There’s a pressure in the back of my head. The sensation spreads into my hamstrings, and then my calves and my back and my butt. It’s a slow, subtle waking, emerging imperceptibly from the void of sleep. I’m still not fully alive. There’s a sluggishness in my legs, as if the very cells of my muscles are still waking.
Slowly, the mist in my brain solidifies into thoughts. I’m doing okay. My body is sleepy, but it doesn’t feel dead anymore. Instead, there’s a building ache in my stomach. Good. I should be hungry. I walked 22 kilometers yesterday, and I only ate a biscuit and a few snacks. I actually feel gratitude for the hunger. It’s good to want something. Yesterday, I had a hard time wanting anything.
I open my eyes to solid daylight. I must have slept 12 hours. No, probably a lot more since I went to bed with the sun still up. But that’s okay. I needed this rest. I stand up, and the air feels pleasant outside of the blankets. Good. If I was still sick I’d need a jacket even inside. I walk to the kitchen and start cooking oatmeal with fruit and raisins. I’m not eating bread and butter, not today. I’ll take the extra 10 minutes to give my body something nice.
Pleasure splashes through my mouth at the first bite. I can’t remember this kind of happiness, coming from something simple as food. I’m startled—but I shouldn’t be, really. My nervous system has always sent this pleasure when I’ve eaten. I just had to listen. And I haven’t listened. I’ve spent my life wasting the joy of eating. I’ve eaten when I was surfing the web or reading a book or talking on the phone. I’ve eaten with my mind on memories of the day, or problems of the future, or women I’ve wanted to date.
It hits me that life is what I notice. I can be a person appreciating the food that keeps me alive; or I can be a mess of problems. And when I put it that way, it’s no contest. Of course my problems can wait until I’m done eating. Problems are patient little fuckers; they’ll still be there in ten minutes.
I savor the meal, and then I head off. My pace is tired, but not lifeless the way it was yesterday. In an hour or so, the road reaches a field of hay, a tended clearing nestled among the trees. In the center of the grass there’s some quaint shacks, made of boards weathered a dull grey. If it wasn’t for smoke from a chimney, I would think the buildings were abandoned. They look like dwellings from another age, when people worked all day with their hands. Well, the people who live here probably still do.
Suddenly a big dog races out of the drive way, threatening to rip my throat out. I try not to take it personally. Dogs are territorial creatures, and no-one ever walks here. Still, I grab a stick with grim resolution. I’m not holding back, if that thing attacks. If it tries to bite me, I’ll hit it as hard as I can. The dog stays out of range, but it doesn’t shut up until I round the corner and the buildings disappear.
Further on, the landscape opens to reveal mountains in the middle distance. The lower slopes are covered in evergreens, and two thirds of the way up, the trees taper into granite meadows. Glaciers rest on the peaks, glinting survivors that have lasted through the summer. By the road, a creek tumbles with the run-off of their ice. There’s no mistaking water from a glacier. There’s a glint that doesn’t exist anywhere else, blue-grey-green with a taste of ancient silt.
I feel a place-less peace. I’m in Chile, but I could be in Alaska or Norway or Nepal, or a hundred other mountain ranges around the world. And it doesn’t matter that I’m low energy. This is still beautiful. It’s beautiful even though I’m too injured to climb, and it will be beautiful when I’m very old; and my body is too frail to walk without a trail.
My life is what I notice.
I can be a tired walker, recovering from sickness. I can be an injured climber who can’t climb. Or I can be a human being enjoying a view. This landscape can be my world, if only for a moment. No, longer than a moment. This is a good place to eat lunch. I smile, and walk down to the creek. It takes a moment to lie on my stomach, and then I’m kissing the water, drinking the gift of the glaciers.
