
****
I got to the Bulldog Canyon OHV Trailhead about 7am, and meandered down the forest road, past RVers enjoying their primitive sites and fresh cups of coffee (or, in some cases, beer).

It was a brisk 52 degrees but sunny, and the flowers started to pop every which way, bejeweling the hills with the brightest golds and amethysts. It was quiet, without any ATVs along the way. I knew they’d be coming later that morning, but it was still too early for all of that nonsense. Gambel’s quails darted to and from palo verdes and five hungry coyotes were out on the prowl, looking for the cottontails who were also out in droves.

Spring in the desert is a good time for all. The cactus wrens warbled their songs and the distinct metallic chirps of thrashers resounded. Can there possibly be anything more welcoming than birdsong?

I was on my way to Dome Mountain, which appears in the distance from every direction. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, since I didn’t have a topo or my phone, and was relying heavily on memory of the maps I perused before leaving. One thing about the Goldfield Range is that it is hospitable for anyone who has the basics of navigating by compass and landmarks.

Overall, my recollection was pretty good, so I didn’t bother much with old mining roads or the few trails. Instead, I decided to wing-it. I had been walking for a few miles when I noticed some cairns off to a wash and along the side of a hill. To my surprise, it led to Sunrise Arch. A window to the world, or rather Saguaro Lake and the distant Mazatzals.

There were so many wildflowers…lupine, scorpionweed, blue dicks, poppies, woollystar, clover, salvia, various asters, and AYDLFs (another yellow daisy-like flower). I scrambled up to the peak above the arch and pirouetted around the 360 degree view of the Goldfields. I think I sang some Eagles while I was up there, and probably offended the local rodents. Why is it I get Eagles songs stuck in my head while hiking? I need a new soundtrack.

From there, I dropped down from the Arch and through a wash with deep pools of water from recent rains. Loads of flies, honeybees, dragonflies, and butterflies of all varieties floated alongside me as I hiked into a deeper cavern of polished rhyolite. That’s when I spied a possible cave in an adjoining canyon, hidden behind the ghost of a former stately saguaro.

Oooo, a cave. Should I explore? Of course!

The blasted out tuff formed an overhang, which was larger than I thought. Bat guano and owl pellets lined the floor and to the side, a bigger, deeper cave with a bed of dirt and debris that was obviously well used… Yes, home to a mountain lion (or two), its entrance covered in lion scat, some old and others disconcertingly recent. From another ledge under the cave, I sat and had my lunch and pondered lions, who also must look across the valley below the Orohai.

I thought to myself, “I am so lucky to have found this place, to be alive, eating peanut butter sandwiches while looking at mountain lion scat!” Really, this is my heaven.

The way back to the car was long and rocky. I found Deer Creek Tank, the result of efforts to encourage desert bighorn to stick around. No sightings of these much adored creatures, but I always look for them when I gaze up at the ridges and spires. I suspect they ventured into the Superstitions, displeased with all of the OHV use that cuts through this range. I would love for the Forest Service to shut down the off-roading access and leave it to hikers and horses. It’s such a special place, full of history, prehistoric and historic, and offers an array of geologic features and desert flora. ❤

On the way back, a kindly old man on an ATV made sure this Little Missy knew where I was and had enough water. He was a chagrined that I had been off trail and had a good knowledge of the layout after looking long and hard at topographic maps each night. Still, kindness goes a long way, and I was happy to chat with him about our mutual adventures.

What a day! What a life. There is nothing better than a spring day in the desert, complete with scat, tracks, and a whole lot of flowers. Too bad about the lost images, but at least I have all of the memories, and it just gives me more reason to go back and explore!

Happy tails and trails.

xo
Aleah

 

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New Poem: When I Start My Beginning with Water

When I Start My Beginning with Water

I dove but I cannot surface

I stay with the sea’s pull

though my mother’s face appears

between the glass of tourmaline

I know the earth is red agony

I want to be spared

So, I leave deeper, deeper

until the ache of the sea dissolves me

Keeping laughter in the depths

sorrow surfaces

No man brings his anchored goods

words that tear at my sister’s face

I want her to have this

wordless freedom of waves

The singing is my companion

but not my commitment

The wonder, not possession

just curiosity

Mother, if I could give you

this innocence, would you dive back

to the beginning, where we are set loose

into the sea, the call of our true names

New Poem: In Hindsight

In Hindsight

Where you go,
the language of never
plunges into dust.

Beneath the sun,
a blind man’s eye,
we gather up words.

I expect miracles,
but the river runs backwards –
the coyote inhales its long song.

Who walks like this
for so long the veins
dry up into forgotten wells?

The bones bleach beneath skin
and the bored moon yawns
a miserable sigh.

Who you are –
the thorns that I must walk through,
a mirage, a tiny truth.

You said it was a hawk
that passed so close to us
that day.

But I know the truth
of those hours
and what we had to find.

When decay lingers,
it is stark but honest.
A beak drops its stone.

My fingers are skinned
from digging down to you.
Now I stop.

What we saw that day –
different between us –
a vulture, a hawk.

***

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Becoming Impatient, A Virtue

Morrigan

I woke up angry again. The feeling of it scratched at my sheets and gnawed my arms, so that I had to leap out of the bed to get away from it. That feeling like steal wool against flesh.

Anger is not my normal state. My normal state is somewhere between here and Tijuana. My normal state is anxiety, the way you feel when you fall asleep behind the wheel for a few seconds and are on a hairpin curve. I can be cat-like, prone to scamper. But anger is something else for me.

Someone told me after I got sober that I have a lot of anger; that he has seen that side of me very few people know about. Repressed anger is something most alcoholics carry—especially women. In truth, all women. Our anger turns to sadness—overripe fruit set to pop its pulp and sicken the air.

Demeter Mourning

I am not an angry person in that belligerent, obvious sort of way…Male anger. I think I am just impatient, knowing that everyone around me agrees that I need to be patient, but I am not in agreement. That’s the thing.

“If you are not angry, you’re not paying attention.” << My mantra when I was a twenty-something. “If you are angry, you are not living in gratitude,” I am reminded. As if gratitude is on the shelf all alone, as an urn with special cremains from angels.

No, I say. Anger and joy can co-inhabit. Gratitude and disdain, equally so. Gratitude MUST know the contents of my grief for me to even recognize the grace of being alive, the love that still remains. Gratitude respects a good sorrow.

We live in a world that is not set to stop for us to exhibit one thing or another in perfect order. Feeling states are not art exhibits, and rarely are they exclusive.

I’m waking up in anger because the world is not slowing down for me. Or for you.

It can be trite. I know I am growing older into middle-age womanhood. “You can still have kids?” “Why don’t you just focus on your career?” “Ever think about getting a job?” <<<Countless questions about being a 45 year old, childless, in recovery, poor woman writer.

Durga

It pays to have women friends. I’m sure I’d be a lot angrier if I didn’t.

Holding this breath like a wish for desire only exasperates, and then the pace of one day to the next just doesn’t stop for anyone. How many things have happened over the past few months? Years? Did you expect them? Were you patient for them?

I am impatient. I don’t care for the scheme of things, and if I could raise the wild places out of their peril, the wild beings away from what is certain apocalypse, why would I choose patience?

If I could find that place I envision, the kindred partner, the freedom to roam, would I jump? Yes, I would.

There is the very real now versus the prospective future of waiting games and being patient. I choose to embody the now. And, maybe, just maybe that anger upon waking won’t make its appearance.

Shooting Stars in the Sierra Ancha

I recently returned from an overnight trip to the Sierra Ancha. This is a range that is close to my heart, because it was one I visited briefly during my first trip to Arizona after being gone for nearly 15 years.

As my friend Ellen likes to say, this place is special, sacred. You can feel it when you are here. Something of the ethereal is close to the skin. No wonder there are many sightings of monsters and ghosts, of messages on the wind and in strange dreams beneath glowing stars.

We arrived in late morning, so I decided to hike down Rose Creek. Little did I expect, I encountered a small female bear. I was as stunned as she was. I have a certain level of fear about bears; they seem so unpredictable. Their demeanor can quickly change from aloof to threatening, and within seconds.

The bear looked at me, then Lily, my 13 pound dog. I realized that the only way out was to back up since we were surrounded by thick, thorny berry bushes. Lifting Lily high, we eased away, watching the coal black eyes look back at us. Thankfully, we escaped safely through the berry corridor.

Roaming the back roads is always a part of any adventure that I consider an adventure, and Ellen and I set off for Buzzard Roost Canyon the next day. Rocking through the boulders and slopes, and down, down, down into the mouth of the canyon, we went far away from any human activity. Spotting perfect primitive camp sites and canyon songbirds lifting off of the schist and gneiss, what else is there but this?

 

Lying awake at midnight in my tent, listening to the soft steps of skunks along the creek, I am here. The immensity of the night sky overwhelms me. I wish for one star to fall. Minutes later, the blaze and the descent.

Water in the desert is precious, and to find a flowing creek in the Sonoran is a magical thing. After miles of climbing and bumping down forest roads, we were delighted to find Spring Creek by way of Jerky Butte.

Even a shallow swimming hole can relieve a tired, hot traveler. I am a longtime traveler.

Waking up at sunrise, I hiked along a new road that leads to a development that’s in an in-holding of the national forest. The illuminated cliffs of the Sierra Ancha Mountains caught first light. Being in deep canyons feels like I am returning to the quiet, still place where my true self emerges. The light shines on these places, but it occurs one hour at a time.

If you pay close attention on any walk, you will notice things. Small things that can make you wonder why you ever thought you were alone.

 

Fall is my favorite season, which feels like a mere two weeks in AZ. I do love the winter months here, but sometimes I miss those real two-three months of serious autumn that I experienced in Indiana. The kind that reminds me of the fall foliage of my birthplace, the sound of the wood stove’s cracks-and-pops, feeling chilly enough to put on an extra big flannel shirt when the sun sets, and that deep, pungent odor of decay.

I savor it when I am in the mountains.

 

As with any range, a person can spend an entire lifetime exploring and never fully get a complete picture of all of its secrets. And, isn’t that the point, really, to know that a place is composed of so much enchantment it is impossible to contain?

When the disciples asked Jesus when the new world will come, he replied, “What you look forward to has already come, but you do not recognize it.” There is no outside heaven or planetary escape of tech fantasy. This is it. This is the kingdom.

I hope to continue to recognize it for years to come.

Second Chances

Second chances, I have had many. Whatever it is, call it God or the Universe, or the Everlasting Energy, has stopped the trajectory of my chaos, that endless comet of catastrophes, and set me back on the path I was meant to be on. Sometimes a bit bruised, sometimes dusty, but when it comes to second chances, I have had more than a few.

Yet, I continued to veer off course.

Some of us test the waters to the point of drowning, and find ourselves in the tide looking up at the stars, never knowing how it is that the tide always sends us back to safety. But sometimes it doesn’t. I know too many who never got a second chance, who just washed away into the distant welcoming deathtide.

When I was in the hospital last summer, it occurred to me that I may not have many chances left. Hitting 40, you realize that the romantic idea of dying young passed you by and here you are in middle age. No smoky car engulfed in flames. No overdose. No suicide penned in the name of lost love.

You begin to ponder all of the crazy neuroses and freak accidents that your younger self never considered, like dying in a horrible washing machine accident or being speared by a swordfish at Pike Place Market. Not so flippantly speaking, death ain’t all that great.

You start to covet your wrinkles and less-than-tight abs a little more. The things you did to bring down the lights seem cruel and petty. Who wants to go down like that?

Nth chances, I am well aware of. I live with a bit of death on my shoulder, just to keep me on my toes. And it isn’t about fearing death; it is just a healthy respect.

Self-destruction, I have put away that book and crawled out the window. When you know, viscerally so, that it can all end (and will) you come closer to life than you ever had before. We are creatures of intimacy. I forgot this for a long time, but it was there sleeping like Rip Van Winkle, and Life pulled me back up to see the stars.

And Love is my redemption.