Open Hearts, Open Space

Drove up to Ketchum, Idaho this brilliant blue early morning from Hagerman, where I stayed overnight with old friend Joan at her beautiful little lodge and retreat center on a clear, chortling creek that flows from one of the "Thousand Springs" and rivulets its way in many branches down a hillside. I took the back road, up from the gentle terminus of the Snake River Canyon to tiny, rural Gooding, then Hiway 46 north to where it ends in Hiway 20 a few miles from Fairfield. Turned right, and arrived in Ketchum about 45 minutes later.

All along the two-hour journey, processing. Revisiting the continuous connections with old friends of the day before--hiking in the canyon with Brenda in the morning, an hour grabbed with Pegan at noon, laughter-filled discussion with Judy, Rex and Bill at Miracle Hot Springs in the afternoon plus dropping off a book for David since our schedules did not mesh, then the fairy/elven/watercress retreat at Joan's for dinner and overnight. How blessed I am, to enjoy such rich, rich friendships with people I have known for decades and who all still surprise and delight each other with the ways our unique, quirky original natures continue to unfold. So MUCH more fun now that our bodies are relaxing their "hard body" drive and our egos dissolving their opinionated edges into a shared, bemused, wise knowing of how we humans work, how we blind and kid ourselves, and still manage to survive and thrive . . .

So many of the men that I'm renewing connection with now are opening their hearts, wide, like little kids, drinking in the warmth of the sun. It's this heart-opening that I seem to be drawn to, and which Jeff, and Jeff's death, seems to have engendered in me. I see/feel it in individuals as well as in the culture, beneath the scary, loveless news, this tight spot that humanity has put itself in, this forcing through the narrowest of gates, the needle's eye, into a vast, expansive spaciousness that includes us all and finds its echo in the vast, limitless desert north from Gooding--so much nothingness, such a silent presence that shimmers in the heat and calls us to remember that we too, deep inside, are this vast space, this vast being of limitless, unbounded love.

It's easy to move into mysticism when you feel the desert in your bones. I feel lucky to have spent my childhood in such wild, abstract, mysterious country.

Ketchum: Chapter One Bookstore, 11 AM to what turned out to be 2 P.M. Books on a round table near the front door, small group sitting around the table, talking about death, and grief, and sharing stories. Once again, the realness, the vulnerability, tears, laughter. Three widows present for at least two of those hours, and one man of such rare heart that I sense his life has been brimming with suffering and isolation. (What ever happened to our discussion, only two nights ago, when we women were calling--for a short while admittedly, and half-joking--men "assholes"? It's as if we had to bring that word up once again, just to let it go, since though a conversation we've had forever, it's obviously just not true, and never really was, once we peer below the crusty surface.)

A number of people in and out, to pick up books and have me sign them. Several people even found me at a nearby restaurant to sign books later. At the bookstore, a few more widows came in to buy books and sit with us for awhile. A number of people are gifting one or more books to others grieving through the aftermath of a loved one's recent death.

This circle a very good and heartfelt time. So fortunate to be living right here, right now, in this body, on this long journey in this trusty little car, moved by the ever-enlarging presence so many great souls.

Next: walk in the mountains tomorrow morning, then to Boise in afternoon.