Derryclare

While on an extended visit to West Ireland, I joined the local walking club on what
they call a Hillwalk. Being from Colorado, and being a frequent hiker of the trails in
the Rocky Mountains, I feel confident an Irish hillwalk is something I can accomplish.
But to be sure, I introduce myself to the walk’s leader and ask his thoughts. He
encourages me to join them the following Sunday and advises me to bring walking
sticks. Later, while at the local outfitter store purchasing a pair of walking sticks, I
also get a topo map of the Connemara area, which includes the hill we are planning
to walk: Derryclare. The closely platted concentric circles on the map defining the
steepness of the ascent give me pause. I ask the young store clerk his thoughts about
me attempting Derryclare. He assures me I’ll be fine.

The day of the hillwalk, I ride in a car for nearly an hour with three other hillwalkers
to where the walk will begin. The two women in the back seat appear to be about my
same age, as is Pat, the walk’s leader, and our chauffeur. My confidence is buoyed.

Our five cars are the only cars in the open space that leads to where we will begin
our walk. As there isn’t a trail to follow, I am hard-pressed to call it a trailhead. Everyone
makes quick work of getting their packs on and poles out. Then it is a twenty minute sprint
down a dirt road, under one fence and over another, before the hillwalk officially starts. My
day pack is already feeling heavy and my brand new hiking poles are being very
uncooperative. They keep collapsing into thirds whenever I try to use them. I hand them to
one of the group’s other leaders to see if they might be able to figure out what I am doing
wrong.

“They’re shite,” he says after a few minutes of fiddling with them. He gives them back to me, still separated into thirds and dangling from the errant bungee cord that should bind them together. There is no time for me to take off my pack and put the poles in it. I am resigned to sprinting while holding my un-usable poles in one hand. I regret purchasing the least expensive pair in the store.

Just then, the solid ground gives way to mushy, marshy bog. Ireland’s peatland.  

In all of my mental preparations for this day, I focused on the ascent portion of the hillwalk. I completely disregarded how the hill was preceded by something called a bog. Bog. I never saw, encountered or understood what a bog was, prior to this day. 

Bog is where peat comes from. Peat is what the Irish burned as fuel for centuries to heat their homes. Many Irish adults still share a common memory of having to cut bog into bricks during the summer, in preparation for the cold winter. This rich earth is abundant in fuel because it consists of densely decomposed organic matter. The soil itself is very acidic and serves as a preservative, of sorts. Entire, intact human bodies have been uncovered in the bog. The acidic soil essentially pickles their flesh, keeping the unfortunate victim’s last facial expression intact for centuries. Human bodies from as far back as the Ice Age, and as recent as World War II, have been discovered while harvesting peat from the bog. These bodies are referred to as Bog Bodies.

In addition to being a pickling agent and a source of fuel, bog is also abundantly sticky, having the adhesive properties of Super Glue. The wetter the bog, the more tenacious of a grip this dense earth has on my boots and the sturdy (aka: more expensive) walking stick one of the group’s leaders loaned me when we reached the bog. 

“Here. You’ll need this,” he said, shoving his walking stick into my one free hand. And he was right. 

The drier portions of the bog support my weight and I am able to step from uneven mound of grass covered earth to uneven mound of grass covered earth. But when I step on a wetter portion of the bog, my boot sinks ankle deep (sometimes deeper), bringing the lower portion of my body to a full stop, while my upper body continues in a forward fashion. I quickly learn to use my borrowed walking stick to prevent my face from also falling into the wet, sticky earth. Then, I must wrestle my boot, and stick, from the baboon-like grip they are in before resuming the walk. My progress slows as I try to carefully assess each step. Is that wet or dry? Will I stay atop the grass, or sink? Step, step, step. Schloop! Stuck again. This happens every five or six steps. My walking companions, however, move like agile deer, leaping from one clump of grass to the next. I am woefully unskilled at reading this terrain. No sooner than I think I have figured out where to step, my next step sucks me in.

Finally, the bog gives way to crushed rock which, all too soon, gives way to sheer slabs of quartz jutting straight up the hill side. Pat pauses the group long enough on the crushed rock for me to catch up. I welcome the brief minute or two I am given to free my one hand of my unusable sticks, drink water and to collect myself. Then the group begins climbing straight up the rock face. Yes. Straight up. No meandering back and forth. No gentle, hairpin curves. No following of animal tracks. Shy of one small toad I came face to face with while struggling to extract myself from the bog, I have seen no sign of animal life here. The bleating of sheep can be heard off in the distance, but no chipmunks, marmots or squirrels. Not even a bird. The bog and this rocky hillside appear devoid of any life other than me and my hiking companions and some very persistent mosquitos. (I later learn it is rich in unseen bog life, in particular, eels. I am grateful I was unaware of the eels at the time of this outing.) My now-wet boots are like water on ice when trying to find a foothold. For every three feet up I manage on this slippery rock, I slide back down another two.

The group pulls further and further ahead of me. The two men who were behind me in the bog, are now at my side giving me words of encouragement. Eventually, the older of the two who volunteered to be, “The Sweep” when the walk first started, tells the younger one to go on ahead and let Pat know he will be with me for the remainder of the walk. It appears, to me, that our summit isn’t too far ahead. The Sweep and I slowly make our way to where the group waits.

But this isn’t the top. There is another summit looming in the distance, not visible until reaching this faux summit. My lungs are sucking in air like I am a three pack-a-day smoker. My leg muscles are screaming. I ask The Sweep (who I later learn is named Jerry) if the group will come down the same way we are going up. I intend to ask if I can wait for them here to return. “No,” is his unwelcome response.Then the group begins moving uphill again.

I start walking with the group, but don’t hold this position long. I begin to lag further and further behind, with Jerry. We see the group reach the next summit and continue on down out of sight.  Then it is just me and Jerry. Many long minutes and painful strides later, Jerry and I finally reach this second summit. The group is so far ahead now that they are almost indistinguishable from the dapple-colored schist of what Jerry assures me is the real summit of Derryclare.

I am done, and Jerry knows it. As we rest, Jerry gets out his compass and begins plotting a different way off this rock. While he plots and figures, my cell phone rings. Yes. There is cell service in the vast bog and rock-covered  lands of Connemara. It is Pat. I give the phone to Jerry who tells Pat that we are going to head down from this second summit and catch up with the group down below. Pat says he will look for us there.  

Before beginning our descent, Jerry hands me a tube of energy gel and tells me to have some. Then he hands me his water bottle and tells me to drink. As we descend, I realize I have become “that person” who shouldn’t be where I am. Jerry’s prime directive now is to get this American woman safely off the mountain without having to call the search and rescue team. Even more unexpected, I embrace my new-found role of hapless, adventurer. I not only allow Jerry to tell me how to walk, where to sit, when to drink, and how to breath, but I welcome his direction.

Once down and back in the green lush grass I eyed lustfully from above, I realize that the walk is far from over. I now must traverse the bog again all the way back to the road. There are several times while extracting my jelly like legs from the earth’s grip that I want to sit down and cry. I do bitch and I do moan. But it is with a small degree of pride that I say: I did not cry. 

Much to my surprise, the group is all still waiting for Jerry and me back at the cars. We spotted them crossing the last bit of bog below us while we were still up on the rock. I know they were waiting at least forty minutes for us, but no one complains. Instead, they greet us warmly then we all drive to a nearby pub to talk about our day. Upon arriving at the pub, I re-introduce myself to the others as, “that American woman,” and we all have a good laugh.

Immersive Theater and My Blind Date

Recently, I did some immersive theater for my first time. It was an experience that I am still processing. If you’re like I was a few short weeks ago, and aren’t too sure what the heck immersive theater is, your first clue lies in my initial sentence: I did some. I didn’t watch or, go see. I did it. And therein lies the power of this format. It engages every fiber of one’s consciousness. You become part of the story. Where it goes. How it ends. All the while, there is another living, breathing, sentient being right there with you, creating/sharing/living the same story with you.

That’s some powerful stuff there.

The format of my experience was that, I was being set-up on a blind date. I understood when I bought my ticket where and when it would take place, and that I would receive a series of text messages instructing me how to meet up. I was to respond to the situation as my true self. As promised, the night before my scheduled blind date, I received my first text. True to real life, I was both relieved and filled with anxiety when Tailor finally texted. He/she (still gender neutral at this point) simply reminded me of the location (Museum of Contemporary Art) and the time (12:30 pm). No preamble. No hint as to his/her character.  Just confirming.

And so the story began…

About an hour before our meet up time, I got another text saying they had arrived early and already bought my museum ticket. I was instructed to tell the front desk upon my arrival that, “Tailor already paid for me.” Once inside, I texted again, and was told where to find them.

“Second floor. Near the neon paintings. I’m wearing a blue dress,” Tailor informed me. Ah! Finally! Some information about my story: I was being set-up to meet another woman! I could hear the file drawers of options that had been playing in my head re how this all might go down, do a fast and furious reshuffle.

Our date was fun and insightful, gut wrenching and lighthearted, all at the same time. She shared one of her favorite songs with me outside on a balcony, me wearing the right earbud while she held the left to her ear. We shared truths. We laughed. We hugged. We cried. We formed a bond.

And then, poof!  It was over.

Kinda surreal, you know?

So, yeah. I did some immersive theater a few days ago.

Would I do it again?

In a heartbeat.

Note: Blind Date is one of three immersive theater themes currently being offered by the Denver Center for Performing Arts.

While Driving North on Federal Boulevard

Driving north on Federal, or east on 38th, or along Speer, or any where in North Denver is like pushing the rewind button in my head.The chronicity of events is all blended together as I drive through certain intersections, or pass by certain buildings, or see certain places:

 
That is where we waited in the car while Mom went inside to get the restraining order. That’s the basement where Paul Smith lived. Over there is where I let Bobby McFadden feel inside my bra. We drank Cynthia Caranza’s stolen rum here. We smoked Dave Sullivan’s weed there. There's the lot where those two guys grabbed me that one time. There’s the church where I first spoke in tongues.

I slept on the back porch of that house with white awnings on Shoshone Street, thinking my sister Nancy still lived there. 
She moved to Omaha by then, but I didn’t know it. 
Her house was vacant, but I didn’t know it. 

I remember nearly every little shit-hole place my oldest sister Nancy ever rented. Her revolving door of places she called home were often my safe haven from the anger and violence that permeated my own home. 

I remember events from grade school side by side with events as a young adult. That’s where I fell off my bike and got my first concussion. That’s where I got my first period. That’s where we buried our cat. That’s where I hid after I called the cops on Dad. That’s the store where I got caught trying to steal yeast infection medicine. The security guy searched my backpack then, once he found what it was I took, let me go home saying, "I think you forgot to pay for this."That’s the alley where they found Jayne’s strangled body. Over on either side of that hill is my old Rocky Mountain News paper route. I delivered forty-two newspapers, six days a week for over two years to my neighbors living on the west side of Wyandot, three blocks west, to the east side of Beach Court. The paper even ran a human interest story about me, complete with a photograph of me on my bike, and everything. But that newspaper clipping, along with all of our other belongings were stolen in one swift haul when someone backed up their truck to Nancy’s garage on Shoshone Street and emptied it out. 

All of our clothes, furniture, small appliances, photographs - - and newspaper clippings - - that we stored in that garage while we were between homes was all taken. It was like losing our history. No old photographs, no scrapbooks, diaries, or mementos of anything prior to this theft exist. My past exists primarily through oral history. And this history is triggered each time I drive down Federal, or along Speer, or west on 38th Avenue... A cacophony of memories assault me.

Sorting through this noise is like picking up the contents of a box full of old photographs someone turned over on the ground. The difference being that, photographs usually capture, store and help recall special memories. The good times.

But my mental barrage of memories is mostly of the darker events. Moments when I felt alone, confused and or frightened. The rush of cortisol that filled my veins back then so I could survive those times now hold me captive. And, how distorted is this memory of mine? I recall these memories through the filter of who I was when they transpired. Not as I am now. Much of what I think I recall, makes little sense to me now. Am I forgetting a detail? Did I not know something then that I know now? How to turn off this noise? How to feel differently about these darker moments? The more I think I recall, the more I wonder what is really my truth? 

Some days, I want to wrestle with the noise; unravel the memory; reveal a true truth.

But most days all of this noise only makes me want to move to someplace new and different.

23rd and Irving

I was fifteen when I walked early one fall evening to my friend, Charlotte’s, house. Puberty had taken over my body seemingly overnight. In a matter of months my breasts ballooned from an A to nearly a D cup. I was not accustomed to my new body. I was even less accustomed to the attention my mammary glands now bestowed upon me. Unknown men in cars now honked and yelled words about my breasts. Boys sat behind me in class so they could pop my bra straps. One boy got a quarter from the other boys for each time he successfully copped a full-hand feel of my breasts while I walked down the hallway. My button down shirts no longer buttoned. Even my girlfriends teased me about my copious breasts.

But that evening, the boys who called out to me from across the street didn’t say anything about my boobs. They crossed 23rd Avenue to walk with me. They said they went to the same school as me. And they may have, although I questioned if the younger of the two was old enough to be in high school yet. They joked with me about something or other. They asked me where I was going. I kept it vague. “To a friend’s,” I said. I was getting comfortable walking with these two, and even a little grateful for the company, when it happened. As we approached a vacant lot on Irving and 23rd, the larger boy stepped behind me and grabbed me by my crotch, lifting me up off the ground and started carrying me into the vacant lot. I was so surprised. It took a few steps before I began to squirm and object and try to wrestle free. The other boy grabbed at my flailing arms trying to contain them. “Put me down.” “Let go of me.” “Stop,” I said over and over and over.

Once in the tall weeds of the vacant lot, they began to force me down to the ground. I could, maybe, wrestle myself away from one of them, but having the two of them working together, I felt my ability to control what was happening slip away.  (When processing this later, it seemed to me that this wasn’t the first time these two had done something like this. They had too much of an unspoken system already worked out between them.)

What happened next surprised even me. What happened next is that I screamed. But it wasn’t my scream that surprised these boys. They were ready with a hand to muffle me. But it was the words that I screamed, I believe, that surprised them. I screamed the most unexpected nine words ever to come out of my mouth. I never said them before, nor I have said these words since. But I don’t want what I screamed to detract from the point of why I am finally writing down this event. I screamed these unexpected words, and the boys both let go of their hold on me, and ran away.

There I was. In the dirt. In the dark. About eight blocks from home. What did I do next?

I got up, brushed myself off, and continued walking to Charlotte’s.  

I guess I was stunned. I didn’t know what to call what had just happened to me. I understood rape at the time to mean when a man unknown to a woman forces his penis inside her vagina. That clearly had not happened in this instance. And, I didn’t get hurt. I mean, there were no marks or bruises. Now, some 46 years later, I realize I was hurt - - but not in a physical way.

I continued on to Charlotte’s, where after several minutes of usual teenage girl chit chat, I confided in her what happened on my way to her house. Charlotte’s face grew serious. I was grateful for that, because I hoped it meant she understood the fear I starting to feel. Then she asked me in a low, hushed tone, “Did they touch you? You know, down there?” Her face looked a little horrified. I wanted to soothe her concerns. “No," I said. "Not directly. Just over my clothes.” Such a look of relief Charlotte had when I reassured her that my vagina remained untouched. “We should tell George,” Charlotte said next. George was her older brother. He drove a car, had a job, and was regarded as a stand-up kind of guy in the 'hood. I was both willing and unwilling to share my story with George. Willing, in case he wanted to defend my virtue. Unwilling, if it meant he might think less of me. But, in the end, I did tell George. After hearing my story, George sat pensive, looking down at his hands for a long while. Finally he spoke. “Why were you out walking after dark all by yourself, Patty?” he asked.

I was crushed. It had been my fault! Poor judgement on my part. Foolish risk taking. And this sense of shame stayed with me. I haven’t told more than two or three people since about this event. I can go weeks, even months without thinking about this night. But every time I find myself on the corner of 23rd and Irving, and see the small flower garden behind the wrought iron fence that has since replaced the vacant lot, all the details about that night come rushing in.  

Every. Single. Time.

Adventures While Camping Solo

I recently found myself camping in bear country. Alone in a canyon with just my dog
and a small air horn that I bring for emotional protection. After a series
of campsites flooded with people, I was happy to find this empty site located alongside
a babbling creek a few miles up a canyon off a gravel road. Zoey (dog) and I arrived in

early afternoon just as a mountain rainstorm began to descend upon us. We sat in the
van, me eating my chicken salad and Zoey wishing I'd share, waiting for the rain to
stop. Once it did, we set up our camping spot in quick order, explored a path as far as
it would go in one direction and then back to the van. Not another vehicle passed on
the road. No other camper arrived to share our large group site. It was only 3 pm - -
still hours before dark - - and we were already quite bored. I decided to head back to
town for a quick tour of its cemetery, and to pick up a bottle of tequila.

A few hours later, back at our solitary campsite, I sipped on the tequila as I prepared
and ate my evening meal. After dinner, I took a couple more sips of the tequila and
was enjoying its warmth ooze through my veins when I noticed the scratches.

Tell tale vertical scratches on the trees. Bear scratches. Fresh bear scratches. The
bark was shredded in places well above my head. The nail marks left deep grooves in
the tree's soft exposed flesh. A large bear, no doubt.

"Oh sh*!" was my first tequila-clouded thought. It was almost dark and my brain was
racing. What to do? What to do?! Somehow I extracted from my foggy memory a host
of bear safety skills. I put all food, cooking gear and the clothes I had worn to cook in,
inside a two man tent I had brought along, "just in case". Then, I set the ice chest
outside of the tent, and rigged it with every metal pan or chair I had so I'd hear the
clanging of an intruding bear. Next, I moved the van, where Zoey and I planned to sleep,
to the furthest end of the campsite and turned it around so I could shine the headlights
on the offending bears as they crashed and clanged their way into the ice chest and
nylon tent.

Then it was time for bed. I carefully stowed my glasses in the center compartment. I kept
the airhorn within easy reach. I studied one last time the exit path I would need to navigate
in the dark to reach the road. I hung the van's keys on the turn signal. And then I laid down
to sleep.

Or not.

Images of a large ban of marauding bears kept sleep at bay for most of the night. When
I looked at the clock for the 100th time and saw it was nearly sunrise, such a sense of relief
washed over me. I was still alive and our campsite intact.

This event became a metaphor for me. This isn't the first time I've turned an idyllic scene
complete with babbling creek, into a band of marauding bears. How often am I afraid of what
might happen? How often do I have the skills to navigate a potential hazard, but then doubt
my own abilities?

Yet, in this instance, I put together a plan. And executed it. And, for all intents and purposes,
I survived. Maybe not as gracefully or as confidently as I might've liked. But I didn't go back to town looking for a motel room. Good for me.

Anticipation

I am filled with a sensation not familiar to me - - anticipation.  
I wonder why that is.

I am more familiar with dread. Or to brace myself. Dig in deep. Hang on. 

But anticipation evokes a more positive sensation. It's almost excitement. 

Almost.

I am beginning a new chapter of my life. Early retirement. My only poorly formed plan for how I might spend this time is about to unfold. I intend to travel. Road trips. With my dog, Zoey.

To that end, I have purchased a small cargo van that I intend to live from while on the road. I promised myself that I'd hit the road by 1st day of spring. I have campground reservations for March 22 - 25.  I'm doing it.

We are doing this.  Me and Zoey.
And the unfolding of these long laid plans has filled me with such 
anticipation. Luscious, life-affirming, terrifying and oh-so-welcome anticipation.

I have no idea what we might find or what might happen while on the road. 
And, for the first time in a long, long time, I'm okay with that.

The Dance of Anger (excerpts from book by Harriet Lerner)

subtitle: A woman's guide to changing the patterns of intimate relationships

Anger is something we feel. It exists for a reason.
Ask: What am I really angry about?

If feeling angry signals a problem, venting anger does not solve it. Venting anger may serve to maintain, and even rigidify, the old rules and patterns in a relationship, thus ensuring that change does not occur.

Those of us locked in ineffective expressions of anger suffer as deeply as those who dare not get angry at all.

We cannot make another person change his or her steps to an old dance, but if we change our own steps, the dance can no longer continue in the same predictable manner.

Many of our problems with anger occur when we choose between having a relationship and having a self. This book is about having both.