Connie Stetson discovers a brave new world with adventure around every curve

As I write, it’s been a little over a week since Lee and I completed a month-long, nearly 300 mile journey through the sands of time. Literally. I am still rinsing the freaking sands of time out my gear.

My husband, with the Greenwood Expedition, party of 11, began a river trip at Lee’s Ferry near Glen Canyon Dam on Jan. 27th to raft the upper Grand Canyon. I left Fresno on Feb. 4th, flew to Flagstaff, took a shuttle bus to the South Rim, checked in at the Bright Angel Lodge, and at 8:30 am on Feb. 5th, I began my journey down, down, down, through snow and ice, mud and streams, more than ten miles, seven oceans, and millions of years of geologic time, (sorry, fundamentalists…that would be more than 6,000) — to meet them near Phantom Ranch on the mighty, muddy Colorado River. The next day, in a driving rainstorm, two walked out; and then we were ten, in four rafts, launching off into the rapids of the Grand Canyon.

How was it, you ask? It was exhausting, thrilling, challenging, beautiful, vexing, uncomfortable, cold, painful, quiet, noisy, scary, soothing, hard, transcendent, and nourishing. My body was bruised and torn, my skin became raw and chapped, my muscles strained and ached, I have never been so stinky filthy in my life, and I’ve lost four toenails—so far. I climbed a 3 0ft. boulder on rope ladder, and then bare-assed it down with two other wild women to swim the frigid blue pool at the bottom. We all gaped into the screaming maw of a rapid so fierce, loud, and scary my mouth went dry and my brain went numb, and all of us came out rejoicing on the other side. It was an experience I will never forget as long as I live, and I am humbled and awed by that place.

I am also grateful. For my darling Lee for encouraging and enabling my going, for Tracy and David Greenwood who organized the trip, the food, (barbequed ribs, no less), the boats, the gear, and accepted the serious responsibility for our safety and well-being, for the knowledge and skill of our boatmen, and to our fellow rafters for their hard work, support, and good humor. Grateful too, to be able to let go and embrace what cannot be controlled, to be able to say, “oh, fuck it”, to laugh loud and hard at myself, to still have the ability let each day uncover its mysteries, and to revel in it.

A brave new world lives within us all; we are the discoverers of mighty canyons, of plunging, icy, white waters, of unknown terrains, but that world is not just physical, it lies in our hearts, our imaginations, and in our willingness to engage. I am deeply grateful to be reminded of that.

Would I do it again? Hmmm—good question. I’m not sure about the Colorado River, but I would be up for another incredible river wilderness experience. Could we please find one cleaner than the Colorado? Also, I’m pretty sure I’ll never hike the Great Wall of China again nor climb Mt. Whitney one more time, but I’ve been nudged to keep going out there and to seek adventure as long as I’m able.

The one error in judgment I made was to book a room in Las Vegas the day we came off the river. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but I was wrong, wrong, wrong. It felt like one of the circles of hell from Dante’s Inferno, in fact, I think that was the name of the casino we stayed in. It was ugly, loud, jarring, creepy, sad, and just plain weird. Too much to take in after being alone with ten people in a wild place, and I’m pretty sure I never want to go to Vegas again. Ever.

I was happy to get home from the river and see my dogs and cats, but when I walked in the door and looked around our home after schlepping gear on and off our boats for weeks, I said to Lee, aghast, “Whatever are we going to do with all this shit? We’ll never fit it on the raft.”

Its Saturday morning and the winter is coming to an end. Although here on the tundra we are wary of any irrational exuberance until May. The phone rang and I heard Heidi’s voice say, “Want to go for a walk?” I cannot think of anything I would rather do at this moment than join her and her beautiful sad-eyed dog Sara on a stroll around the Lake Como in the crystal sunshine.

My mum and dad would take a walk every Sunday afternoon. They talked quietly while my sister and I wandered along with them, playing make-believe games and seeing who could run the fastest. In the past few years I have become a walker again. There is singular joy in strolling along talking to my companions or, when I am alone, talking to myself. It seems as if walking frees the tongue and the mind. Difficult topics can be broached more easily; old hurts can be mended, secrets may be revealed, sadness might suddenly find release, and laughter often comes unexpectedly.

You see and experience more when walking. Recently I was in Hawaii visiting my son. We took a long walk to a remote beach. Kerri, Fred’s partner, spotted the whales just off shore. We saw great splashes and spouts as they breached and slammed their flukes, two different worlds in joyful harmony.

Walking with Cathy once, we passed a man in obvious physical distress; he said his name was Charlie. Cathy called for help and we stayed with him until he assured us and the emergency personnel he was okay. As we continued on our walk Cathy said, laughing, “We’re Charlie’s Angels.” The next day we went for a long hike on the Northern California coast. Late in the afternoon we walked down a hill confident that we would see her car at the bottom. We must have been distracted by our conversation because when we reached the road we realized we had taken the wrong path and were a few miles from the car. Two young men stopped and asked if everything was okay. We told them the problem and they offered to drive us to the car. We dithered a bit because one should be cautious, but something in our senses, an echo perhaps from the previous day when we had offered assistance to a stranger, told us to accept the offer. One wrong turn becomes a good turn, and we know what a good turn deserves.

I wonder if the humans were nicer creatures when we walked more. The wanderer on foot has not always been seen as a threat. The great traditions of hospitality grew out of the possibility of the news and stories that would be imparted when a walker entered the camp. There was honor in sharing one’s food and water with travelers. My mum called tramps “Gentlemen of the Road.”

It is possible that if President Obama had taken all the politicians on a strenuous hike the other day instead of sitting in a room in Blair House for eight hours, we might have seen a different, more positive outcome. It is difficult to walk and pontificate at the same time. There is a risk of stumbling on. On the other hand one might just forget the path one was supposed to take and find something different works just as well. Should we demand that Congress walk first and pass laws second? Come on Washington, get out of those buildings and Nike-up. You’ll be amazed what you’ll see and learn.

Just as Dorothy tripped the light fantastic down the Yellow Brick Road, so of late have I.

I liken the start of 2010 to my own private storm—raggedy emotions and best-laid plans, turned upside down in quick succession. Perversely stubborn and independent, it’s begun to dawn on me that life is not created on will and persistence alone. In short, nothing in my life has been flowing with ease.

The most recent and hopefully final insult being a freak accident during a ski lesson (part of my “plan” to improve my skills, face my fears and get in the best shape possible) on a mogul made of ice topped with fresh powder. Going down, my pole stuck in the wrong position with my wrist trapped in the strap; I heard the snap, snap of two bones breaking.

Adding insult to injury, one of the first questions posed to me by the young brawny ski patrol was, “Have you had a bone density test?” If Kansas was my youth, I knew I wasn’t there anymore. To his credit, he was very skilled and he did refrain from calling me “ma’am”.

Duly splinted, “slinged” and tied into a gurney-like sled in a snowstorm, ski patrol guy skied me down one of the steepest mountains in North America. All the way down I heard a familiar refrain ringing in my ears. “Surrender Dorothy!” Funny how that happens since at that moment surrender was really my only option.

I don’t know how Dorothy interpreted the message but for me the effect was visceral, a relaxation into knowing that I don’t know…a damn thing.

Currently I am reading the book Lit by Mary Karr. When Mary questions what it means to surrender she is told:

Yield up what scares you. Yield up what makes you want to scream and cry. Enter into that quiet. It’s a cathedral. It’s an empty football stadium with the lights on. And pray to be an instrument of peace.

Sliding down the hill, injured, in the hands of a stranger becomes just another part of the journey, a spiritual journey akin to Dorothy’s—demons and all. “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”

I know in the great scheme of things, a broken wrist is not a big deal. It has, however, forced some awakening and also made me realize in the most clichéd way how much I take for granted. Needless to say I have had to yield a lot. Or more plainly speaking, getting my pants on constitutes a good day.

Believing that the Scarecrow, Lion and Tin Man were simply aspects of Dorothy’s self, I have adopted them as my own for the time being. As I write this I am typing with only my left hand, a practice I have also had to extend to my previously good handwriting.

Thus in a peculiar homage to the Scarecrow I am developing the alternate side of my brain, and I am told, warding off early onset dementia.

Sitting in the quiet, accepting what I cannot do and asking for help is humbling. These things when mixed with practical challenges such as sheets of ice in the driveway require a digging down deep on my part, relying on faith and summoning courage.

The heart part I am finding in the prayers.

And pray to be an instrument of peace.

Prayer has as many interpretations as people who practice it. For me it’s often a simple plea, “Help”. Sometimes it’s a silent interaction with the natural world such as the resident magpie on my fence. But heart, I’m finding is also about extending patience and tenderness toward loved ones and myself. Acceptance brings peace.

With two more weeks of imposed stillness, I am hoping I can make solid friends with the silence and carry it always as a reminder of all the things I do know but had for some months lost sight of. “Surrender Dorothy!” then becomes a most valuable mantra.

It’s more than a month away, yet Cathy Fischer is already obsessed with spring cleaning.

“A house is just a pile of stuff with a cover on it.”
—George Carlin

There is a spider web in the back of my brain, and at its center a big fat spider waits patiently. It started a few years back, after moving in to my 860 square foot apartment on the 22nd floor of a mid-century high-rise.

If you came to visit, you’d probably think, Gee, she is neat (as in tidy). Nothing is obstructing the magnificent view, and everything is in its place. There are no kids’ toys to trip you up as you walk across the gleaming hardwood floors, and with Rosa’s help every other week, the place stays pretty clean.

If you were to go through my drawers (but of course you’re not that type of person) you might think, Hmm, pretty orderly: socks with their respective mates, underwear… color-coded?
(When black and leopard are dominant, it’s easy.) Clothes hang on flocked hangers and t-shirts sit neatly in their cubbies. The bathroom is small yet uncluttered, but wait… what lies behind the gold curtain to the right of the front door? You may have missed it (I was hoping you had).

The second bathroom in this late ‘60s luxury apartment has been tastefully converted to an office. But now, it’s the spider’s lair—a scary place. It’s where the wild things are! A quick inventory of the small room reveals stacked boxes from my original move, photo albums, luggage, books, rolls of wrapping paper, framed artwork, and who knows what else.

Is this a junk drawer gone bonkers? I’m pretty sure that I’m not a hoarder (I hear there’s a new TV show about those who can’t let go of stuff), but I do accumulate things of beauty and sentimental value. Plus, there’s just not a lot of closet space.

I had planned to make the room into a nice storage area including a rack for seasonal clothes and a small desk, while still accommodating Cleo’s litter box and a reasonable amount of “storable” stuff. The original start date for the project was Memorial weekend 2008, but on that particular Friday I got my breast cancer diagnosis. So, instead of diving headlong into the project, I went into escapist mode: movies, friends, drinks, etc. So here I am, more than a year later, I’m healthy and have no good excuse not to begin—except that everything and anything else is so much more appealing! I am well aware of the feng shui wisdom in regards to clutter. I’ve got books on paper tiger taming and organizing from the inside out, but what I don’t have is the oomph! to just do it! Help!

Help? I guess that’s what I need. Would it be worth my money to hire someone to get me started? Have any of you done this? Would I rather put bamboo shoots under my nails? I have a talent for procrastination masked as productivity: cooking, cleaning, exercising, connecting with friends and family—so many excellent ways to avoid the spider’s web.

Yes, I’m rather certain that I will feel better once this project is underway and even more so when it’s over. Here’s how it’s supposed to work: Remove clutter and it will make room for good things in your life. (So, the man of my dreams is just waiting for me to get organized?)

I can visualize myself starting: A beacon of light shines into the dark room and the Hallelujah Chorus begins to swell. I realize that the spider’s web is indeed a work of art as she welcomes me into her lair.

Mixed media on canvas by Gregory Vorbe

From miracles to manipulation, nature to nurture, Carine Fabius ponders the big questions.

God has been on my mind lately, but that’s not unusual; God is often on my mind. Maybe I’ve been thinking about God even more because I am from Haiti, and the subject always comes up after a great disaster. You’ve got the typical questions about How can God do this to a people already so down on their luck? And then, there they are, those unlucky Haitians themselves, publicly thanking God for saving their lives (those not crushed to death, anyway). Something bad happens, blame God. Something good happens, thank God! So, who is this entity, that seems to arbitrarily bestow luck on some and tragedy on others? Most likely, no God.

I am not an atheist, but this Judeo-Christian God, who sits in judgment of our tiniest transgressions and promises to deliver eternal damnation if we don’t behave seems downright petty. So, here’s my (still-developing) take on God:

First of all, although it’s bulkier to carry around, I like the term that Native Americans use to refer to that great mystery: they call it the Great Mystery. Seems so much more appropriate! However, using the term in everyday parlance would come off more like affectation than sincere attempt at nailing down my belief on the issue; so I’ll just keep using God, even though the word is loaded.

My feeling is that God is not a being with human characteristics and personality traits. And I don’t think all this business of God being all-knowing, all-seeing, etc., works the way we’ve been taught. God is the life force (or as scientists call it, energy) that lives in everything in the universe. According to scientists, energy can’t be created and it can’t be destroyed, so it is everywhere all at once, i.e., all-knowing, all-seeing, etc. I think it is an intelligent and loving force, but not the way humans relate to intelligence and love. It is intelligent because it permeates a suspiciously identical system for the way things are wired—in nature, in humans, in animals, et al. And it is loving because whenever I’ve had an experience of God, that’s how it felt. Also suspicious is how my own limited but not lone experience of God mirrors what so many from different faiths and cultures describe when it happens to them: indescribable love; immersion in a light that feels like love, or a oneness with everything else in the universe. It is a feeling that is addicting. Some give up everything to live a life dedicated to that love; some go to war in its name.

The opposite of love is fear, or every negative emotion that exists. Living in the negative (committing murder, or being toxic or a pain in the ass) is a choice we make. We were not born negative, we were born innocent and full of joy (when we weren’t crying for food or suffering diaper rash).

I think bad things happen to people—to good people too—because life is made up of good moments and bad moments, which we get to decide how to navigate. God isn’t out gunning for us when we get hit with the bad times. But if we’re smart, we can turn to the love that exists inside us for peace, clarity and strength.

So, once I figured out that God is not the one “making things happen” to us, the next question became Who am I supposed to pray to? And how do I make myself stop saying inane things like thank God!? Because I love to pray. I love to close my eyes and say things like, Please make my book deal come through! Please don’t let this cold be the Swine Flu! And Please make my friend’s health get better! It’s a tough habit to break, but I’m teaching myself to stop asking God for stuff; because I’ve realized that I am that all-powerful energy that lives in everything, and I, as part of that universal life force, can use that power in any way I see fit. All I have to do is ask myself, instead. And as for saying things like, thank God!, I’m teaching myself to say thank goodness instead.

Like a sign post that screams Watch Out!, Prudence zooms in on one of midlife’s challenges.

Falling. It happens to the best of us. One minute you are putting one foot in front of the other, and the next you’re on your ass. Or your face—with absolutely no idea how you got there so fast.

When young, falling is funny; slapstick even. Occasionally falling is painful, but having friends sign your cast or getting out of P.E. makes it all worthwhile. In fact, there’s a notorious t-shirt that mocks falling:

“I don’t have a drinking problem. I drink. I get drunk. I fall down. No problem.”

Ha-ha. Try that at age 54.

This brings me to the other morning when I heard a crashing and thrashing sound coming from the bathroom.

I put down my cup of Fogbuster coffee and tiptoe to the bathroom door. “Honey?” I can hear the shower running; otherwise silence.

After a moment, I hear an aggrieved voice calling, “Could you come in here?”

Anyone who has ever driven with my husband knows how hard it is for him to ask for help. So, with trepidation, I open the door, letting out a cloud of steam, instantly fogging up my glasses and plastering my bangs to my forehead.

I peer through the warm mist. The shower curtain rod is at a 45 degree angle. The curtain lays half-in, half-out of the tub, efficiently detouring a cascade of hot water onto the floor, where it pools around the space heater. Not good.

And straight from Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, protruding from the tub are several long, pink waving limbs of some giant thing, looking for all the world like Kafka’s poor traveling salesman Gregor Samsa, who awoke one morning to find himself transformed into a giant cockroach. I cannot even tell if there four legs or six.

I turn off the shower, the fog rushes to fill the rest of the house, and I see there are four limbs—two arms, two legs—attached to a very pissed-off spouse who has slipped and fallen in the shower. Which, I recall in a moment of non-sequitoritis, is exactly how Katherine Graham, publisher of The Washington Post died.

I know my husband isn’t dead, because he has that look on his face which says, “I am trying hard to figure out how this is all your fault.” But, because he must rely on me to get out, he shelves this thought as I offer him my arm—and a towel.

According to the Centers for Disease Control, 16,000 Americans die each year from falling—many of those in the bathtub—making falling the second riskiest activity of daily life, sandwiched between number one, getting out of bed, and number three, having sex. (Who knew so many people were having sex?)

Falling doesn’t merit a moment of thought until you either fall yourself or you care for an elderly parent who falls, which is karmic revenge for your naughty teenage years. And then, avoiding falling becomes all-consuming. Signs on bulletin boards for Tai Chi classes suddenly glow with meaning and you actually read those ads about walk-in bathtubs.

But, all this was far from my mind last week, as a new-fallen snow beckoned me—in my slippers—onto the front stoop to snap a photo of the front yard draped in sparking white. “This will look great on Facebook!” And that was my last thought before my elbow hit the cement.