Be Nice and Don’t Be So Scared.
If I could do it all again.
This week I climbed a mountain and remembered that amidst the suffering and pain and noise of my mind and this world, beauty exists and I know how to find it.
We headed north up PCH, passed the caravans of surfers on the side of the road, passed the way too crowded beaches, passed the plan we had made. We hit Ventura County and Point Mugu and its fog. On the right, there was a sign for a hiking trail at the Point Mugu State Park.
“Let’s do it,” I said as I turned the car, not waiting for my husband to respond.
I once dreamt that I scaled Point Mugu. In my dream, I was driving south on the 101 when suddenly I was on the face of this rock for no apparent reason or none that I can recall.
But this was different. The earth was below me and the sky above me and the ocean and her horizon before me. My husband and I climbed up and up and up. We wondered how the guy with the flabby belly who just passed us was jogging this incline, then I recalled the lolloping woman who completed the marathon that I could not.
Out of breath, we stopped at a plateau and took in the view. The rugged Channel Islands came into sight as the fog danced with the sun. But there was further to go. Much further. So we soldiered on. The dry dirt kicked up into a faint dust, the sweat on my brow not enough to drip, but enough to annoy. I kept my eyes on the flabby guy. Jesus Christ, how is he so far ahead?
I walked towards baggage claim. My heart was racing. Electric currents ran through my veins. In the distance, steps from the exit, I saw a man. I saw his white hair. It must be him. He was exactly where he said he would be. I wasn’t ready. I ducked into the bathroom. I needed lip gloss. I wasn’t ready.
I hid in the dingy stall. Take deep breaths, you’re okay. I don’t know why I was so scared. He was already so nice, and worst-case scenario, I changed my ticket and left early. Or picked up my bag from baggage claim, turned around, and found the next flight back to LA.
On the plane, I had sat next to a chatty older woman. “Why are you going to Boston?” she asked. Why am I going to Boston?
I’m going to Boston because I’m adopted and after 26 years of searching, I found my biological father through Ancestry.com. When I step off this plane, I am going to meet him for the first time. I am going to touch him, to hug him, to see my face in his, to hear his stories. My birth mother died before I found her. I am going to Boston to meet this man and look in his eyes and find the piece of myself only he can provide.
I got it together and exited the Logan Airport bathroom stall. My hands quivered so hard that I struggled to unzip my bag and retrieve the lip-gloss. I persevered, opened my bag, and glossed my lips. So much hinged upon the fucking lip-gloss.
Then I put on my big girl pants and left that bathroom. I walked towards the man in the distance with the white hair I knew was him because he was standing exactly where he said he would be.
As he came into focus, our blue eyes met. My god, those are my eyes. He covered his mouth in shock and I covered mine and as tears fell from both of our eyes, we trembled and hugged. And then we laughed. We laughed a lot. Because this was insane and beautiful and terrifying and somewhere beyond comprehension.
Somewhere between hope and grief, sadness and joy, between what we think and what we cannot possibly understand, entangled in the mystery of DNA and the magic of life and the promise of love and the pain of loss.
We got my bag, and we walked to his car and he took me to his home and I met his wife and we looked at pictures and shared stories. We walked on the beach and drank wine and laughed some more.
He told me about Harry’s Bar where they drank beer after long hours protesting the Viet Nam War. He told me about the Van Morrison song, Gloria, and how he sang it to that beautiful woman across the bar. Gloria. My first mother. He told me how they flirted and how he left for the Peace Corps and never saw her again. He spoke of her with respect and a very specific smile. The mischievous smile of a man remembering a beautiful woman with whom he had had some fun.
My husband and I arrived at the summit, dripping in sweat and catching our breath. Exhausted, I took a long swig of cool water and turned around. There was the flabby guy, just chilling on a bench. A young couple sat side by side in the dirt, admiring the vista. And we stood, the man I love and me, filling our lungs with air and our hearts with awe.
We watched the clouds of cotton drift to the side and to the back, making room for the sun to poke through. You know those skies, the ones where the clouds part ways for transcendent rays of light to beam down and illuminate the sea. Those skies that look like God.
I’ve lived most of my life in fear. Fear of cats and sometimes dogs, fear of people leaving, fear of loving too hard or too much, fear of failure, fear of success. Fear in all her incarnations.
Maybe I’m afraid because of the pre-verbal trauma caused by separating a newborn from her mother. Or because after months in foster care, I was handed to strangers. Maybe because of the parents who raised me. Maybe because of DNA. Or maybe fear is imprinted in the brain of a baby whose first experience of life is loss.
If I could do it all again, I’d be less fearful. What would have been if I didn’t quit all the things that scared me? Softball and ballet and political science classes and too many friendships because getting close to women is the scariest thing of all. What would have been if I lived by the sage advice of Dave Chappelle: Be nice and don’t be so scared.
But I had no fear as I climbed this trail and traversed these rocks and moved ahead with no guide, no map, no plan. I just kept going. I believed I could, so I did. And look at that. Here I am. No longer afraid.
