Super tired today, but in that really good exhausted way known to hikers and adventurists. I hiked up to Mt. San Bernardino yesterday but couldn't summit. By the time I could see the summit, I was sinking hip deep in snow and I had to admit I hadn't come well prepared. Anyway, long story short, I pulled my groin, twisted my knees and ankles, and I'm finding new purple bruises every time I look in the mirror. Oh well! The views from the trail were spectacular! Worth every single slip and fall.
A friend of mine recently told me that I should be more specific about what hiking the John Muir Trail means to me. And as hard as it is for me to talk about, I have to agree that I can't ask for support and/or sponsorship without telling you what this hike is all about. So I'm pasting this excerpt from my blog, I'm Not Ava which is the best snapshot of my life, and what this hike is all about that I can give you. I'll let your own imagination fill in the blanks, read between the lines or write the ending of this story as you will.
MY BRANDON
You died on February 28, 2006 when you were 13. At the time of your death, I was with Lennon at his first grade school production of Three Billy Goats Gruff. I didn’t get the call until 9:00 p.m. that night.
My mother called to tell me there had been a terrible accident and that you had passed away. Accident? No. You had decided to leave us all to feel the same enormous rejection you must have been feeling for years.
My mother called to tell me there had been a terrible accident and that you had passed away. Accident? No. You had decided to leave us all to feel the same enormous rejection you must have been feeling for years.
I was the first to see you laid out. I tiptoed into the chapel, so afraid to come face to face with my biggest fear. I begged you to tell me what had happened, what you had done. I touched your eyelids to see if you’d flinch. I noticed the small scab on your left hand and memorized the exact shape and size of it. I noticed every freckle as if for the first time. I thought about your braces behind your sealed lips. I touched your chest and felt it sink in, as only a chest cavity can with no internal organs or rib cage to hold it up. I moved your collar away to see the ligature lines around your throat. Nothing, nothing was more real.
For months I slept with the lights on. I studied the long drop. The short drop. Asphyxiation. Strangulation. I wondered if you'd struggled. If it was quick and painless. If you'd cried. If you'd prayed. My mother tore down her greenhouse.
Remember when I taught you to drive? Ten days before you left us. Remember how cold that day was? I should have known it was a precursor of things to come. I never knew time was so short when I hurried you back into the house and out of the cold. I should have held you tighter to me. Delayed you from going. Listened closer. Listened harder. Jumped first, moved you back home with me and trusted in God to help me stick my landing. I could have you know. God knows I’ve been leaping before looking all my life. But with you I was afraid to be reckless. I was afraid to jump so carelessly.
I wish I didn’t have to convince myself so hard that I did what I thought was right at the time. I tried to give you a life I couldn’t give, and happiness I didn’t think you could get in a tiny 2 bedroom apartment compared to 15 acres of sunshine and trees. I swear on your life and soul I did what I thought was right. Do you now ask me to grow from this? Grow wiser? Be a model for other people to follow? Every form of virtue has its price.
People tell me I’m stronger than I know, but how misguided they are. I am the mother of a dead child. Everything I tried to do for you has turned out to be my penance: Guilt. Shame. Failure. Regret. These have become the death wish I wear under my crucifix.
I miss you. Oh my God, I miss you.
I pray with a mother’s heart to know your tranquility, to know your forgiveness. I pray you see only my good intentions and unconditional love for you. I pray someday to see you living joyfully. I pray for peace.
