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I hereby resolve ...
SHARI CAUDRON
A FEW days after Christmas, I was starting to work on my New Year's resolutions. Now I know some people — and I'm not naming names — can put off this task until January 1 when they take 10 minutes during halftime to recreate the same self-improvement list they've made every year. But not me. I need to get a move on. I need to make a long list of vital life-changing activities, narrow it down, let it breathe overnight, wonder what I was thinking, throw the list away, and start all over again. As you might imagine, this takes time. I'm in San Francisco visiting my family and it's 70 degrees outside. Because it's such a stellar day, I decide to craft my resolutions while enjoying a hike with my best friend, Dennis.
We drive north across the Golden Gate Bridge to Mt. Tamalpais. At a ranger station, we ask the nice man in the green uniform where a good hike might be. "Well," he says, pointing at a wooden map posted nearby, "this here's a pretty four-mile path that ends at the little town of Stinson Beach. There, you can do a little shopping before hiking back up."
"Pardon me, sir. Did you say shopping? On a hike?" Dennis glares at me.
(Resolution #1: Stop being so sarcastic.)
Dennis and I trek into the woods and he begins to tell me, in great detail, about all the unsolved murders that have taken place on Mt.Tamalpais. Hangings. Stabbings. Execution-style slayings. Is it my imagination or is Dennis enjoying this story?
(Resolution #2: Be nicer to Dennis next year.)
We emerge from the woods onto a sunny hillside from which we can see miles of bright blue coastline. Optimism returns. We're two happy people skipping down yellow grass in the sunshine. We're healthy and in the prime of our life. We're the opening shot of a commercial for allergy medication.
(Resolution #3: See #1)
We arrive at Stinson Beach an hour later. Walking into the town, Dennis squints into the sun and looks back toward Mt. Tamalpais. "Looks like a long way up," he says, and I agree. I'm hot. And tired. And whiny.
(Resolution. #4: No matter how good the Cabernet is, stop at one bottle the night before a hike.)
After promising each other we will never tell anyone what we are about to do, we search for a taxi to take us back. There's none around. We walk into a nearby post office and ask the nice postman in the blue uniform where we might get a cab. He throws his head back and howls laughter toward the ceiling. "You might get a cab from the city to come up here," he says, wiping the tears. "But that'll cost ya an arm and a leg." I ask Dennis if the investigators working on the Mt. Tamalpais murders ever mentioned anything about a man in a blue uniform.
(Resolution #5: Order stamps by mail.)
We back away from the counter and bump into a woman holding a canvas, floral print shopping bag. "Do you two need a ride," she asks. We nod. "Here," she says, grabbing a yellow change of address card and thrusting it toward us. "Make a sign. Someone'll pick you up in no time."
"You mean hitchhike?" Dennis asks, his face looking as if she's just asked him to strip naked and deliver the mail. "Of course that's what she means," I say, as I grab the yellow card and write down the name of the road where our car is parked. As I darken in the letters, I think how my mother would kill me if she knew I was hitchhiking. Never mind that I'm now in my forties and way stronger than she is.
(Resolution #6: Make peace with your mother. Again.)
We go outside, I hand Dennis the sign, and before his arm is fully extended a grey Toyota hatchback screeches to a halt beside us. "Get in," shouts a thin woman with long straight brown hair. She's not a day over 25 but her order is so commanding Dennis and I do as we're told. I wriggle into the back seat and push aside file folders, empty water bottles and several colourful hacky sack balls."I'm Surya," she says.
Surya steps on the gas and the car lurches forward. Believing it's important to learn everything you can about a driver to whom who've just entrusted your life, I ask Surya what she does for living. "I'm a counsellor and performance artist," she explains. "I help people experience their truths through dance. In fact, I have a performance tonight."
"I see," I respond, though of course I don't see at all. "What will you be doing exactly?"
"I don't know yet," Surya confesses. "I won't know till I step on stage. I let the energy of the audience shape my movements. That way, my dance will be a truthful reflection of the collective consciousness of those present. Their truths will become my truths which will become our truths." (Resolution #7: Never hike in California again.)
As Surya careens up the windy mountain road, she talks about her work and her passion. "You can just tell when someone's not in touch with their truths because the atmosphere around them smells like a big smelly fart."
(Resolution #8: Get in touch with your truths.)
"And you know what's most sad of all," Surya adds, as she pulls up alongside our car. "Most people are so focused on what's wrong and what's lacking and what needs improving in their lives that they never stop to realise the blessings and wealth they do have. If more people realised how good their truths really are, they wouldn't worry so much about self-improvement. Their lives would be better naturally."
She stops the car and turns to look at us. "Get it?" We do. Or at least I do. Dennis is too busy thanking God we weren't picked up by an axe murderer.
And as we drive across the bridge toward San Francisco, I make one final resolution for the year: Stop resolving to improve and be thankful for what you've already got, including people who can teach you things when you least expect it.
Shari Caudron is truly thankful she lives in Colorado.
E-mail: shari@sharicaudron.com to comment.
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