the experiment: Sunday Scribblings

Two weeks ago the hills were crazy with the brilliant spring green that late winter rains bring to the desert. By this morning, the green had dulled to a mid-summer kind of rich olive. It won't last long, this lushness. I needed to get out in it. I needed to walk. I needed to have a conversation with God, or myself, or maybe just the hills.

This is what played in my head as I walked. I was in a kayak... I am always in a kayak. The kayak is red, and yes, it is always red. And I am stuck in this danged eddy, turning round and round. I can see the river flowing by, people in other boats heading down the current having the time of their lives, but I am not going with them. I am not where I think I want to be, but I'm not doing much to get there either.

So as I mentally spin round and round I ask, as I have done before, for a sign... just a small one. Some clue as to what I should do next. Julia Cameron in Finding Water says to do the next tiny thing, but I feel dizzy and unbalanced. Lately, all I know to do is to stay in one place. Any other action feels random and haphazard.

Then I think of the paper scrap I came across the other day. The one where I had written, 'Where shall I look? Here.' And I work at dragging myself back to the present, to the trail, the first lizard of the season, the flowers, and I hear trail runners coming up behind me. I step to the side to let them by and notice the runner to the rear has a dog with her. As they go by I see the dog is missing a back leg. "Good morning," I say and then looking down at the dog, say "Good for him." The woman responds in kind, and I wonder if this is my sign.

A three-legged dog was running the trail more sure footedly than I could.

I often think of experiment, of leaning out of my comfort zone, of just seeing what happens as something I need to do over there... where the grass is greener, where all the other kayakers are paddling the river... but today I think I need to learn a lesson from that dog and just put my head down and keep an eye on the trail ahead of me.