The Mountain

Today I climbed a mountain and alone I stand at the peak. Around me the world stretches in every direction like a patchwork quilt spread at my feet. The wind is brisk and chill up here, cooling the sweat of the climb. My fingernails are black and my palms lined with dirt from contact with the trail. I take off my shoes and socks to feel the pebbly earth between my toes. Everything is dirt and rock, and the clouds passing overhead deluge me in whirling shadows.  My ears are full of the wind. My skin is chill with it. The sound reminds me of the surge of ocean waves. It too is dull, deep, and ever present, surging in and out, enveloping this mountain of stone, bouncing off the surfaces and sending echoes in every direction.

First Memory

My earliest memory is one of morning. There is light in the room. It streams in from windows somewhere to my left. I stand in my crib, hands on the bars. I am alone, but not anxious. I wait. And sure enough, my mother enters the room, her nightdress billowing about her like scintillating aura. She lifts both hands to me, palms to the ceiling, and her eyes crease with her smile. My mother carries me across the hall to her bedroom, where my parents’ futons checker the floor. My father joins us, yet in his pajama pants. He indicates the window air conditioner unit with a wry expression, “We blew a fuse”. I do not understand the words, but they imprint in my memory. I am not concerned. In fact, I have no concerns at all. It is the beginning of summer, 1990. I am not yet one year old.

Mystics & Rogues - Ch. 1

The bookseller ventured into the guard post, to whispers and catcalls from the bystanders. He was a thin and wispy man, though not especially short. His skin was pale, and his brown hair was straight and just a bit too long. He had very blue eyes that were usually glassy and unfocussed, but just now scanned the courtyard with feverish haste.

The bookseller appealed to the watchers.

“I’m - I’m Alin Landerson,” he said in a low voice, slightly hoarse with disuse. “I need to find a guard captain.”

Several guards chuckled.

“And why, perchance?” asked the boldest among them.

The bookseller sucked in a breath. “I’m going on a treasure hunt.”

There was silence. Then the guards burst into raucous laughter.

A wash of color flooded the bookseller’s face. He waited, blinking rather fast, until the noise subsided.

“You’re serious?!” said the questioner in a tone of disbelief. “Come on, man, you must be mad. It’s too late in the season to launch an expedition… if that’s what you’re trying to do. No one here is fool enough to risk exposure to the winter storms.”

The bookseller’s face fell. Apparently, this was news. He seemed to gather his resolve. “I still need a guard captain. How do I find one?”

Most of the young guards had lost interest and wandered away. The few that remained, debated amongst themselves. Finally one returned to the bookseller. “There’s a fellow that might do it… only one that I can think of.”

The bookseller looked up, hope sparkling in his eyes.

The guard hesitated. “His name is Wilder.”

“Brigham Wilder?”

The guard nodded.

“Wilder who sided with the Russos last spring and fought for Inglade through the summer?” shot the bookseller, sounding slightly wild himself. “The Wilder that hires his sword out to whichever hoodlum pays the most? That Wilder?”

“He’s not that bad,” offered one guard, trying to be helpful. “I heard he’s gone straight.”

“Yeah, he only hires out on legitimate need now… no more ‘hoodlums’,” said the other.

The color was still high in the bookseller’s face. “Fine,” he husked. “Where can I find this Wilder?”

“He shoots dice with the boys behind the stable,” offered the helpful guard. “I’ll show you, if you’d like…”

The bookseller bobbed his head, so the mismatched duo made their way through the guarding complex.

The infamous mercenary was indeed involved in a dice game. He stood head and shoulders above the others. He had ruddy cheeks stretched taut over angular bones. He had a black pointed beard, and curly black hair. His laugh boomed around the walls of the room.

At a loss, the bookseller turned towards his companion, but the young guard had disappeared. “Furies,” the bookseller swore. He hesitated a moment more, then called the guard captain’s name as loud as he could. It took several tries before he got the big man’s attention. Wilder squinted down at him, then frowned, but he backed out of the dice game and prowled around the players to where the bookseller stood. He loomed over the bookseller.

“I’m Alin Landerson,” said Alin.

“Be quick,” said Wilder, “They’ll skip my turn.”

“Can - Can we talk somewhere more… private?”

The guard captain’s face darkened, and the bookseller talked. Fast.

“I’m going on a treasure hunt. I need protection and guidance.”

Wilder’s brows shot into his hair. “A treasure hunt? You?”

Ah, thought Alin, he’s interested.

Then Wilder spoke again. “Let me see the map.”

“That’s the thing,” said the bookseller, “There is no map.”

“Well, where is the treasure?” demanded Wilder.

“I’m - not sure.”

“Huh,” said Wilder. “So you want protection and guidance, on a quest for treasure, without a map, and with no real idea where it is we’re going.”

The bookseller flushed. “I know it sounds crazy.”

“It’s hard to supply a trip without knowing its length,” Wilder muttered, his brow furrowed. “It will take time to assemble a crew.” He squinted. “What do I get out of this… Alin?”

The bookseller took a deep breath. “I can give you fifty golds up front and ten percent of whatever we find.”

“Thirty,” said Wilder.

“Twenty?” Alin countered.

“Twenty.” The guard captain extended a monstrous hand and crushed the bookseller’s fine-boned one. Alin carefully counted out fifty golds from his purse. He watched them disappear into Wilder’s pouch. “Meet us here in seven days’ time, packed for the road,” the guard captain ordered. “I’ll bring the horses. And Alin - ” He bent down, and Alin leaned in, expectant. “Don’t call me ‘Wilder’, eh? It’s Brig.” He clapped the startled bookseller on the back, sending him stumbling.

Alin caught his balance and watched the guard captain walk away with half Alin’s savings tucked into his shirt. Brigham Wilder, he mused. An odd choice. Alin considered himself a good judge of character. The ruddy man who’d stood before him and asked about maps was more the action type than the intellectual type. The guard captain would, of course, focus on the task at hand and not ask questions. But the bookseller did suffer a moment of doubt: Brigham Wilder could not be savvy enough to wonder about the nature of the quest…could he? Certainly not.

Annoyed with the thought, Alin shushed himself and went home.

To Speak or Not to Speak?

It occurs to me that a lot of the famous people who have shared about their personal struggles with mental illness (think Demi Lovato, Adele, Chrissy Teigen, Lena Dunham, even Dwayne Johnson - I could keep going) can perhaps afford to do so. Why would a person fear stigma when they bear a cushion of wealth or fame?

For the common person, things are less simple. I don't know how it works in mainstream America but in my community, people have good reason to fear stigmatization. We have children. Those children will need to get married one day. It's hard enough to find a good match without a parent's mental illness in the picture, to say nothing about the plight of a single who's ill. The way thoughts work in our community is, 'If I can marry a person with no mental illness in the family, why would I consider someone with?'.

A little cold. Callous, perhaps. But this is the reality when we filter through candidates on paper before agreeing to meet them.

Of course the logic is flawed. As a psychiatrist once told me, there is also a strong likelihood that a healthy person, with no family history, will develop a mental illness at one point in their life. According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI),

"Approximately 1 in 5 adults in the U.S. (46.6 million) experiences mental illness in a given year".

Current research, including a report from the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), indicates that we can't yet quantify the predisposition to mental illness based solely on genetics. This is especially true since environment plays a strong role in the development of said conditions. It might be fair to conclude, then, that we ought to pay more attention to the environment people experienced while growing up, and hey, who can claim to have had a perfect childhood? No one I've met, that's for sure.

While I'm pleased that celebrities have been normalizing discussion of mental illness, I'm skeptical of the impact. It's not enough for Lady Gaga to talk about her condition. We regular people have to do the talking. There need to be more op-eds about our experiences, and our struggles. This is not simply a matter of social comfort, or a ploy to get our kids married. Talking about mental illness breaks down the barriers that isolate our friends and family. Feelings of isolation are a leading cause of suicide.

When you frame it like that, sharing our stories could save lives.

Musical Pains

Why does art hurt me so bad?

This question recurs in my life every time I encounter something heartbreakingly beautiful. I've experienced this brand of pain at concerts, plays, minor displays of talent... pretty much any time I encounter someone else experiencing music. It's like my body needs to participate. I can't be a bystander. But guess what? I'm not that good at music! I can't match up to most people on any instrument. I have enough knowledge to recognize genius when I see it. And that's about it.

It hurts. I don't know why.

Today's obsession is Hallelujah, performed by Pentatonix. I'm sure you've heard the track. Hasn't everyone? It's been viewed more than four hundred million times. And that's just on Youtube. I play the song in the car when I'm driving and it plays in my head when I'm busy in the kitchen. I can't shut it off, can't get away... and I'm not sure if I want to. It tears me up inside and I can't tell if I love it or hate it.

What do you call this pain from beauty? I've heard of 'beauty in pain' before, but never this.

They say that in order to build confidence, one needs to build skill. So I ought to be practicing an instrument, right? Does singing count? I sing a lot around the house but my kids complain so I stop. I don't know why I don't feel satisfied with mediocre. It feels like I'm supposed to be more than that. Perhaps it's all a consequence of high school, where I was told, "you're so smart!" almost every day for three years. For someone 'so smart', and 'so talented', there must certainly be great things in store. Right?

Wrong.

In reality, the bar set too high discourages me from even making an effort. As a parent, I suppose the lesson is never to label the child, even with positive labels. Label behaviors instead. That action was kind. That behavior was brave. That choice was smart. This builds self-esteem in children without destroying their sense of satisfaction with life.

(Great, now I'm giving parenting advice? Oh the irony.)

For me, the daily practice is beginning with something - anything - small. I can't look at the entirety of the task or project lest I get overwhelmed and defeated before I've begun.

The Internal Debate

Honesty, again.

This topic haunts me. Because, as Batsheva Shomer, I cannot be completely honest. I can share from a select few topics, which, I grant, could be plenty. But I cannot share from the topics closest to my heart. And that just about flattens me. It makes me wonder if I ought to be blogging anonymously. At least in anonymous form, I could share the real deal - the stuff that people might relate to. But as an anonymous poster, how honest would such posts be, even if the topics were genuine?

So it's a complicated bind I'm in, from a 'values' perspective. If honesty is my goal, and connection my pursuit, which path ought I travel?

The Forest

The trees are tall and all around. The water trickles over the rocks in a low gurgle and the sun beams filter down through the canopy of foliage. It’s a beautiful spring day and the woods are alive with the chirping of birds and the low rustle of squirrels scurrying underfoot. A playful breeze tousles the tree tops, sending shadows whirling across the ground in a kaleidoscope of color. The water is cool beneath my touch, though the face of the stones is warm from the sun. All is gentle movement. Nowhere is it still, except perhaps the base of the trees. Sticks crackle underfoot and pebbles shift with playful delight. I can almost hear the clomp of a horse passing through and the whicker of its passage. Its coat gleams burnished chestnut in the golden rays of the sun, and no shadow dulls its sheen. Beautiful, majestic being, it steps carefully among the rocks, wearing new trails out of the wild woods.