“No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.” The Buddha
I have been writing this story in my head nearly all week. True to neurotic form, nothing gets written until Friday afternoon and that’s just how it is for now, actually it’s been years. I have enjoyed the twists and turns this idea has already taken, before it’s captured on this very page, right now.
Let’s look back upon the choreographed accidents of the past week, assuming it is over by the time of this sitting, so to speak. Ever since I stopped running, a decision made for me by my left leg, I haven’t really felt like I have been out on my island. I think I transitioned to the stationary bike at least four years ago. As a result, there has never been a need to have running shoes, which is all I wore in Santa Fe, NM for years, spiced by an occasional cowboy boot, which I wore, less and less self-consciously over time.
My running shoe routine for the forty plus years I tortured myself, was unwaveringly simple. I’d get a new pair every six months and wear the old pair everyday, until the next cycle. When I came here, nearly twenty years ago, it was my cast off running shoes and my slippahs, done deal. The running shoe never counted in the inventory, because it had only one use, period.
Now, in the absence of the running shoe cycle, I got a pair of black, fabric Sketchers and a pair of plastic Croc knockoffs that are fabulous. No socks. No blisters. They were both wearing down very dramatically. Their days were numbered. I had both replacements, quietly standing at attention, waiting obediently in a draw, until they are called to serve.
I decided to add to the foot family by getting a pair of brand new running shoes. I knew I’d need them if my plan to be out and about was going to happen. Yes, there was a plan, sort of.
Magically. everything suddenly changed. One pair of old shoes was literally falling apart and had to go, flapping like clown shoes. The bogus Crocs were also well worn. It was time for them, too. Without thinking about the incredible implications of the move, I quickly picked up both pairs, the only friends my feet have ever known for a number of years, and dumped them in the garbage pail, dead and soon to be forgotten, but there was a story gestating in my head.
I know it sounds kind of stupid, but what started out as a completely unconscious action, somehow took on a kind of symbolic importance to me. In that instance, I forgot what a creature of habit I am. Now, in one knee jerk moment, I had two brand new replacements, ready to take my feet wherever they’re ordered to go.
There is one other sartorial, soap opera chapter. I wear jeans. I always wear jeans. I love wearing jeans. When I recently decided to figure out a way to tie up my hair and not wear a hat, I started thinking this place is not about being covered up. Right in the midst of this looming, deeply personal upheaval, I got a few pairs of shorts, a bigger deal than it sounds.
Listen, I could be a poster boy for how jeans and I have aged together. The moment I left the ad world of NYC and headed southwest, jeans were instantly tattooed to my legs. As a kid, I started wearing them, because they were an urban costume, meaning whatever you wanted them to, mostly nothing special. Later, in New Mexico, you had to wear them, which was perfect for me.
So, I had the costume for my party, shorts and a choice of new footwear, not to mention my hair being tied back, corralling my mane. I hadn’t yet sorted out the location for my party of the mind. I didn’t know where I should have it and then I did, just like that.
I can’t tell you where I decided to go in this particular sentence, because it somehow got tied in to what I was going to be doing out there.
This handful of seemingly trivial things I have been recounting to you, suddenly began to have a powerful meaning for me, much to my total surprise. It would be interesting to think of your life as a series of paintings, visual chapters. Where is it going? What is the picture that closes a particular story, like this one, before fading to black, the imaginary and extended blink of time.
For quite some time now, I have been feeling like a prisoner of my own, water logged habits. Of course, the idea of all new shoes and the metaphorical path I walk is the trigger for this story, helping me to think about moving forward, becoming more a part of the landscape.
I will be standing within sight of the lighthouse, above the shore line. My views will be the same as they have been for thousands of years. How many fishermen have walked to this spot over the years? The setting sun skims just above the surf, white light shimmering in the moving mirror of the sea. This is my painting of the mind.
What seemed like a handful of unrelated events, accidents of the moment, came together, as if they were part of a plot to kidnap me, taking me outside myself, to the lighthouse.
I’ll let you know how the fishing thing comes along. If it turns out to be a great spot, you realize I won’t be able to tell you exactly where and there will be no photographs. You’d have to be a fisherman to understand that.
I am going to fish and that is how this story ends.