Beyond Existence
by Glennis Ribblett
The last half mile was a challenging climb to the top of this familiar, windswept ridge. I pause to rest, eyes closed, listening to the whisper of wind rustling the junipers and pinon pines, snaking through boulders and dry arroyos, the rising sun warming my face. From atop this ridge I can see snow on the Sangre de Christos to the northeast, the peaks of the Jemez Mountains to the northwest, and miles of pinon-juniper woodlands surround me. I often come here to spend time with my thoughts, and to pick juniper berries.
The act of foraging the berries ties me to this land. I have great respect for the juniper – these trees can live up to 200 years. They do not even start producing “berries” (actually modified cones) until 10-30 years old, and the berries take three years to ripen. So I pick with care and never more than I’m going to use right away or dry for storage. Someday, I’ll try making gin with them, but today’s berries will be for pudding, and marinade for a venison roast, a gift from a friend cleaning out his freezer in preparation for this year’s hunting season. I move through the trees, seeking only berries of deepest blue, picking carefully by hand to avoid disturbing the unripened ones.
Sometimes I feel like a juniper – growing old, striving to reach fruition.
I’m no stranger to the vast reaches of this landscape, peppered with ruins of those who called these lands home for over a thousand years. I sense ancient voices in the breeze, and my heart aches. This is a beautiful, peaceful, wild place. My soul is almost at ease out here; I could lay my bones down in this country.
My mind drifts to all the things I have dreamed of doing, places my youthful brain had always planned to see, none of which will ever come to pass. The breeze dries the tears on my face. People talk about making bucket lists. I stopped putting things on my list long ago, admitting defeat; I will never check off anything. Listing dreams is too painful. Author Rebecca Yarros got it right, “Hope is a fickle, dangerous thing. It steals your focus and aims it toward the possibilities instead of keeping it where it belongs—on the probabilities.” If only my heart would heed this advice.
My body is failing me. My knees are unreliable, painful most of the time. Old damage in my neck frequently leaves my arms and hands numb. I’m being relegated to shorter hikes with a lighter pack, less gear. A four wheel drive with a small camper would be a God send – setting up camp these days is getting harder to do alone – but there’s no money for that luxury. I will continue to demand my body bend to my will.
Between my physical realities and minute income, my dreams are curtailed. I’ll never see Africa, never put boots on the trails of Europe, never visit the world’s great museums, never visit Greece or Italy or Turkey, never tour the stave churches of Norway, never visit Peru or see the Amazon river, never travel to the great national parks of Chili. This is a fraction of my wish list. These things are not on my list of probabilities.
My mind drifts back in time. I chastise myself for not being happy with what life has given me. I think about all the things I have done, the places I have seen, the adventures I have had. My gifts have been abundant. I’ve got a long list of truly amazing accomplishments. Hell, I did more in the first 25 years of life than most people ever accomplish in a lifetime. This should give me joy. Instead, I’m fraught with discontent at not achieving all the adventures I’d hoped for, not getting to see the world as I once imagined I would. Constant unrest is exhausting, and I think it’s time my life came to an end, but then my mind screams in anger, “I’m not done yet!”
I should consider myself lucky that at my age I have a place to live, food to eat, and a daughter who loves me. Things could be much worse. Why do I desire more?
It dawns on me that I am suffering from greed. I want so much more than I can have. Will there ever be a point where I feel my life is complete, finished, fulfilled? That thought frightens me. If that day were to come, would that then be enough? What would I do then?
No, I know myself too well ... there will always be one more thing over the horizon. I have always been, and will always be, hopelessly restless.
How can I ever reconcile unachievable dreams with the probabilities of my reality? Can I stop chasing the unattainable and be happy? My logical mind wants to answer “yes,” but my heart doesn’t permit it. How do I avoid dying with regrets if I don’t do the things I hunger after?
I’m a realist - I will never be able to fulfill all my dreams and desires. In this age of instantaneous information, we are bombarded by endless possibilities of what we could do in life, but nothing teaches us what “complete” looks like. I know I will die incomplete, but is there any way I can live with that and still find satisfaction in what remains of this life?
What is it I really expect from myself?! What is this sense of failure? I cannot avoid feeling unfinished, my best laid plans lost to the ether. Can I change my mindset? There are still places my boots have not tread, and experiences I can seek, within range of my faithful old Subaru and meager finances. Can I make that be enough and stop dreaming of greater journeys? I have never learned to graciously accept defeat. Accepting my probabilities means learning to live with the sadness of setting hope aside. I have no answers to this dilemma.
The morning has become hot. I head down into the valley, across to the creaky old windmill where there is shade. I sit under a tree, consume water, eat a snack, relace a boot, adjust a knee brace. There are trees ripe for picking along this shady southbound trail on my way back to the trailhead. Moving on, my mind drifts to thoughts of the people who walked this land a 1000 years before me. What did they most long for? A home, warm hearth, enough food, clean water, a safe place to raise happy, healthy children? To enjoy the company of friends and maybe have a lover to snuggle with on a cold winter night? Would these things have been enough, or did they too dream of visiting other far-flung places? I’m guessing for some the answer to the latter would have been “yes” – perhaps they were the ones who became traders.
I burst out laughing, startling myself. I realize I would have been a trader, always restless, always on the move. And, I think, perhaps that would have been enough.
G. J. RIBBLETT is working toward a compilation of essays about her life’s adventures. She earned a Master’s Degree in Public Administration with a Concentration in Conflict Management from the University of New Mexico, and retired from federal service after an extensive career in Equal Employment Opportunity. She was an Honors English student in high school, and took additional literature courses in college in addition to her Major. Her daughter's interest in archeology as a child drove Ribblett to independently study various Native American histories and cultures. Today, her passions are reading, writing, cooking, travel and outdoor adventures.
