Even Higher

I stand on the edge of Resurrection Bay to catch another sunrise, and watch as a seagull chases a bald eagle across the morning sky. A second eagle joins the game, riding the air currents, circling ahead of the much smaller bird. 

The north wind hits the back of my neck and I put on my hood to protect against the feeling of a long winter to come. A few golden leaves still cling to the cottonwood trees on the edge of town. The tundra has turned from red to brown.

It is inevitable, this change of seasons, like the seagull and the mighty eagle, I can't catch time, can't keep the earth from moving away from the sun.

"You won't believe how old I'm going to be in February!" Elias says to just about everyone we spend time with these days.

"How old?" they ask, as if on cue.

"Fourteen!!"

Elias now weighs a hundred pounds, considering at his smallest he weighed one pound six ounces, its a pretty significant gain. I still remember rejoicing when he reached three pounds and began to look less like a science experiment and more like the baby I imagined.

Olive is already planning her birthday celebration in December when she turns eight. An outside party with sledding and obstacle courses and relays and a big tent to keep the cake protected from the snow.

I just want to slow time.

Not go backwards, just pause, right here, as the sun begins to shine.

Too often lately, I find myself with both arms overflowing with the news of the day, as I try to contain all the stories and images from my various informational feeds; and here, at the foot of the bay, I just want to let go.

As much as I need to stay informed, I also crave ignorance, the momentary bliss of not knowing.

I want to pretend that the salted water and alpine glaciers is all I see. That as the clouds change from grey to pink all is well in the world. I don't want to feel anxious about politics and natural disasters. About decisions and happenings beyond my control. 

I want to be a dog.

Overcome with love every time the door opens. Wanting nothing more than to walk. And smell. And feel the wind on my face.

To be more animal and less human. More here and less preoccupied with tomorrow and yesterday.

My two Border Collies like to chase the eagles too, and like the seagull, they persist. Whenever they see the national bird resting on a rock or driftwood log, off they go.

It doesn't matter that they've never caught a single one. It's the chase they're after.

As I age, I feel less attached to the outcome and more enriched by the process, whether its writing, exercise, or work. I can stop hiking short of reaching the peak, choose work for its meaning even if its not a step higher on a particular career path, and feel satisfaction every time I actually sit down to write instead of measuring my worth by publications.

Like my dogs, I'm learning its the act of running that matters more than winning the damn race. That sweating and breathing hard is in itself a victory, and more meaningful than a medal.

And yet lately, the process has felt overshadowed by a feeling of impending doom, by a heaviness I can't seem to shake, that follows me into the mountains, along the beach, that I find in bed with me when I wake.

And as I stand here, watching the sky alight, I want to release this feeling that nothing in our country, our world, is quite right.

I want to imagine an alternative story.

I want to unfurl my wings and let the wind carry me higher.

Comments

[Sarah]

Gorgeous photos and prose, Christy. Thank you, thank you for sharing.

[Christy]

Ah, thank YOU Sarah:)