March 1980

It is quite interesting to reflect on how fluid the human mind is.

Ten years ago I vowed that I would never marry. Men did not disgust me, but it seemed an unnecessary contrivance. Now, I am happily married. Vic and I would be just as happy unmarried, I am sure. But the contrivance was necessary for family peace.

I had never planned on children. Now, my daughter is napping at her grandmother’s house. She is a joy, and she was completely planned.

At ten years of age, I didn’t understand why my father didn’t go to church. I don’t think I really enjoyed going myself, but it seemed the right thing to do.

My high school friends introduced me to the Mormon religion, and that pushed my religious fervor into high drive. Mormonism seemed the perfect way for life, and it was all my mother could do to postpone my membership without pushing me to join out of youthful rebellion and retaliation. All of this seems like the life of a stranger to me now, as I find it impossible to conjure up the emotional commitment to a God I no longer acknowledge.

Absent God, I do think about the possibilities of mental telepathy and extra-sensory perception. But there was a time for me, not too long ago, when these ideas were nothing more than hocus-pocus.

What is required for succeeding in life?  When I taught school I rewarded every student equally with a check mark. It didn’t matter that their sentences were nonexistent or that the spelling was like a foreign language. I finally quit teaching because it was easier than trying to enforce some kind of proficiency which would result in failing half of my students.

Today, I feel so confident that I have sifted through all of the muck and have chosen every worthwhile philosophy for my own. But if history holds true, ten years from now…I should expect to be only half of what I am now. The change will come. The only question is from which direction it will come. Either the John Birch organization or the Communist Party is due to have one more member.

Currently, a major philosophy of mine says that none of this matters anyway. I will die, and the world will know nothing of my internal struggles to separate truth from fiction. As long as I have personal comfort…mental peace…the path I follow is irrelevant.

All right. That idea makes me feel peaceful. I must be on the right track.

But finally this weekend, I heard someone effectively give voice to that persistent thread of discontent that has been running through all of my laisse-faire attitudes.

Humanity.

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May 13, 1979

What a beautiful day!  Taking a break from morning sickness misery, I drove with Vic up to the 4-H camp, trading dry desert for cool mountain pines.

On a backwoods cutoff to the camp, Vic took us through scenery so beautiful that it made the worn and rutted road almost unnoticeable.  Spring rains had carpeted the hills with waving velvet grass.   Tall pine trees were bursting with boughs, heavy with bright green needles glistening under the high sun. Spring snow runoff had turned the normally chalky brown dust to a rich spongy brown, the dark mud  accented by sparkly patches of white snow, the last of a late spring cold spell.

Every turn in the road revealed a springlet of water running down a trail of mud and rocks, eventually to culminate in a mini-lake in some mountain or hillside valley.  Where the ground was more level, the waters settled in patches of tall grass looking like a series of misplaced swamps.

The slightest breeze kept a steady balance with the gentle rays of sun.  I waited for a chill in my spine to prompt putting on my gold fuzzy jacket, but the weather must have sensed how soothing the surroundings were, and out of sympathy for a body needing soothing, decided to deliver perfection.

Overhead, the sky was one vast brightly tiled floor that had just been washed and waxed.  To think I had even considered substituting a Sunday of work for this wonderful journey!

A romantic notion sprang to life.  In all my searches for meaningful work, even the most lackluster of jobs (waitressing, cashiering, ditch digging, filing, cleaning) gained immeasurable desirability if the job could put me in touch with serenity and solitude…the cool breeze, the chirping and scurrying of untamed animals, the wide expanse of the outdoors.

Never before had I foreseen a day when I could willingly trade in the big city supermercados, convenience Ks, swift roads, crowded neighborhoods, matched houses and yards, and intense shopping…all that…for the loneliness of small towns and secluded homes.

The drive through the forest was soon over.  The lure of the cities is ever-present.  But it no longer can hold its own against the lure of wordless conversation held in high mountain solitude, nurturing in my spirit a hidden nature…suggesting I was…and am…more a part of the raw ground and green canvas than any structural steel beam.

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