ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-THREE THINGS I HAVE LEARNED FROM SEVEN YEARS AND EIGHT MONTHS AT EIGHT THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTY FEET ALTITUDE

  1. To hear the one and only cricket who lives in my yard

 2. To plant the garden no earlier than June

3. That hail threatens all summer long

4. That hail turns broccoli into a witch’s spindly hand

5. That deer will eat bushes

6. That rain is not enough

7. That a llama can pull a cart

8. That a llama has the face of an angel

9. To marvel at the bear who searches our trash

10. That the sky is a bluer blue than one could have imagined

11. That the gold aspen against this blue is like a benediction

12. That you can leave your doors opened wide, in the absence of bugs

13. Not to lock the doors or windows

14. That it is so dry we look old and hardened

15. That I feel older than old

16. That living amongst great beauty cannot make you young

17. That love alone, given wholly, valiantly, desperately, cannot heal you

18. To sleep tethered tooxygen

19. To add humidity, or have terrifying attacks of suffocation

20. To expect the doctor’s eyebrow

21. To lie still, with needles in, head to toe

22. To lie about how I feel

23. To wear sunblock all year long

24. To watch a marriage wither

25. To withstand accusations of evil, hatred, apathy toward the children

26. To be sick, sleep-deprived, drugged, toxic, and love my children

27. That doctors do not believe people, but do believe machines

28. That a staggering number use drugs to sleep

29. That many move away after a short stay

30. That many, as did we, come right back

31. That sleep can be countered with drugs

32. That drugs poison the liver

33. That drugs can save your life

34. That I am now a drug addict

35. That sleep deprivation can lead to stroke or heart attack

36. That the light is indescribable

37. That nothing looks squalid, due to this light

38. That lightning passes through windows and can kill

39. To push through, with a racing, pounding, erratic heart

40. To live in fear, to love in fear

41. To walk on puddles that are on top of ice on top of snow

42. To drive as though you have no brakes

43. That moving leaves a part of you behind

44. That moving murders a piece of the soul

45. That happiness lies on one’s backyard

46. That which of one’s backyards is unclear

47. To love a home which is a prison

48. That books, that words, that art, are not the same as life

49. To regret fear but to fear regret more

50. That the risk of miscarriage is greater at altitude

51. To wish to die, as though your life depended on it

52. That the half-moon can hang sideways, a huge surreal smile

53. That a crescent can hang likewise, slicing the terrible darkness

54. To love your neighbor as you do your dog

55. That one moves more slowly in the cold

56. That I hate the cold with a hot passion

57. That I am not alone in hating the cold

58. That we are all alone

59. That we are all afraid

60. That the most religious are the most afraid

61. That I am angry all the time

62. That I am anxious and nervous chronically

63. That the hearts beat faster at altitude, mimicking anxiety

64. That the stars are like friends, leading the mountains home

65. That every drive is an adventure into beauty

66. To dress for cold, not fashion

67. That my grocery is full of people with harsh lined faces

68. That harsh faces and kind hearts are not exclusive

69. That a man with long hair and beard is still the most appealing

70. That the aspen quakes like a quivering violin

71. That snow can be wet or dry, or somewhere in between

72. To appreciate the unspeakable beauty of dancing snowfall

73. That snow is silent and silencing, beautiful as it kills

74. That the mountains look different, every single day

75. That a cracked dry ridge can grow a delicate purple flower

76. To build a passable woodstove fire

77. That one can love and hate, simultaneously

78. That someone who loves you can bludgeon you with a fist

79. That someone does hit a woman with a baby

80. That the house looks strange and new, from the floor

81. That music is the closest we come to god

82. To drink water all through the day

83. That the lack of vegetation means no privacy in your yard

84. To bury my old dog in a public spot

85. To grieve in public

86. That my baby’s grandparents will not visit, because of the altitude

87. That the rainbow arches across the huge bowl of sky, painting the mountains

88. To be indoors almost all of the time

89. That I will lose my mind to one more winter

90. That if your house is too small and dark, someone will get hurt, in some way

91. To watch nine planted bushes and two planted aspens die

92. That I miss like an arm, the serenade of owls, birds, and crickets

93. That a warm summer night is an almost unbearable sacrifice

94. That the mountains are magnificent, and completely unaware of my baby

95. That everyone’s relatives come to the mountains but ours

96. That the cold keeps your neighbors and friends indoors

97. That a baby should have leaves to jump in, come fall

98. That we need to mow only twice a summer

99. That if you don’t mow, no one cares

100. That I miss the squabbling with messy nature

101. That a drive westward takes you to unearthly terrain

102. That rock and sky are a different kind of lovely

103. That dandelions, untouched by pesticide, are beautiful, new and spent

104. That beauty is healthy, and health, beautiful

105. To argue bitterly and sleep in despair

106. To sleep alone, bundled against many kinds of cold

107. That altitude stresses the physical body

108. That chronic physical stress gouges the mind and soul

109. That children can smell fear

110. That someone who once loved you, can love a place more

111. That quiet unleashes the inner chaos

112. That the self can be drowned by other selves

113. That attempting to meet one’s needs risks everything

114. That people are more important than places

115. That another, sharing the same people and places, may disagree

116. That places are safer than people

117. That place is part of your people

118. That abandoning your place may sacrifice your people

119. That place can change you

120. Not to know the limit of what can be changed

121. To postulate that this limit is another person’s misery

122. That highways needn’t be ugly

123. That the sky wears a black cape with sequins of stars

124. That it can snow in your yard but not in your neighbor’s

125. That it can snow in the backyard but not in the front

126. That three cars is a jam in some parts of the world

127. That the incessant noise TV can create a lunacy

128. To be hurled “lunatic!” by your child, and then to fix her supper

129. To long daily to loll in warm and succulent grass

130. To be petrified of everywhere but here

131. To be afraid to leave

132. To be afraid to stay

133. That you may need to leave what you love and love what you need

134. That some things must actually exist; and others, live in memory

135. To fear the pain of memory

136. To bear your family of origin’s ridicule when you left, in order to heal

137. To bear that ridicule when in fact, you worsened

138. That a spouse may cease to need you, but your children, never

139. That the mate who cares for you for over a decade will suffer anger

140. That this anger will snowball to fury

141. That his anger’s mother is helplessness

142. That its father is self-preservation

143. That I am a rat attached to a lever

144. That my mate is the rat attached the rat attached to the lever

145. That this worked initially, so we remain attached

146. To live with ruining another 's life

147. To be reminded daily that one is small and much too large

148. To want to die, to resurrect him

149. To be unable to die, because of the children

150. That a dream, fulfilled, can be your worst nightmare

151. That the slow snow falls exquisitely, like mercy on a troubled soul

152. To maneuver gently down onto the knees and

153. To pray

Copyright Julianza Shavin 1/8/2001