Where

WHERE

____

The walls of the cave were not warm. They were damp, sure. But they were not cold either. The sand that her legs were molded into was moist, saturated in some places, giving way to her weight. The dry pieces sticking to the bare skin of her feet.

After falling into the cave, the first thing Lane did was pull off her shoes, soaked. And then peeled off her wool socks, also soaked. She needed to remove the angst of carrying these across wet slippery rocks with wet slippery feet in wet slippery shoes; the fear of sliding into the rocky expanse pumping through her veins into her chest, arms, legs, and out through her fingertips with each step, her toes numb.

Her eyes assembled the puzzle that the cave laid out before her. It was mostly dark and did not appear to be very deep but was deeper than to say it was not deep. Years of incoming and outgoing salty tides had carved an alcove out of the cliff structure, leaving a wide, open mouthed entrance into the cave where wet edges of rough limestone glistened with the incoming light. The sand had been brought in by a similar fashion and on a rainy windy colossally stormy coastal day (such as this was), the mix of rain and ocean spray seeped into the cave’s glassy grains. The sand at the back of the cave, though, was dry. Dark and dry. The open mouth parched at its throat.

Sunken into a seam of dry sand hid a small partially buried treasure. A black corner peeked out, so slight in its presence and introduction that it could have been a trick of the shadows. Lane sat, staring at its edges. She wasn’t so much taking in the edges at first as staring in their direction lazily, discovering there were edges there to be seen. A perpendicularity in an amorphous room of formlessness.

When we are aware of what we are seeing,

When we are hidden in shadow in our effort,

When we come into seeing after times of darkness,

This is where we find our path.

She closed her eyes and put the object out of her mind, placing her head at its back onto the cave wall. Her arms fell to her sides, her legs straight out. She breathed deep. And she released, opened her eyes and decided to move. A weight on her shoulders registered and she realized she still hadn’t removed her wet backpack. Everything slightly damp.

Everything.

Twisting out of the straps, she scooted the pack into the sand at the back of the cave. She then dug a small hole and sat back on her heels. The back of the cave was still. Not quite warm and not quite cold.

She returned to her pack, locating a small fire-starting set, flint and a strike bar. Along with this, she removed the green journal inscribed with her initials that she had yet to write in. (That’s a lie.) On her first day of this descent into wilderness, she wrote idyllically about beginning her adventure.

“Day 1: As I embark on the sands of our earth, as my steps leave their footprints, I and my foot falls will walk further away from those things that did not serve me and will take me deeper into the depths of my true self.”

On the second day she wrote, “Day 2: I have arrived at the first stop in my journey. The night was colder than I expected. This will be tougher than I thought.”

On the third day she wrote, “Day 3.”

These three entries made more than 40 days ago served as the base to Lane’s sole friend, twice confidant, and, more importantly, kindling provider. The book’s spine overtook the pages, standing emptier and emptier as she pulled away at its meat. Setting the book aside, she rummaged around the back of the cave, her body taking large movements on all fours like a small horse, hooves of bare fingers and toes digging into the dry sand. She galloped collecting bits of small wooden sticks and other larger pieces of driftwood.

When she returned, she tore a page from the journal, stuffing the balled paper below a small stack of sticks and strips peeled from driftwood. The flint strike caught instantly, a spark glowing red, a howl of soft wind raising a small fire. More sticks. More heat. More fire.

Socks and shoes collected at the site; she could rest. She could evaluate her situation. Was there a situation? Wasn’t all of this the situation? Life, moving through pieces, moving through shadows, moving through light, moving through trees. Life was the situation; a moment was no situation at all.

~~~~~

The bright greens of ferns and shadows of low-lying vines intertwined her steps as she walked along the thin trail of the forest. Small shimmers of light flickered through trees that smelt of a wet growth and shielded her from the storm surrounding. The city of wooded skyscrapers allowed her to hear the waves crashing on the coast nearby. Far enough that she could not feel the sea’s spray but near enough that the scents intermixed in an inland green and outward salt.

The weight of the storm bore heavier. Rain penetrated the canopy above her, infiltrating her Gore-Tex rain jacket and Gore-Tex trail shoes. She tightened the straps of her pack and began running over the tight trail towards anything that was outside of the forest. She found herself running towards a cliff and climbed its face to the coast. Now at its base, she stood, downpour uninhibitedly soaking the sky only to break at the highest point of her head and roll downward. Looking out, a sunken cave sat tucked into a cliff opposite the expanse of sand in front of her. She ran towards it clumsily, her trail shoes sinking into the sand, filling from their tops.

Reaching the cliff’s walls, the rocks below her were slick. She turned back attempting to find an alternative only to see the now distant cliffs had somehow grown taller than what she had climbed down before. Was it getting dark or was that the storm? Was that lightning or her fear?

She tediously and very carefully stepped onto the first bump of rock and then placed her next footing, moving deeper into the realm of no turning back. She hugged the wall as though the cliff would reach out its arms and hold her tight. She pressed, slipping on the rocks, breathing heavy, the waves spraying the backs of her arms and legs with a chilled mist. The sea crashed into the rocks. She fought around the cliff towards the cave. Step by step by step.

Her eyes shut and her feet stepping, her fingers followed the sharp ridges until she felt her hand reach into the cliff. She didn’t open her eyes. Her focus was deep into the back of her eye lids, dipped deep into the back of her brain as she allowed her feet to move up, down, into, and over the wet rocks. Just as her hand had found a new home deeper into the wall, the front of her shoe sunk into something softer than the rock at her heel. She had made it.

Step. Step. Step. Into the cave.

She opened her eyes and collapsed onto her knees. Throwing herself into the cave out of fear that the storm behind her would pull her back out. She caught her breath. Her hands on her knees. Her face looking upward. She caught her breath.

~~~~~

Looking over the fire, again towards the black edge hanging out of the sand, she pulled the angled object from the corner. The pages were curled from wet and some of the lines were blurred.

A journal. Filled with various colors, inks, writings, and sketches. Flipping through she saw that the handwriting in the beginning was not the same as that at the end. But it wasn’t quite the end, was it? More than half of the book’s pages remained blank filled only with empty lines.

“I leave this for you, oh wonderous traveler, to find me next and tell me your story.” These were the last lines written before the unoccupied pages began.

She flipped the pages until she found the moment that the handwriting changed. “I am Samir. I don’t know where you came from (yet), but I thank you for finding me. I can’t wait to tell you where this life has taken us.” began the second set of handwriting. The first, preceding set ended, “It has been lovely traveling with you. I cannot wait for you to meet your next adventure. - Sophie.”

The journal seemed to whisper, “your turn, Lane”. What will she tell them? These strangers who have traveled before her. They knew about life. They knew what they were doing. She was an imposter, an intruder on this world. (Was she?)

~~~~~

When her phone rang the unknown number, she didn’t see it.

Lane was in the bedroom moving paintings to prospective positions around its walls in consideration of being hung. In vain, as these would be left propped against the wall anyway. Stacked like the ideas she’d dreamt of but stuffed to the back of the closet in her mind. Painting ideas and more painting ideas building up like ghosts that had never lived.

The voicemail when she returned was from a law office providing her with the information that a friend of hers had passed and had left her an inheritance. It had been a former professor. She did not cry at this thought. She felt nothing real. She couldn’t under the guilt, regret. She had not spent the time she had promised. They had not written the book they said they would. They did not spend the days in the garden that she had imagined. Instead, she, Lane, had just gone on living. She had gone on starting a career and making choices that only proved to be something ugly, not a life that they had imagined. So, instead, she hid. She hid so she wouldn’t have to see the disappointment reflected from her professor and into her face.

Lane returned the call and received $20,000 as a wire transfer into her bank account the following day. And then she quit her job. She didn’t pay down debt. She didn’t pay off student loans. She didn’t make a grand donation or a smart investment. She quit her job. Over the next 4 weeks she sold everything she owned and never cared about. She watched the time lapse of her life as the things to which she had forged half-witted, yet seemingly unbreakable attachments disappear. She allowed herself two boxes: one box for her mother’s things and one for her own. Then, she began her life within the walls of a backpack.

She remembered her hands under the straps of her backpack as she closed the door to her downtown apartment its last time. She remembered the insignificance of walking onto the street. She thought there would be a romanticism, a brightness, a moment, a fanfare, but sometimes in life, the right choices just feel like that, life. Nothing romantic, nothing exploding, nothing gorgeous, nothing powerful or meaningful, and in that, there, in this is where we find it’s most beautiful.

~~~~~

Was this all a memory or had she written it?

She looked down at the words on the page. The recital that had flown from her through the pen to the paper. None of these words gave the reader any clue to who she was. None of her words gave any clue as to where she was or what she was doing.

Lane - Northern coast, Oregon, US she wrote. But she drew a line through this.

“I am Lane, and I am here.”