Snow Angel

I had an introductory session with a personal trainer on Friday. Mostly we talked, but at one point she instructed me to lie down on some sort of roller or bolster and make a snow angel with my arms.  I haven’t been in snow in decades, let alone made a snow angel, but my body remembered the motion, and my arms carved wing arcs, up and down, repeatedly. I’d been busy and hurrying around all day, and now in this pause I felt a little lightheaded, and I let myself float, transparent and angelic. There was a white ceiling above me, and memories within of a snowy field in childhood.

I floated. And this was very apropos, because I am a kind of “floater” right now in the personal trainer’s schedule. If she has a cancellation, she will offer it to me. We’re just trying each other out.

And I was a snow angel, smack in the middle of a June afternoon.

“You learned something important already,” the trainer said. “The body remembers.”

Even mine, unmoored as it is from time and place. I am directionally challenged…topographical disorientation or spatial dyslexia are terms I’ve heard for it. Maybe the best way to say it is “easily lost.” But more than that, I have trouble figuring out my body’s position in space. This is apparent when I try to replicate motions and positions in physical therapy or exercise. I confessed this to the personal trainer, and I think she said the term for it is proprioceptive dysfunction. I’ll never be a dancer, I suppose. But I like to think that deficiencies in one area are often accompanied by compensatory strengths in other areas, and I imagine that being lost on earth sometimes means being found in another dimension.

In any case, the ambiguity of our arrangement here suits me fine, because I don’t know how or if I will proceed with this strength and fitness training. Many hopeful beginnings at self-improvement have fizzled away. (Case in point, I never did learn to swim.)

But I left with a hybrid sensation of spaciness and virtue, and it was not at all unpleasant.

For some reason, the drive home seemed very long and slow, the world seemed to have an amber glow, and when I arrived at the Ranch, I parked and embarked upon a late-day walk up Alegria Canyon. I tend to ache lately, but walking still soothes me, and I love this simple loop. I’m familiar with the rise and fall of every hill, the pastoral views, the very fragrance of the air. I don’t get lost.

As the trestle came into view, I heard the familiar chug and horn of the train, and the Pacific Surfliner went by, its cars a string of stories heading south. Shadows were falling by the time I got home. I plucked a sunlight-filled lemon from a tree, my own tiny lantern.  

“May you never place walls between the light and yourself,” wrote John O’Donohue. I’m getting better at this.

Suddenly we have apricots, blushing rosier each day, and we don’t mind sharing them with birds, but we hoped we’d get a few for ourselves this year. With great difficulty, Monte placed a net over the tree, and we thought we’d solved the problem. But today, we noticed a jay inside the net, flying around frantically. What ensued was a complicated endeavor, but Monte finally managed to create an opening, disengage the jay’s foot when it got tangled in the net, and guide the creature out, where it fell to the ground and lay still, its wings tattered. Whether it was exhausted, in shock, or dead, we could not tell, but its eyes were open, and I saw fright in them.

It occurred to me that water might revive the bird, and I ran to fill a bucket from a hose, then hurried back. I dipped my hands into the bucket, and with a flourish of wet fingers, splashed some water on the jay. The result was startling and miraculous. With a feathery flurry of noise, the bird burst back to life and flew away, far from us and quickly out of sight. It was one of the most satisfying moments of my week.

Later, I fell asleep on the sofa. Psychopathic egos have been conspicuously colliding this week, the gaslighter-in-chief is intentionally provoking violent confrontations and has illegally summoned National Guard troops in response to protests in Los Angeles, needless suffering continues unabated, and all sentient beings are worried.

But I still cannot get over the bounty of my life, and I will never take for granted the delicious gift of a snooze. I think I dreamed of snow angels. I woke up to the sound of voices and footsteps coming up the stairs, and a neighbor presented us with a box of fresh greens from a garden and an extravagant bouquet of magenta dahlias and a pink peony in a mason jar.

I wrote all that yesterday, and now it’s Sunday morning, and the sabbath stillness was abruptly broken by yet another launch. (These launches used to feel exciting, but lately just seem ominous and excessive.) I’m brewing a second cup of coffee and I’m going to text my friend Carey and see if she’s up for a walk. The sky is white and blank, letting me figure things out for myself, and the treetops are nodding sagely, and John O’Donohue also said this: “May you arise each day with a voice of blessing whispering in your heart.”

I am profoundly grateful and a little bit afraid, but beneath all other sound, the voice of blessing hums, and my body is remembering what to do.