Hey Hartlist,
I found Autumn! (It’s upstate.)
JUST THE GIGS
Tune in Sunday, October 30 at 4PM ET for The Chrysalis 57: HALLOWS.
Livestreaming on youtube, facebook, and instagram as usual.
FROM THE CHRYSALIS
That’s what I call some good Fall Action. (Oh, and the band got a good review from the Brooklyn Americana Fest! Thanks Brooklyn Roads Magazine. I should leave town more often.)
I met up with friends near Woodstock and we did two mountain hikes in two days, bringing us to a total of 5 out of the 6 Fire Towers we need for the official Catskills Fire Tower Challenge, followed by a writing workshop with the Queen of Hiking herself, Cheryl Strayed1 in Rhinebeck. (I didn’t make that connection til after, but that’s kind of the theme of this newsletter, so read on.)
You don’t need to climb up the actual tower to qualify, but Porkpie and I have adopted a Go Big or Go Home attitude about this. 2 Once we complete the challenge, we will “receive a commemorative patch and be entered to win great outdoor prizes including hiking accessories”.
I really, really want that patch.
I don’t know exactly why yet; maybe I will later. While I’m an avid spotter of signs and symbols, sometimes it takes a minute to add them up to a Theme. One of the things I learned at the workshop was that Cheryl Strayed, back in the day, had a lot of friends urge her to write about her three months alone on the Pacific Crest Trail. To which she’d respond “I don’t have anything to say about that”. She did of course… 17 years after the fact.
This might be my roundabout way of telling you that this week’s blogletter is mostly a thing I wrote in the workshop in a 10-minute exercise. You’re welcome. But I wanted to tell you the story anyway.
On the wall of my friend’s house near Woodstock is a small unassuming plaque that says “Look for the small miracles.” I noticed it for the first time as we were leaving for the trail on Friday, and there’s nothing odd about that per se except that 1) I’ve been to that house many times and never saw it before and 2) an hour earlier I had read the exact same phrase in something online . I texted it to a friend, with whom I have a daily thread dedicated to signs and symbols of universal, I don’t know what, guidance.
On Friday evening I arrived around twilight and was finally climbing the small hill to my cabin after getting lost twice, which I mention because if I hadn’t gone back and forth and fussed around I might not have been on the hill in that exact spot at that time. And if I had not been there at that exact moment, as the chill evening set in and the moon rose, I might never have seen the fox.
Another woman was coming down the path from the other direction just as my brain was filtering “Dog, but not a dog” from the animal in front of me. She said “It’s a fox!” just as the pieces fell into place: red-gold coat, unmistakable triangle ears, white tail flecked with black streaks as if from a paintbrush. Wonder bloomed. It glanced at us briefly but seemed unconcerned. The woman said “Foxes are supposed to be shy!” as it trotted off.
In bed that night I grabbed my phone and googled “spiritual symbolism of foxes” and “fox crossed my path” and in general everyone seems to agree on good luck,and maybe? a reminder to “use your wits to solve the problems that are facing you”, ok, whatever, so far so good. I’ve been to Omega once before and all I saw was a huge black snake and I much prefer this. Anyway it’s Sunday now and we’ve all talked about the fox, and it’s sort of wonderful because there’s that moment in the book where Cheryl sees the fox on the mountain, and it’s old news. At dinner last night a woman with ice blue eyes sat down with me and we started talking and I said hey have you seen the fox and she said yes and I told her about my search to interpret the symbolism of it crossing my path. With an easy smile she said Well I don’t know if you can take it as an omen for yourself, though, if everyone saw it?
I guess you’re right I said, and chastised myself, and shooed away the 8 year old mystic inside me who was very disappointed. I stood, put away my dishes and headed for my cabin, slightly wondering why I felt the need to leave at just that moment. I walked through the cold air and the night garden; the moon glowing huge above, the song I like to sing to my niece and nephew in my head…
the fox went out on a chilly night
he prayed to the moon to give him light
…and I was just thinking about how the last time I sang it I left out a verse when there he was. At the top of the hill by my cabin. No one else was around; just me and him (or her). S/he stopped and looked at me. I looked at her. Time stopped. Shrewd black eyes. Glorious red-gold coat. I could almost hear:
Do you get it?
I get it, I whispered, though I wasn’t sure what.
A few months ago a kestrel - a rare North American bird of prey - landed on my fire escape in the city. It stayed just long enough to look me directly in the eye and let me take a picture, then flew off. I still can’t believe it; it’s an important bird for me, showed up in one of my songs even before I knew what it was, and it isn’t supposed to live anywhere near here. Susie said I think it was your dad and maybe she’s right. But the fox was something else. And then the fox was gone.
author of “Wild: from Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail”; read the book skip the movie (sorry Reese).
a kindly ranger helped us conquer our fear of heights by saying “look at the steps”. It works.