Mag 64 -- Falling for the mountain

Journal Entry: 19 October 1980

We are volleying the flu, and the mountain blew again on the 17th -- giving us our greatest concentration of ash yet in Salem. It's hard on respiratory systems already coping with wheezes and fever. I've not felt well for three weeks, and keep joking with Michael that we should head for Acapulco quickly. It would be so lovely to really do that.

I don't have anger for the mountain, in spite of the inconvenience. After flying over it with Michael and Mama for her 65th birthday on September 27th, I have a deep love for Mount St. Helens. We cleared the red zone with our "press pass" and flew mere hundreds of feet over the mountain. Her strong drafts played with the plane and her smell filled my nose so that, even now with this cold, I can recall the sulfur. It was dizzying fun and I was congratulating myself on providing the best birthday gift ever for Mama, until that moment when the mountain's turbulence sucked the small plane inside her huge crater. We four then had a silent knowing -- a breathless, wordless romp with danger. It was the wildest ride ever, crazier than anything created for any fair or expo. Mama had a stunned look on her face (she later told me her thoughts were: This cannot be. I have lived 65 wonderful years but these three young people are just starting their lives...), the pilot was moving his hands over the controls so swiftly that he looked like he had 30 fingers, and Michael...oh, Michael, was snapping photos faster than seems possible: clickclickclickclick inside the crater as the plane headed for the steaming dome. Looking back now I realize that I was the observer watching the others' reactions while I lost track of time itself. When we suddenly rose up and cleared the slice of the mountain's side all my senses were warped and wrapped together: sightsmellhearingtouch but then out of that mush I began to distinguish the pilot's quipped explanation: he did not know how he had been able to save us, as the plane had dropped about 300 feet per minute. He chose to not join us for brunch after we landed and I probably will never see him again.

Nothing has seemed as significant since. I belong to Mount St. Helens in spirit now. And sharing all that with Mama will remain among my most powerful memories for the rest of my life. I also now have a more peaceful feeling regarding my death. Each of us in the plane -- Mama, Michael, the pilot, and I -- expressed having a sacrificial mood when we were with the mountain that day. Death must come, then, with a willingness to give oneself to something greater.

Visit Magpie Tales for more takes on this week's photo prompt!

Note: I have searched through boxes of loose photos for the one image I have that was taken by my then-boyfriend, Michael, (not to be confused with my now-husband, Michael!) and I cannot find it. Living around this kind of disarray is one reason I started my second blog, Clutterquake, and, after the frustrating experience I've had trying to find one favorite photo, I think I had better renew my efforts to address the damn clutter that paralyzes me. When I find the marvelous shot taken inside the mountain as the plane was literally on its way down I will add it to this post.


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Journal entry: January 22, 1979

Garden Party by Gerda Wegener

January 22, 1979

As I opened my journal KINK-fm radio began to play The Beatles' Here Comes the Sun. Ironic since that recording was a major part of the music at our wedding and because this was our first day of marriage counseling today. It is our last effort to save the relationship, and I think we each have a good open feeling about the six weeks of counseling. After that time we will be on our own to either continue improving the marriage or to dispose of it.

The future is damn threatening for both TJ and me, but my fears are a bit deeper I think. After all, in May TJ will have a law degree which can lead to many things for him. I am now unemployed and have no financial security to call my own. Neither do I at this time feel capable of making a good enough impression on any potential employer to secure a job. Neither do I know what it is I really want to do; I do know it is not selling insurance.

Today TJ said to Dave, our counselor, that when he came home in August he stopped some motion of progress I had begun in the area of self-development. He said he also feels I cannot grow again as long as he remains around me. Is he right or wrong? Can we develop the marriage to a place where we each can grow, or can I only grow by being alone?

Why did I flourish so when TJ left me? Was it because I had to? As I told Dave today I've always been such a private person, yet Summer '78 was the first time I've had in which to be alone. That time was precious for me because I proved to myself that I could care for me and I received positive feedback from others for the way I was living my life.

The social highlight of my summer alone was the Garden Party given by some friends of mine who called themselves "The Ladies' Aide Society." Everything was perfect: the night air was the blessing of a July evening in the Pacific Northwest. The back lawn was sweeping and gracious befitting the oldest neighborhood in Salem. At the end of the grass toward the west a gentle sunset glowed over the little bank that almost hid Mill Creek. Our hostesses had scattered blankets there for us to further enjoy the water. Just feet away was a small brick patio where a man played classical guitar with a woman who played the flute and who also sang beautifully. They had set up a strong speaker system but used the trunk of a 200-year-old tree as a disguise for unattractive equipment. There was an aesthetic amount of lighting from outdoor poles which must have burned kerosene. People were warm, almost gushing friendship - but it wasn't phony. There was a generous movement in the people there; I met and liked everyone. They had humor as a group but were serious people individually. As their energy lessened toward the end of the evening, some left for home. A large number stayed to sit on the blankets and listen to the fine music. Their party photographer, a man who works for National Geographic, sat near me to get some shots of the musicians. He asked me how I felt since he had earlier shared some Lebanese marijuana and I remember I said, "I feel beautiful."

I want to feel that beautiful again, and I want it to last forever. Not my beauty, but the feeling of being beautiful.

~ from one of my old journals

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