The Year of the Real continues. We’re not even out of January and I already have a form of psychological whiplash, though I’m trying to look at it like the Very Large Unpleasant Thing was a wicket to run through, or a struggling out of a chrysalis, or a phoenix burning down in order to burst into fresh flame–you get the idea. An uncomfortable necessity, a forging to make me stronger even if I would prefer something a little less, uh, red-hot and hammer-y.
My second husband had a theory of enlightenment–he had theories for everything, naturally, it was part of his charm and his downfall, but I digress. “There’s two paths,” he would say. “One switchbacks up the mountain, where you get the howling wind, the falling rocks, the avalanches, the lessons administered time and again. That’s how most poor motherfuckers do it.”
“Heard of that one,” I’d say. “What’s the other?” I rarely minded playing the straight man to his comedian. Part of my charm and downfall, I suppose.
“Well, the other starts in the parking lot. It’s a big lightning rod that goes straight up, all the way to the peak, and there’s a forest of warning signs around it saying DO NOT LICK.”
At that point, I’d repeat what I said the first time he ever expounded upon this theory in my presence. “That sounds more efficient. Where do I sign up?”
Ninety-nine percent of the time, that did him in. He’d laugh until tears streamed down his face, and I’d be pleased to have done my part. The one percent it didn’t was the first time, when he stopped and gazed at me for several seconds, brow furrowed, and finally said, “You know, that doesn’t surprise me at all, babe.” (And then began to laugh.) It was somewhat of a mystery to him, how I didn’t mind the pain all compressed into a few blinding instants if it got me up the goddamn mountain. I was equally mystified by his apparent pleasure in switchbacks and frostbite.
He was about the journey, I was about getting the bitch to Mount Doom. For a long while our relationship worked because of those contrasting commitments. It failed for other reasons, certainly, but I still remember the parts which didn’t rather fondly. And that image–the different ways to enlightenment–has stuck with me ever since.
Even people who leave one’s life change one somewhat. Getting older hopefully means putting uncomfortable changes in proper perspective, and thankfully that process gets easier once one has some Life Experience socked under the mattress. Which could be an argument for the switchblade route, I know.
But I’ve always been a lightning rod girl. So I’m choosing to view the recent unpleasantness as one of my trademark tongue-stuck-to-electrified-metal moments.
Of course the joke is really on both of us. Once the peak is reached, one gets a better view…and discovers that there’s an infinity of mountains, each higher than the last, each with a path (or two, or fifty) and a lightning rod festooned with warning signs in the parking lot. Sure, nirvana probably arrives once one gets rid of the mountains or realizes they’re all in one’s mind, et cetera, but I like learning new things even when the lesson is somewhat painful. And I already committed to sticking around until all other beings get through that particular door first, since the universe interests me and (more importantly) I’m not leaving anyone behind in this mess.
Not if I can help it. Enlightenment’s rather useless, after all, unless one helps others up the mountain–in whatever way they prefer. I do tend to discourage the lightning-rod method, but the sort of people who choose it aren’t the type to be discouraged by my warnings. (Guess how I know.)
So I hit the lightning again, pick myself up on the peak, shaking my head and frowning at the crisped bits in my hair. Stagger away from the pieces of chrysalis, my wings drying to catch the wind afresh. Sing while I scrape the ashen remnants of my old self into an egg of myrrh, and feel the fresh fire in my vitals. Shift my grip on the croquet mallet and eye the next wicket, not worrying about how far into the weeds I’ve been sent.
Pretty soon I’ll arrive in another parking lot, and I might take the switchback route next time…
…oh, hell, who am I kidding? We all know what I’m gonna do.
See you at the top, my beloveds.