Who Am I?

Who am I? The "me" that exists beside, and complementary to, the changes since May has been flooding me in the form of images of places I love and deeply associate with myself. Two days ago I impulsively asked Barry to please include some of my seashells in the things he brought. They arrived today, crisp, crinkly and welcome.

Today I walked in the woods behind Sue's house, where I'm staying. The toad that hopped in front of me (almost falling victim to my foot) brought memories of the shadowy toads I see at night walkng towards the Atlantic ocean beach by which I usually camp for about a week or two each summer, sometimes with Nadine and sometimes completely alone. If I could live anywhere, I lookat near the ocean; I attempt to compensate for the loss by annually immersing myself in the world of sand, sea, sun, and sometimes thunderstorms for that short time, making each moment count.

I tentatively stepped across the Klassens' wobbly hanging bridge over the stream and saw the "Wiggly Bridge" over the lake at Ashokan camp/preserve, where Nadine and I are "fixtures" at Jay Ungar and Molly Mason's late-July "Northern Week", a total music immersion brimming with workshops, classes, concerts, friendships, jam sessions, and incredibly musical and personal encounters. With its dedicated cadre of teens, Nadine and I say "Bye" to each other on arrival, meeting occasionally over a meal, to check flashlights, and sometimes rehearse. "Ashokan Farewell" was written in honor of these music camps, and it was there that Nadine and I developed our traditional-music skills, confidence, and community to the point of being ready to perform. At Ashokan I first feared to cross the "Wiggly Bridge", then lurched timidly across, and finally made a habit of bouncing triumphantly from one end to the other.

I braved the Klassens' bridge today and set off through mud and hopefully-not-poison-ivy until the stream doubled back; I removed my shoes, rolled up my pants, and waded and poked my way to a rock in the center, where I sat with feet in the water relishing the feel of water on toes and the sight of light-and-shadow on trees and moving water. I may have hundreds of photos of my feet in water or mud, a personal custom akin to my habit of photographing Nadine "asleep" in the different places we travel to. I remembered late April of this year, when Nadine and I stopped at a sunny riverbank on the way from playing a dance in Williamstown (western) Massachusetts to Mansfield MA (south of Boston). Nadine and I both climbed happily over rocks, settling on rocks juxtaposed to the river about 100 feet from each other. There, I settled by the shore; Nadine lay on a relatively flat rock in the midst of the river (I'm less adventurous, or less graceful, than she). The water glistened in eddies, and everywhere I looked was a different texture, a different pattern of movement, flow, and light.

Still at the Klassen stream, I thought of Prince Creek near Carbondale Colorado, where we also camped several times.. There, the chilliness of the shallow crystal-clear water didn't stop me from happily immersing myself all the way in, loving the flow of water against my head and feeling the happy tingle on my skin long afterwards. I would hike alone down the creek to a place where three streams (or creeks) came together with a little island in the middle, and wade and/or negotiate rocks to get onto the island. I nicknamed this area the "Confluence", not knowing that years later Nadine's and my music duo would be named "Confluence". Amazingly, she was the one who came up with the name, completely unaware of its significance to me. We used to volunteer at the Carbondal Mountain Fair, where hordes of people danced outside in the hot sun to excellent music with 12,000-foot Mount Sopris in the background and smiles everywhere. The crew would gleefully spray water (with waterhoses) high up into the air above the dancers, where it fell like rain and cooled us off. I remember hiking on Mount Sopris, and the smell of pines. Another day, Nadine and Erek hiked to the top and she brought back an incredible photo she took of the sunrise.

Memories. The life I led. The me that I still am. It's still with me, even if I don't get there this summer. Today I fantasized about jumping in the car and driving all the way to the Atlantic, even if only to plunk myself down, set up my tent, wander, gaze, listen, camp, and swim for a day or two and then return. I remember lying in the tent watching the beach vegetation waving in the wind and hearing the wonderful sound of the ocean. Returning this summer is a nice fantasy even though it feels completely right to be here instead. The thoughts are still pleasurable and satisfying, and I've had the gift of many years to physically be there; this should carry me well through the summer. Perhaps next year I'll get back....

Wherever I am, I'm still me, in many permutations, some new and some old. I like that.