My Visit to Angel's Rest

I haven't written about this until now because I had work to do over it before I could. I went to Angel's Rest the week before last, Sunday June 8, hiked to the top and sat. It was around six in the evening by then and the shadows were lengthening. Near the top I met a climber who reached the top by climbing the face of the rock wall and his face was bathed in exhilaration and sweat. He wore the clamps and pulleys on a belt around his waist, with water and a little nourishment in a small backpack, and his chosen passion had left him lean and full of energy. He said his name was Matthew and we talked for a while about climbing and the reward of standing on this beautiful place. I think of him again this morning and I wonder where he'll be climbing this weekend. What will we climb this weekend, besides a mountain of laundry?

After he left I found a smooth place, a ledge of rock that time had carved into a perfect writing chair, and I sat down to think and be overwhelmed by Angel's Rest and its spectacular view. I ate a small meal I'd packed, a fresh loaf of Kalamata Olive bread and swiss cheese from the deli and some fruit. Then I sat solemnly for a while to reach the quiet and reflective place my surroundings encouraged, tore a few pages of paper into scraps, and began to make a list of the wrongs, regrets and failings of my life, the people I had injured, the opportunities and gifts I'd squandered, the loves abandoned and duties ignored. On each scrap of paper I recorded a different injury and a different loss, and as the shadows lengthened I had a pile of them because I'm old. I gathered them in my hands and read them over, closing my eyes and praying over each one, asking forgiveness from the God who made me and everything I viewed around me and below me, the river, the rock and the majestic earth that stretched far beyond anything I could see, and I was overcome with a humble quiet. I remembered my vanities and selfishness and impulsiveness, my blindness to the needs of my kids and those I professed to care about. I resolved to make amends however I could, and live my remaining days with a richer care. I thought about each individual person on the papers and their role in my life and mine in theirs, sent out a wish of blessing for them, and a prayer to meet them again in some way and give them something better: Abby, Marie, Stephanie, Roger, Doug, my brothers Mike, Frank and Roger, my sisters Therese, Monika and Kristy, Parker, Joan, my three ex-wives, my many lost friends, and all the other coworkers and victims of my careless swathe through life, the fields I've left untended, the beauty I carelessly viewed. I encourage all of you to make a list like that, in your own way, and seek a way to be be forgiven and unburdened from it. I took my paper scraps and tucked them into the bottom of my green recyclable shopping bag, and I've left them there for 10 days. On Sunday I'll take them out one more time and pray the prayers of thanksgiving and grace over them and let them go, knowing that all the days ahead of me are a gift of healing and hope.

I rested there on the rock for a long while, then gathered my things and made my way down the trail in the soft light of dusk. It had been a wondrous day and a glorious reminder of how rich and full of mercy a day could be.

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At every turn life has something to teach you, if you are receptive. The most recent lesson for me is about artistry and craftsmanship and the standards of excellence. The night before last Marie and I had dinner with Captain Livingstone and his wife Nancy, and he gave us an autographed copy of his book of photography from 1982, Carmel By Itself, A Portrait of a Unique American Community. The images are so full of life and vibrance, so carefully composed. He told us about one shot, a couple sitting on a log at the beach in the moonlight. "That was actually taken at 2 p.m.," he said. "I underexposed the image by four stops to give it the effect of moonlight. I waited two hours for that couple to put their heads together." Every image in the book is crafted with the same great care, his young granddaughter posing for a sculptor, two Carmel restaurateurs enjoying an elegant picnic on the sand. "They were heavy set fellows, and the chairs you see there kept sinking in the sand. Finally I put the bottoms from some old-fashioned Coke bottles under the legs." Every picture had a story, a moment, a gull lighting on a rock, a horse rearing on it's hind legs. In Carmel he became friends with renowned photographers Edward Weston and Wyn Bullock, and his favorite artists were Andrew Wyeth and Norman Rockwell. "I like the way they captured life and humanity in their work," he said. I asked him about a comment in his biography at the end of the book that remarked on the influence of Ansel Adams. "I met Adams, but he isn't a favorite of mine. He liked dead things, rocks and trees. I want to photograph life." The results were beautiful and evocative, even after 26 years, and it made me realize how far I had to travel.

Lessons resonate if you let them. Yesterday I read a review of a play by an acquaintance of mine, Eric Bartels, who writes for the Portland Tribune. He described in a powerful and literate way how the play failed: the characters were inauthentic, the voice of the playwright a little shrill and off-key. How art could go wrong through inattention. The lesson resonated again last night when Marie and I met at The Tillicum for a drink and a bite to eat and to hear The Conroy-Debrie band: wonderful, wonderful musicians whose every note and harmony soared. Mr Debrie carries 4 guitars and is a master of everything from flamenco to Jimmy Hendrix. The bar was half empty. Even great artistry has to struggle for an audience, and bear the sorrow of an indifferent world.