It Hurts To Breathe (There, I Said It)

On days like yesterday, I do my best.  I get up, shower, get dressed, force myself to eat, and beg myself to act normal, be normal.  I drag myself to school, to work, to wherever I am expected to be and tell myself, “You can do this.  I know you can do this.”  I take deep breaths and try to ignore my heart thumping hard against my chest like a metal fist telling me to “go home, go home, go back to bed.”  I fight the urge to go back to bed because I’ve been here before and I know that one day in bed might lead to two, three, ten. I’ve been here before and have clawed my way back out of this bottomless pit, digging my nails into the swampy earth, my whole body burning with the effort of it, fighting against the force of gravity pulling me down, down, down to the darkness below.  I know how easy it would be to lock the doors, draw the blinds, turn off the lights, and let myself become a permanent fixture of this very room, motionless and numb.

If I go back to bed, it wins.  “It” – the monster that lives and grows and breeds inside of me.  It is always there, hovering below the surface of my consciousness, breathing its feverish breath down my neck, waiting for the right moment to spew its poison all over my world, its thick black ink staining everything in sight.  It’s always there – like a blemish nobody can see but me – though I’ve become a master at pretending it isn’t.

There is shame in admitting any of this – admitting that I struggle with mental health issues and admitting that I pretend I don’t.  But there is a stigma attached to mental illness that, even in this day and age, makes it nearly impossible not to lie about it.  What are you supposed to say when someone asks how you are?  How do you answer the question, “How was your weekend?”  And what excuse do you give for calling in sick, for missing classes, for bailing on your friend’s birthday party last Friday?

I’ve said things like, “I have a really bad sore throat and think I’m getting sick.”  I’ve said things like, “I just developed the most painful migraine and I need to stay home.”  I’ve said things like, “I have way too much studying to do.”  I’ve said things like, “My family’s in town and I need to spend time with them.”

I don’t think I’ve ever said, “I’m anxious.  I’m depressed.  It hurts to breathe.”

There is shame, for me, on another level as well.  As a practitioner of Chinese Medicine, am I not supposed to know how to deal with mental health issues?  Am I not supposed to be the hand my patients hold as they travel their own healing journeys?   Am I not supposed to help others find their voice, heal their bodies and minds, and speak their truth?

“Healer, heal thyself,” right?

Right, of course.  But here’s the thing with anxiety and depression:  When they appear, everything else disappears.  The books I’ve read, the things I’ve learned, the tips that have been passed down by wise and worldly teachers – all of it sinks to the very bottom of the murky waters that have invaded my mind. The formulas for wellness that I know so well rearrange themselves in a sort of gibberish.  The very thought of trying to remember what steps need to be taken drains my already leaky reservoirs of energy and I am left in my bed, in the dark, as I had feared.

On days like yesterday – days I call my “rock bottom,” the crash that always happens after the weeks or months of surviving panic attack after panic attack – I feel weak, embarrassed, inadequate.  More than anything, I feel disappointed in myself.  Disappointed to find myself here, again, after years of battling the same demons. I feel like I have taken ten steps backwards.  

But on days like today, I make myself remember that there is no such thing as going backwards.  The very act of living is a perpetual forward flow.  These struggles that seem to be pulling us back are in fact pushing us ahead in our own unfolding, our own expansion into the unique human beings we are meant to become in this lifetime.  

In the calm after the seemingly never-ending storm, there are things I tell myself.  They are the same things I would tell my patients.  Things like:

• Stop calling your anxiety a “monster.”  It is not a monster, but simply a manifestation of years of accumulated struggles and stresses that contains, within it, important messages for your own healing and growth.
• Don't feed the panic.  Panic attacks are time-limited and if you can recognize and label the symptoms of panic as they arise, most of the adrenaline will be reabsorbed in three to five minutes and the scary symptoms will subside.
• Respect your exhaustion.  Rest when you need to.  It’s ok to miss work or skip classes in order to practice self-care.  Sleep in, cancel your plans, and don’t feel guilty about it.
• Acknowledge the emotions that need to be felt. Don’t judge them or push them aside or tell them they’re unimportant.  Taste them, chew them, swallow them, stomach them, and let them go – just as you would a piece of unfamiliar food with a taste that doesn’t appeal to you, but with health benefits that you know are worth the effort.
• Talk to someone.  Reach out and ask for help.  It’s important to talk, to get thoughts and feelings out of your body, to allow someone to gently guide you to a place of peace.
• Find those things you love, those things that bring you joy or make you laugh or simply make you feel calm and grounded and keep them close at hand - an arsenal to help you survive the toughest times. 

For me, writing helps.  Even now, as I type these words, I notice that I feel lighter than I did a few hours ago and certainly much lighter than I did yesterday, or than I have for the past few weeks.  Tea helps.  Breathing helps.  A text from a friend that reads, “I love you Vicki” helps. Reading Pema Chodron helps.  Stretching helps. Crying my heart out helps.  Hugging my cats helps.  Knowing my guy will be home soon with his big arms around me helps.  Taking a bath helps.

What helps most of all, though, is the being here, the surrendering to the present, the acceptance of what is and the letting go of trying to change that.  We, human beings, have a bad habit of trying to take the unpleasant, the difficult, the painful, the sad and mold it into something else, something prettier, easier, more palatable.  We are so uncomfortable with feeling “not ok” that we are quick to reach for the nearest distraction – the bottle, the remote control, the cigarette, the meds – in an attempt to fill ourselves up, to alter our thoughts, to dull the ache throbbing in our bones.  We want stability, damnit!  We want the ground to stop shifting, the floor to stop tilting, we want our thoughts and feelings to align perfectly with our current reality so that we can feel calm and comfortable within our own skin.

But peace, we must understand, isn’t found in stability; it is found in our ability to accept the unstable quality of life itself.  Life is change. Life is movement. It is a perpetual fluctuation of highs and lows, births and deaths, growth and decline.  The Earth never stops spinning – and if it did, we would all be in very big trouble.

Finding peace comes from being ok with being not ok, from accepting the inner and outer movements that cause us to lose our grip.   Peace comes when we stop fighting with the very processes of life itself and, instead, embrace the mess we find ourselves in, knowing that this mess shall eventually pass and another mess shall replace it. 

In her brilliant book, When Things Fall Apart:  Heart Advice for Difficult Times, Buddhist nun Pema Chodron writes:

“We think that the point is to pass the test or overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don't really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It's just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy. ”

On days like yesterday, I forget all of this.  I become so caught up in the falling apart, I forget that the coming together is right around the corner.

But on days like today, I sit here, grounded in my own groundlessness, anchored within the unanchored.  I know I must be loving and gentle with myself, just as I would tell my patients to be loving and gentle with themselves.  I must trust that things falling apart is not a reflection of my own weakness or failure; that it is, in fact, exactly what I need at this moment in time. 

I tell myself to “be here, feel this, know that it will pass.”  I rest.  I reflect on the journey I have been on and am grateful for the progress that has been made, the healing that has already taken place.  I feel my heart beating in my chest, its rhythm no longer erratic, but soft, kind, compassionate.  I know I am on the verge of being ok, of greeting a new day, of standing again on solid ground - at least for a little while.  

Little Me

It is 10:30pm, on the eve on my 32nd birthday.  I just stumbled across a photo of myself at  3 years old and was struck by how big and bright my eyes were as a child - thirsty, it seems, for seeing the unseen and knowing the unknowable. In the photo, I am looking up towards an imagined sun, or moon, or shooting star - eyes wide open, ready to soak up the magic, the brilliance, the light, the good. I am so young, so “new," a part of this world, yet tethered to heaven - as ethereal as the rose I hold in my stubby little fingers. 

This little me has not yet been touched by the precariousness of growing up. She wakes each day with unwavering faith, trusting her mighty imagination, ready for the next great adventure in Cabbage Patch Land.  She loves to colour and play dress-up and feed Grandpa's chipmunks.  She receives plenty of hugs and Mama-kisses and is as free and as gutsy as she ever will be.

I am overcome with the irrepressible urge to warn this little me - to tell her that life is going to get very rocky at times, to inform her that Cabbage Patch Land won’t last forever.  I want to urge her to savour these years of being 3, of being 5, of being 6 years old.  I want to build her a suit of armour to protect her from the blows to come.  I want to shield her eyes from the ugly, her heart from the cruel, her sensitive soul from the unkind. I want to teach her about betrayal and fear and intense loneliness, so that she may be well-equipped to deal with these monsters lurking in her not-so-distant future. I want to prepare her for the firsts:  first love, first loss, first hurt, first moment of inconceivable courage.  I want to hold her tight.

I know, even as I write these words, that she does not need me to protect her.  She is a smart little girl and she will navigate her way just fine.  She may be small, but she is tough, and she possesses that special childhood wisdom that adults spend most of their lives trying to reclaim. She does not need me to guide her at all; in fact, it is I who needs her.

She lives within me, this little one.  I feel her everyday.  She is that part of me that refuses to be hardened by the harshness of the world.  She is that part of me that cries for hurt animals and has whole conversations with trees. She is that part of me that delights in butterflies and trusts strangers and hurries outside to stare at the sky when rainbows make themselves known. She is that part of me that never even thinks about giving up.  She is the most tender and the most fierce part of me.

I am blessed to know her, to BE her.  When I look at my life - at the choices I’ve made, the people I’ve loved, the relationships I’ve built, the career path I’ve chosen - I am filled up to the brim with gratitude for the little me who lives inside of the bigger me.  It is she who has guided my choices, she who has kicked me in the ribs when I have been foolishly naive and on the verge of making a big mistake, she who has whispered soft, sweet truths in my ear, she who has reassured me of the resilience of my spirit when I thought I may have lost it.

The child who lives inside of me - just like the child who lives inside of you - is the wisdom keeper and the overseer.  She is the compass that orients us when the territory becomes blurred, the unseen angel that guides us when the hurdles reach new heights, the mastermind behind the dream that lingers in the morning, offering sacred answers to our most burning questions.  She is the constant in the inconsistent, the knowing in the belly, the light in the eyes.

When we pause and listen, we can hear them - the little people we once were. They exist underneath all of our acquired layers and adopted roles.  They are there, wanting to play and laugh and sing and dance, to revel in the joy that comes simply from being alive.

On this - the eve of my 32nd birthday - I pause, I listen, I say thank you.  I give myself a little hug and vow to keep going - to keep riding the waves, braving the storms, boldly facing the difficult moments with grit and grace.

I vow to be kind and just and gentle, to protect the planet through my words and my actions, to fight for the oceans and the glorious beings who inhabit them.  I vow to speak up, speak out, speak well.  I vow to explore with the curiosity and open-heartedness of a 3 year-old, to leave smiles in my wake, to make this world a little bit shinier than it was when I got here. 

I vow to do this not because it is the “right” thing to do, but because I understand what a privilege it is to be here, what a gift it is to breathe in, breathe out, and breathe in again.  I understand what a miracle it is to have a heart and a voice.

I vow to do this, more than anything, for the little girl who lives inside of me because she deserves it.  She deserves to grow into a woman she is proud to be.

Happy Birthday to us.

The Dixie Diaries: Day 5

April 20, 2012:  Morning at Goulding's, Monument Valley, Delicate Arch

At Goulding’s it is easy to forget about everything but the here and now.  

We watch the sun rise, not over a canyon this time, but over a desert, a flat piece of red earth sprinkled with massive protruding rock structures.  It is perfect:  the warmth on my skin, the birds chirping the brand new day into being.  I close my eyes and meditate.  It does not take me long to reach that place of tranquility, where the inner workings of my own mind are gently held up to the light.

We linger at our cabin for as long as we can, checking out at 11am, and after exploring the Goulding’s Museum (Goulding’s has a rich and fascinating history) we set out for our driving tour of Monument Valley, a tour that thrusts us into desert heat and rock-formed monstrosities that reach for the sky with primordial fingers.

Dixie proves to be tougher than she looks, navigating the rough terrain, creating micro dust storms on the trail.  Immersed in this place unlike any other place we have ever seen, we gawk at the monuments and their distorted shapes as we breathe in particles of dust and feel our skin thicken under a layer of sweat and sand.

Tangle-haired and rosy-cheeked, we then make our way North, headed towards the Arches National Park in Utah, a last-minute addition to our trip itinerary.  The drive to the Arches is incredible, leading us along a road called the Scenic Byway because of the varied scenes of astonishing beauty that greet us at every twist and turn. 

We stop for lunch in the small town of Monticello and meet Sierra, a young waitress and single mother who is eager to please and to share advice about the best places to see in Utah (the state she has lived in all of her life, never leaving except for a few trips to Dallas to visit her father.)  We are reminded of how lucky we are to be free enough and young enough and healthy enough to be road tripping like this.  Not everyone has the opportunity, or will ever have the opportunity, to do as we are doing now.

After driving for a total of about three hours, we arrive at the Arches just as the sun has begun its western descent.  In an attempt to get a glimpse of the sun setting over Delicate Arch – a sight strongly recommended by our Guidebook and various other sources – we park the car in the lot closest to the Arch and make a mad dash for it.  We run uphill, blind to the scenery around us, following the signs to Delicate Arch, stopping for nothing or no one, short on breath but big on resolve.

With sweat dripping down our bodies and thigh muscles throbbing in pain, we make it to the Delicate Arch viewing site, but the sun has already slipped too far down and its rays are illuminating not the Arch itself, but the other structures beside it.  I make my way down some rocky terrain, find a nice place to sit, and as the declining light drapes the place in soft shadows, I know that there is a lesson in this:  Open your eyes Vicki.  See what is right in front of you. 

What is right in front of me is the world of Edward Abbey, author of my beloved Desert Solitaire.  He lived in this park for years, working as a Park Ranger and writing passionately about the desert, the arches, the life and lack of life in these arid parts.  I feel his spirit and hear his words.  They are sacred echoes, softly reverberating between sand and sky, enfolding this very moment in mystery and wonder.

"A weird, lovely, fantastic object out of nature like Delicate Arch has the curious ability to remind us - like rock and sunlight and wind and wilderness - that out there is a different world, older and greater and deeper by far than ours, a world which surrounds and sustains the little world of men as sea and sky surround and sustain a ship.  The shock of the real.  For a little while we are again able to see, as the chid sees, a world of marvels. For a few moments we discover that nothing can be taken for granted, for if this ring of stone is marvelous then all which shaped it is marvelous, and our journey here on earth, able to see and touch and hear in the midst of tangible and mysterious things-in-themselves, is the most strange and daring of all adventures." (Edward Abbey)

When the light is almost completely gone, we make our way back towards Dixie, walking slowly this time, taking in our surroundings.  The desert changes, yet again, into a scene of muted pinks, purples, and greens and I am reminded of the film What Dreams May Come, in which the protagonist (Robin Williams) dies and finds himself in a heaven that is the manifestation of his favourite painting.

“It feels like time is on pause,” says L, in that quiet way of hers that pins you to the moment, makes you be fully there, fully aware.

(Will the beauty never end?  How much beauty can two people take on a 10-day road trip?)

In the charming town of Moab, we check into the Lazy Lizard Hostel ($11 per night per person) and, after chatting with Charles and Nico, two French boys on an adventure of their own, we go to bed, lulled to sleep by pastel desert landscapes lingering in our minds like impressions pressed into skin.

The Dixie Diaries: Day 4

April 19, 2012:  Grand Canyon Sunrise, Monument Valley Sunset

Up at 3am, on the road by 3:30, eyes burning in the dark night, straining to see the deer feeding on both sides of the road.  L drives Dixie and I keep watch, muttering and pointing, every few minutes, “Deer over here.  Deer over here.  Deer over here.”   It is a stressful ride and, by the time we reach the Canyon’s south rim, even tree stumps, clusters of rocks, and tuffets of grass have morphed into deer shapes.

A faint yellow tint has just begun to peak out over the horizon when we join the other few undaunted souls at Yavapai Point.

Here we are, strangers and friends, huddled together on the edge of a precipice in the gray interval that separates night and day, shivering under our layers of clothing, braving the cold and the wind, for a chance to see the sun ascend over the jagged ridges of the Canyon on which we now stand.  We have dragged ourselves out of comfy beds and assembled in a place as inhospitable as it is grand and this experience makes of us instant companions on a shared quest for light.

We have come here to greet the sun, yes, but I feel we have also come here to greet ourselves – to remind ourselves of the golden glow that shines within our own hearts and to acknowledge the miraculous that permeates our very existence in this world.  It is important to remember that the sun – this same sun – has risen every day of our lives and will continue to rise long after we are gone.  Though the Canyon provides a striking setting for this remarkable light show, the show itself is always remarkable, whether observed by human eyes or not, whether taking place over a Canyon in Arizona, a wheat field in Saskatchewan, or any bustling city.  Every morning, a miracle takes place.

We turn our sleep-creased faces upwards and watch as the faint yellow hue gradually transforms into darker yellow and, then, into a bright, blinding orange light that explodes from behind the big, billowy cloud resting in the eastern sky, pouring forth in brilliant beams, making the reds, purples, blues, and greens of the rock face shimmer to life.

We are struck, once again, by the sheer magnitude of this place.  We walk along the ridge, warming up a little, snapping pictures that fail miserably to capture the dawn’s ethereal glow.

After some time, we return to the car, drive to a semi-deserted parking lot, turn on the heat, strip off a few layers, and sleep.

We wake more than an hour later, slightly rested and better ready to tackle the day.  After more panoramas, a film about the history of the Canyon, and the difficult task of saying “goodbye,” we get back into Dixie and hit the open road, heading East, towards Monument Valley.

We drag out our Canyon farewell by stopping at various lookout points along the road and basking in the splendour of it all.  We travel down a highway that allows us to observe the deep, ragged gorges in the valleys adorning the road and, again, we stop to take it all in.  We find ourselves at an outdoor market and buy jewelry from a pleasant Navajo woman who neither pesters nor pressures us, but smiles kindly, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

L drives and, when I feel somewhat certain that the best scenery has passed, I close my eyes and rest for a bit.  When I open them, I can tell that we are nearing Monument Valley for there are red, oddly shaped pillars protruding from the ground, transforming the landscape once again.

We pull into the driveway of Goulding’s Lodge, a lodge that seems to originate from the rock itself, and then proceed to our private cabin a few meters away, perfectly nestled amidst enormous boulders and sand the colour of cinnamon. It is the most stunning campground I have ever seen and it pulsates with the rhythm of the American Southwest.

At the sun begins its evening ritual, L puts on her beloved cowboy boots, which have been patiently waiting for this dusty moment for a long, long time.  We spend the evening sitting at the picnic table on our small front porch, sharing a tetra pak of Malbec and munching on crackers, carrots, hummus, and hard-boiled eggs. It is a light dinner, but we are not very hungry.  In fact, we have not been very hungry for the past three days, in spite of all our hiking and sweating.  I wonder about this and L says, “It’s because we are so full already” and I do believe she is right.  

Here, nourishment comes in the form of sunrises and sunsets, holes in the Earth that are miles deep and wide, open roads that lead us where we need to go, blackbirds gliding in the bluest sky, crimson sand embedding itself under our fingernails. 

Here, we survive mostly on water and wonderment. 

The Dixie Diaries: Day 3

April 18, 2012:  Grand Canyon

We wake from restful sleep and, after a quick hostel breakfast of instant oatmeal and orange, we are on the road again, bound for the Grand Canyon.  After driving for just over an hour and a half, we follow the signs to a large parking lot on the Canyon’s south rim, park Dixie for the day, and step into the cool morning breeze - a breeze we don’t mind as it makes the heat of the day more bearable.

It takes us awhile to orient ourselves and, though we know we are only steps away from the Canyon (the maps tell us so), we are, as of yet, untouched by its grandiosity and mostly concerned with eating enough food and transporting enough water on our hike down the South Kaibab Trail. 

We shuttle to a cafeteria, eat some greasy pizza (me) and some veggie chili (L) and fill our bottles with fresh spring water.  Then, before hitting the trail, we decide to take a peak at the Canyon itself.  It is better, we feel, to see the Canyon from above, to get a glimpse of the “big picture” before descending into its gaps and crevices and experiencing it from within.

We make our way to Mather Point, just a few steps away from the Visitor Center, anticipating something great (surely, the Grand Canyon is great) but unsure of what, exactly, awaits us.

One step, two steps, three steps, four…and then we are there, standing on one of the many edges of the Grand Canyon, looking out into a vast sea of peaks and valleys, limitless slopes and infinite gullies – a wilderness of rocks, chiseled and shaped over millions of years into the astonishing scene before us.

There are no words big enough to describe this, no way to properly verbalize the internal pirouettes taking place inside both of us.  “Oh my God” is repeated again and again as we scan the vista before us, feeling a hint of vertigo and lightheadedness. “It doesn’t even look real,” says L, in an enchanted voice reminiscent of childhood.

She is right.  It doesn’t look real.  It looks like a sweeping painting – a man-made fabrication, aimed at deceiving those souls foolish enough to think it true.  And it is impossible, we realize, to see the "big picture."  The Canyon can only be looked at in sections for it is too huge for human eyes (and, possibly, human hearts) to take in all at once.    We stand in awe, mouths gaping open, and snap pictures of each other, trying hard to smile through our feelings of disbelief and utter wonder.

After a time (hours?) of admiring the view (it is so much more than “a view”), we shake ourselves free of the Canyon’s mesmerizing pull and hop on the shuttle to the South Kaibab Trailhead.  Although some people choose to experience the Canyon from the many lookout points scattered for miles along various roads, we are determined to leave Dixie behind and to explore it on foot, to feel what it feels like to be inside of it, cradled in the belly of this colossal thing, place, being.

We hike.  From the South Kaibab Trailhead to Cedar Ridge – a hike of moderate difficulty, lasting between 3 to 5 hours (we do it in 4).  The hike thrusts us into a world of staggering beauty and, as the light starts to change in early-afternoon, the crests and ridges and colours become more distinct and real, less illusory, and all-the-more (if you can believe it) breathtaking.  We take off layers, put on hats, and trek along the unobstructed switchback.  The trail is not crowded, but we do cross paths with other hikers who smile a knowing smile, one that seems to say, “Just look at where we are right now.  Just look at where we are.”  And look we do, stopping every few minutes to breathe in the stunning landscape of which we are now a part.

At Cedar Ridge, we find a spot in which to sit, reflect, write, and have a little snack.  We do not talk much; this is not a place for talking.  It is a place for listening to the circling windsong and to the deepest silence I have ever known.

Blackbirds (ravens?) sweep and soar above and below us, their bodies gliding on the nothingness that is everything that separates the Canyon crags.  I am enthralled by these birds – by the effortless way they fall and rise again, carried on the wind, barely moving their wings.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Free is how I feel at this particular moment.  Free and young and in love and in awe, as well as very small (in size) and very big (in power), amidst the mighty rocks. 

After some time of quiet contemplation, the energy shifts and L and I both feel it is time to stand up again and make our way out of the Canyon.  Canyons, unlike mountains, require you to first hike down and then up and out, reversing the usual order of things.  Up and out we go, legs and lungs burning, propelled by the sun, the wind, the very spirit of the place.

At the top, we hug and the blackbirds swoop and swirl above us, as though they, too, are rejoicing in our hike.

The rest of the day consists of more mind-numbing vistas, of shared bewilderment, and of sunset viewing, through a cloudy sky, from Yavapai Point.

We drive back to our hostel, encounter some deer (elk?) along the road, and vow to get up in the middle of the night (in a few hours, actually) and make our way back to the Canyon for sunrise.

We fall into bed, I set my alarm for 2:50am, and before my eyes close I feel the weight of my heart inside my chest – it is so full, so satiated, pumping blood through my body, feeding my tired muscles, fuelling my wildest dreams.

The Dixie Diaries: Day 2

April 17, 2012:  Las Vegas to Flagstaff

Our morning is spent viewing Vegas from the top of the Stratosphere Tower (a perk of staying at the Stratosphere), followed by breakfast at Roxy’s Diner where they serve strawberries with pepper (surprisingly tasty).

We then hop into Dixie and happily cruise out of Sin City, towards the town of Flagstaff.  I drive.  It is my first drive in over a year and I am surprised at how good it feels to have my foot on the pedal and my hands on the wheel.

Music is played.  L’s “Arizona Road Trip Mix #1,” which has been waiting for years for this moment, is finally set free and Life is a Highway sets the tone for the rest of the day, the week, the entire rock and rollin’ trip.  During song #3 – Rod Stewart’s Forever Young – the combination of music, open road, friendship, and freedom hits me in the chest with a synergistic force that causes a burst of happiness to shoot up through my body and out my eyes, leaving tears in its wake. 

May the good Lord be with you


Down every road you roam


And may sunshine and happiness


Surround you when you're far from home


And may you grow to be proud


Dignified and true


And do unto others


As you'd have done to you


Be courageous and be brave


And in my heart you'll always stay


Forever young, forever young

Hoover Dam is our first pit stop – that man-made concrete creation in Boulder City, Nevada (at the Arizona border).  We park the car, admire the view, and though we know very little about the dam’s history, we are nonetheless able to appreciate its size and its beautiful setting. 

After stretching our legs and looking up at the sky, letting our skin tingle under the hot rays of the afternoon sun, we continue on our way and soon roll onto Route 66, the “Mother Road,” immortalized by Steinbeck as the “Road to Opportunity.”  There is something about this road, something un-nameable yet tangible and I feel it as soon as our wheels hit that well-worn asphalt which is bordered on each side by ever-changing scenes of red rock, desert shrubs, sun-bleached tufts of grass, and small bunny-like creatures scurrying away from our approaching vehicle.  It feels like we are alone on this road (a lot of the time, we are), alone in the world, two adventurous souls leaving familiarity behind, searching for nothing and everything, knowing the road will lead where we need to go, literally and figuratively.

We stop at an all-in-one gas station/souvenir shop/diner – one of those old, rusted-up places full of relics (an autographed Beatles photo hangs on the wall) and untold stories of days gone by.  My imagination thrusts me into this other world – I see tough-talking, beer-guzzling cowboys sitting in a booth, long-legged pretty girls in short skirts batting their eyelashes and whizzing around on roller-skates, Elvis crooning from the battered jukebox in the corner.  I feel the history of this place, of this road, and I drink it up, drop by precious drop, as though I am sipping on the untainted heartblood of America.

We drive into Williams as the setting sun drapes the town in dreamy hues.  We spend some time wandering up and down streets, breathing in the smell of BBQ, shopping for the best beef jerky, admiring the town’s oldest diner (complete with Cadillac and soda fountain), lost in the wild of the Wild West. 

After some time, we get back in our car and drive to Flagstaff, our home for the next two nights.  We settle into our quad at the Grand Canyon Hostel – a place filled with folks of all ages who have dirt on their hiking boots, sun on their cheeks, and wind in their hair.  We are a world away from the glitz and superficiality of Las Vegas and am glad to notice that here, amongst the earthy Canyon-seekers, I feel very much at home. 

After a late dinner and raspberry beer (for me) and red wine (for L) at a local brewery, we climb into our top bunks and whisper  “goodnights” that carry within them all the wonder of the day.  We have only been traveling for two days, but already we feel lighter, untethered from the routines of school and work and groceries and laundry, brimming with inspiration and bursting with joy.

The Dixie Diaries: Day 1

April 16, 2012:  Toronto to Las Vegas

We are two happy girls with stuffed backpacks, giddy voices, and wide eyes (very much awake for 8 in the morning) sitting on a Greyhound bus amidst a slew of colourful characters:  a bus driver with a tired grin and a kind word for all, a woman from Queen’s, New York who is enraptured by The Hunger Games, three young Mennonites in their customary garb who share a big thermos of water and a thick salami sandwich, a smiling Iranian man with a bounce in his step who is humiliated at the border because of an unidentified bottle of pills in his suitcase (I shoot disapproving looks at the officer who thinks it appropriate to demean this man by shouting at him to “shut up.”) 

At the airport, we sit, we read, we rest, we sleep.  When there is nothing to do but wait and nowhere to be but here – as is often the case in airports – it is easy to shift into stillness. I feel the shift happen as I turn the pages of Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire, a book given to me by L, to be read on this journey of ours which has only just begun, but yes oh yes it has begun and there is joy in the simple fact of knowing this.

We talk and laugh and marvel at the fact that “we are actually doing it!” No longer are we sitting in our apartments, jotting down ideas, checking prices, searching for accommodation, flipping through guidebooks, emailing back and forth, and dreaming the Arizona dream.  We are here, on the road, on our way.

I observe the people – all sorts of people going somewhere for some reason for some time.  I wish them happy travels and safe returns. 

Our first flight, from Buffalo to Cleveland, is a bumpy, scary ride, as if the sky is full of potholes and our small plane is hitting every one.  I clasp my hands together and pray (to God, to Grandpa, to Aunt Shirley, to Mémère, to Pépère, to anyone who will listen really) and ask that this plane please not crash, not now, not here.  If it is to crash, if that is indeed our fate, then please let it crash on the way back, after we have tasted the desert sun we have so lovingly and longingly prepared for.  We are white-knuckled and barely breathing when we hear the young boy behind us squeal in delight, “Whoaaaa…this plane is awesome!” he says, followed by, “It’s like a roller-coaster!”  We laugh and loosen our grips a little.  If this plane is to crash, let it be an awesome roller-coaster crash that makes our bellies tickle all the way down and may the last sound we hear be a child’s exhilarated cries.

We do not crash, we do not die, our remains are not to be fished out of Lake Erie, and our next plane (a smoother ride, infinitely less “awesome” for our young friend) carries us from Cleveland to Las Vegas, where there are slot machines even in the airport.  We wait a long time to pick up our car, a grey Nissan Sentra to which we will quickly become oddly attached and which we will, on Day 3, affectionately nickname "Dixie." With L behind the wheel, we make our way down “the strip” towards our room at the Stratosphere Hotel.

The ride down the strip both fascinates and disgusts me.  The bright neon signs and the showy hotels, so ornately designed and constructed, make my heart beat a little faster and I can feel the buzz of the place immediately infiltrate my mind and stimulate my senses in a way that is not altogether unpleasant.  But underneath this attraction is a deeper wisdom I am thankful for.  I feel as though I can see Vegas for what it is – a place where the American Dream is pushed to the extreme and where overindulgence is not only encouraged, but celebrated. Because of this ability to see the artifice, I can appreciate the artifice without being devoured by it.

We arrive at our hotel just after 1am local time (3am Toronto time). The friendly lady at the check-in counter upgrades our room to a suite and we make our way to the elevator in an exhausted, elated state. 

We jump into our beds, easing into the un-creased sheets and cloud-puff pillows, and in this razzle-dazzle land of make-believe and trickery, we drift off to sleep.