Impermanence

July 26, 2014

Crater Lake, OR

We find another RV park. I wonder how people have ended up here and where they are going. Some might not be going anywhere. Others are just passing through. There is movement and stillness, but the beauty in RV parks is that your neighbors constantly change. People rotate, strangers meet for a brief moment, collide because of electricity and water hook ups. Then they are gone again.

We meet Steve and his wife in the office of the RV park. Steve leads us with his golf cart to our campground and talks about his life in Hawaii running boat tours with his wife. I wonder how they ended up here in them middle of Western Oregon running an RV park. I ask him but he shirks from the question. I’m guessing he isn’t here by choice but because of circumstance. We hop on the golf cart so he can show us the sights—the middle of the campground where they will be hosting karaoke and a weenie roast tonight. “I do hope you will join us. It really is a lot of fun,” he smiles grandly. Then he takes us behind the campground to the river. He shows us where to run. And where not to swim. The dam creates electricity and can suck us under and in.

I wave to our neighbor, a man with a familiar handsome face. “Are your dogs friendly?” I ask. Now I am ever more aware of how much I miss my dog Miles.

“Of course,” he responds. He stands and his height matches the deep timbre of his voice.

I let the two dogs, one brown and compact, the other a German Shepard, wrap around my legs. I give them strong strokes of affection and they push each other out of the way to get closer to me.

“They are really sweet.” I say and straighten out. “Makes me miss my dog. He didn’t want to ride in this RV. He’s 14. Can’t do that to him.”

“I get it. These two had a hard time adjusting to this big rig and its pretty quiet inside.”

I wonder about who he is in the world. Why here? Why now? Why alone?

“Are you going to karaoke tonight?” I ask to perhaps appease my piqued interest.

“Maybe. Sounds fun. I definitely have to shower first.”

Pamela and I stake our claim then head out to Crater Lake. We want to hike and be in the mountains. It has been a long drive. Time in nature is food for the soul. Elfie, as we have now come to affectionately call her, takes turns delicately. Climbing up to 8000ft in elevation is slow going around bends. We stop and take a yogi picture on the edge of heaven, Crater Lake. Crater Lake is deep blue, so deep blue, with sheer surrounding cliffs, two thousand feet high. Its violent volcanic past reminds me that nothing is permanent. Everything changes. Everything is in constant flux. I am reminded of Buddhist philosophy. Clinging to the present or the past only causes suffering. Grasping to a future will only cause disappointment.

We hike up Mt. Scott because the ranger told us the hike was strenuous. And it was. 2 ¼ straight uphill at 8000ft in elevation does a number on the lungs. Pamela stops and takes a sip of water. I ask, “Are your lungs ok?”

“I am practicing mindful breathing. Four counts in, pause, four counts out.”

“Ok. I’ll try it.” I focus only on my breath, the view, and the steps one at a time. We climb slowly. Make the ascent to the fire tower. And from up here, we can see all of Crater Lake, a 360degree view of the entire area. Dry, high desert cut wide open by the volcanic eruption years ago. Filled now with the bluest water. Surrounded by thin, tall pine trees. We back bend and meditate, snap pictures and climb down.

At the very last bend, my ankle gives out and I fall hard on my right knee. Pain shoots up my entire body. Blood rushes to the injured left ankle. “Fuck.” I twist my face in agony. “Damn it.” I immediately stand to put pressure on it to see if it is broken. Pamela runs to my side. “You ok?” she asks concerned. I can walk, thankfully.

“AH.” I call out loud. “Hopefully this doesn’t impact the driving.”

“Yea, I thought of that too.”

My body reminds me that it too needs rest. I make clicking sounds with my mouth to distract myself from the pain. I whistle as I walk. I keep walking.

We return to the ELF and I pull my leg into the car, hyper aware now of the body’s fragility. I push on the clutch. It hurts, a lot, but I can do it.

Back at the RV park, Pamela makes me a bag of ice and I elevate my leg. I sit for an hour or so and write. Everyday writing is a game of catch up. Dirty, dusty and tired, I know I need a shower more than anything. So I gather my things and walk to the showers. Two men on a golf cart speed by and say, “Karaoke’s that way!”

I wave and say, “I’ll be there after I clean up a little.”

In the shower, I warm up my voice and tell myself that I have to sing. I will never see these people again. No fear. I love to sing, mostly in my shower these days, but it brings me great joy. I step out onto my flip-flops and realize I forgot my towel. Shoot. I hobble over to the paper towel dispenser and make due patting my soaked body with paper towels.

My ankle is swollen but there isn’t much I can do. It will heal in its own time. So I join the campfire karaoke gathering with red wine in my white serenity mug.

The man on stage is in his late 70s. He wears blue jeans, a cowboy hat, and a big brass buckle. He sings Waylon Jennings. A small RV park crowd has gathered. Families and couples sit on picnic benches and hay stacks. It’s an eclectic mix of travelers, all a bit weathered from the road. They roast hotdogs and smores over the fire and watch and listen to the brave karaoke singers that serenade them. After some time, the man in the cowboy hat says, “You’ve been looking at that book a long time. You have one yet?”

I hand him my post it note with a Norah Jones song scribbled on it. I swig my wine and step through the fear. On stage, I swing my hips and find the rhythm. As I sing, I feel a mix of bravery and insecurity. I sing through it, move through it, to the other side of it. And I open my voice. A small round of applause follows me off the stage. A woman comes over to me and says, “ I knew you were going to be a good singer. What’s the next song you are going to sing?” We discuss the merits of Janis Joplin and Bonnie Raitt.

“I’m going to go get my friend before I sing the next one,” I say and excuse myself. I also want to refill my mug.

“Good, well, I’ll be right here belting along with you.”

I convince Pamela to join me around the campfire and she cheers me on as I sing Me and Bobby McGee. Janis was a freakin’ rock star. Our RV neighbor Derek joins us around the fire, then our picnic table. He asks questions that get to heart of our personalities, like he is profiling us. But his interest is genuine. I like talking to him. He is quick witted, smart, caring. We all drink too much, close the karaoke down, and wander back to our RV campgrounds. Derek says, “Follow me.” We follow him out to the highway. “Look up” he says and I gasp. The stars are incredible, expansive, covering every corner of the sky.

I say, “Watch for cars.”

Derek says, “I got you.” And I lay down in the middle of the road. Humbled. I take in short breaths. I am so small, only one tiny part of this incredible universe. And this universe is ever moving, never still. Stars shine, they burn out, and another is born. We are ever twisting, turning, moving, shifting. Nothing will stay the same. We are all simultaneously living and dying in organized chaos. We are slivers in the moment, a brief second in the forever of time. Everything changes. Everything is in constant flux. Clinging to the present or the past only causes suffering. Grasping to a future will only cause disappointment. Recognize the beauty in now. Conscious and aware of how our actions impact this pattern. Our thoughts, actions, movements, flitter and change the course of things, albeit in small ways. So what is here right now is the sound of a car coming down the highway.

Derek says, “Car.”

I rise to my feet and say, “This is my favorite moment.” As we walk back to the campground, I tap him on the arm and say, “Thank you.”