Never Broken: Songs Are Only Half the Story (17 page)

I measured my stirrup length and he gave me my instructions. Just follow the trail up to the top. Be careful on the steep parts. Someone would be waiting up there to meet me. Unpack and repack the mules with fresh supplies. I encouraged my pony to head out, which he did ever so reluctantly, and I felt my lead rope tighten as the mule behind me protested. Then he slowly started and I felt another pull as the mule behind that one pulled slightly, uneager to start, and so on down the line until we were all moving forward toward the trail.

I waved my hand and cheerfully chimed, “
Hej!
” The Swedish greeting that meant both hello and goodbye.

“
Vi ses snart
,” Musse answered—he’d see me soon.

Though I was a bit nervous at first, I began to relax as I saw that my horse, Rocky, knew his way at each small fork in the trail. I was just there to provide motivation. I sat back and enjoyed the scenery. An hour passed and I began to see the ground rise at a slow and almost imperceptible grade. I pushed the train on at a slow and steady pace and the canyon widened with each foot we climbed. In a few hours we were on the steepest part of the trail—we switched back and forth, zigzagging up the steep cliffs. I stopped every now and then to let the sweating animals catch their breath. As we walked, I watched small rocks knocked loose by my horse’s sure feet tumble down behind us. I listened to the tiny clanging sound until I could hear it no more, drowned by the steady rhythm of hoofbeats. The sun was high and directly overhead as I neared the top. My tummy was growling and the mules began to nicker as they knew the top meant lunch was near.

As I cleared the last turn, I could see a powder blue form start to
appear at the apex of the trailhead. The crown of a pickup became slowly discernible, then a straw hat, and then the face beneath it, folded arms, legs crossed, until finally I was at the top of the hill and could see the whole man. I must have been revealed in the same fashion: first my horse’s ears, then blonde hair, and so on.

“You’re not Joe,” the Mexican stated in an even tone.

“No, I’m Jewel.” I had not spoken for the last several hours and had inhaled so much dust that my voice sounded shockingly loud. That was that. He seemed to require no more explanation.

It took us at least an hour of quietly working side by side for us to repack the mules, being careful to distribute the weight evenly on both sides of the animals. Packing mules is quite an art, and the Mexican, who never gave me his name, was quite a hand at it. I helped as best I could, and tried not to get in his way.

The ride back was peaceful. A
hoo-hoo
of an owl out in the day, the scratches of a rabbit as it scurried, always fearful of discovery. It felt so pleasingly familiar to be on horseback, by myself, wandering as I had done on the bluffs of Alaska. Here I was, many miles away, in an extremely different climate, running a mule train in the bottom of the Grand Canyon for a guy named Indian Joe, who lived in a forgotten village belonging to a tribe I never knew existed. Unbelievable.

As I neared the house, I called out. There were kids in the narrow paths that they used as streets, though really they were nothing more than dusty trails worn smooth by so much foot traffic. I headed to the general store and began unloading the supplies. Musse and Joe showed up, and Joe said, “What a nice day off I had! Sue did not let me out of the house—I lived the good life today!” His smile was broad. It was three in the afternoon when we got the last bit of tack off and put away, and currycombed each mule. I was beat, but eager to look around. And a hot mineral bath sounded good.

Down the trail we went, and it felt so good to be out of my hiking boots and restrictive jeans. The heat and exertion made my limbs swell, and walking in sandals was a delight. We followed a chalky path as it wound deeper into what seemed to be an oasis. Soon I could hear a distant roar. We rounded the corner, and I quickened my pace and then stopped suddenly in disbelief. I could not believe my eyes. And even writing about it, you will think I’m lying unless you’ve seen it too. Blue does not begin to describe the supernatural color of this water. It glowed like neon, even beneath the full light of day. It was so blue it almost quivered against the red cliff. And it was no minor waterfall—it was a sixty-foot monster pouring from high above, straight out of the stone. A large pool gathered beneath it and white spray frothed and foamed and settled ultimately into rippling robes that furled and unfurled in widening concentric circles, gently lapping at the dusty edge. I stepped out of my sandals and headed straight in. It was cold and exhilarating. Apparently these were not the hot pools. It is still one of the most exotic and beautiful places that I have ever been, or even heard about.

“God bless you for not checking the oil!” I said as I waded deeper, goose bumps running up my legs and fanning down my arms as the chill soothed my sore feet and caught my breath.

After a short time we went farther down the trail to the hot springs. I laid myself flat, resting my head on a rock for a pillow, just my face above water, and felt the heat penetrate deeply into my muscle and bone. Magical. I breathed in deeply, the sculpture of the canyon and mineral smell of the water mixed with the fine dust and the dampness of the evening as it cooled. I was weightless, completely cradled by the womb of the water as it gently rocked me. I stared up at the sky as it darkened slowly, a deep indigo bruise that was spreading from the east. I couldn’t help seeing myself as if from above. My wet hair fanning out like tentacles. Limbs weightless in the water. I burnt that image into my mind’s eye, saving it
until I could draw it one day. Green eyes and pale skin floating in a tiny pool, nestled into red earth. I was watching my own becoming. I was witnessing it all unfold. A knot was loosening, and I was more than just a child running scared. I would stay there, I would work and run the mule train for the week, I would go on to Colorado, and God knows where after that, but I wasn’t as worried. I could slow down inside myself a little. Enough to enjoy this moment.

I tried to imagine more of the unpainted portraits of the woman I would become, but I could not see them. They were still waiting to be drawn. I was not certain about the exact shape I would take, but I knew in that moment that if the past was an indication, if the amazing amount of life I had managed to live in eighteen years was a clue, it was going to be an adventure. I was already a ragtag study in contrasts. I was a kid on a dog sled in the Arctic Circle on my way to sing for Inuit villagers in the land of the midnight sun, a traveler in the desert running mules for the Havasupai Indian, a kid in the slums of Anchorage, a bar singer, a graduate of a prestigious fine arts school, a scared girl, a brave girl, a student of nature—all these impossible things were all strung on the same thread that was me. An accidental poet, trying to suck beauty from the driest places. I would try to be as bold as that blue waterfall that had the audacity to liberate itself from stone. ’
Cause I am a painter and I am painting myself a lovely world . . .

FARMERS OF LIGHT

shimmering

faintly

something I see

from the

corner of my eye

but disappears

when I stare straight at it

hope

perhaps

not close

but existing

for me

in the future, even

is enough

to buoy my heart

a little

and keep me going

so dark these days have been

that I do not see darkness

but only stars

. . .

I stare at stars

at the beauty of night

for if I let myself

study the darkness

I would get lost in

just how absolute it feels

yes darkness

you are there

I have brought you into my life

in my ignorance

in my half wake state

and you descended creating

a long dark night of the soul

but I will not lose myself

in you

I will not let myself founder

or falter

or cease to believe

in the existence of a better day

. . .

instead I will trust the rhythm

of nature

with each death a rebirth

with each night a dawn

with each empty tide

a full one follows

today is just a hard day

it has just been a hard year

because I fought you, Darkness

for years

instead of letting myself

accept you as my teacher

to see what it was I had to learn

from you

now I busy myself

mending my net

examining my holes

doing the work the dark is good for

looking inward

repairing the habits

fixing the holes in my

self-love

that got me here

in the first place

I stare at the stars

my heart is quiet

in the winter of itself

but I will not be made idle

with despair

I will be a busy little animal

trusting nature

trusting rhythm

readying myself

for when that glimmer

on the horizon

shifts

for when the shimmering

grows more sure of itself

when the light in me

calls forth the light

in the world

sure of my own

worthiness

and ready to step into a new day

I bless this darkness

for without it

I would never do this work

I would be distracted continually

but in the dark

robbed of my sight

I must look inward

and while it is painful

I bless the wisdom

in me

that brought me here

. . .

I will try to be the best

student I can

of the night

for I sense

the quality of

myself here

is the quality that will come with me

as I walk through the rest of my days

and my willingness to really

roll up my sleeves

to do the hard work

will determine my experience here

in the long night of my soul

and will determine the length

of my stay

and will determine

I think

even the length and quality

of my return to day

so quiet, body

I know you are afraid

you crawl out of your skin

with the fear that

this darkness is here

forever

and quiet, mind

focus

on your mirror image

see the starlight within

and grow those points of light out

until the light swells across our internal

horizon

spilling outward

we are not in the business of

fighting darkness;

we are farmers of light

so stay quiet, body

stay focused, mind

stare at the stars

quiet yourself

and know

I am alive in here

waking inside
myself

fifteen

the servants of our thoughts

A
fter dropping me off in Boulder at Andrea’s house, Musse and I parted ways, unsure of when we would see each other next. He was off to the East Coast to visit family. I would see what life in Boulder had in store for me. I got a job working the register at a funky secondhand store and made enough to cover groceries, but not much toward rent. Thankfully Andrea was kind enough to share the apartment with me anyway. We had a lot of fun together. We cooked and read books aloud to each other. We talked about art. Andrea was a dancer but played piano and sang as well—it was she who had taught me my first chords on guitar in high school. I admired Andrea and had written her a song called “A Dance Between Two Women” about a year earlier, about the specialness of female friends. Someone who wanted nothing from you other than support and solidarity. It was a very safe and reassuring thing, to have someone else who was struggling with art and trying to make a life that included it.