Closing in on fifty-six, I like to think that the years of rash choices are behind me. I know my physical and emotional limits; I have honed my boundaries. Like an experienced rider, I get thrown less and less, usually maintaining enough self-awareness to keep myself from making stupid mistakes. But every once in a while, an important life lesson comes along all gussied up as a take-it-or-leave-it choice. Four trips to the doctor, four prescriptions and medical bills yet to arrive, I should have known better. I did. Just needed a little kick in the can to drive the lesson home one last time.
In California for a long weekend with my adult son, we were hiking in the fields behind the Ojai retreat where we had stayed overnight. With an hour or so before check-out, he and I headed out past the retreat house’s loosely-tended gardens, beyond the low rail fence that separated the retreat from the acreage beyond. We live separated by over 2000 miles and three time zones; this kind of time together is pure gold. We tramped through the grasses, bird watched, analyzed the various kinds of scat animals had left behind. We talked of his dreams and plans—launching the social media website that has had a near 24/7 claim on his time for ages. I savored every exchange, reveled in the image of my son, now a full-grown man, still as curious about nature as he was at five. Before I knew it, we had strayed from the path and had but fifteen minutes or so before check-out time.
Like quail flushed from cover by overeager bird dogs, my calm of the past forty-five minutes took flight. In the blink of an eye, I went from California mellow to anxious and outright agitated. The timekeeping puppeteer languishing in the dusty wardrobe of my childhood sprang to life issuing pronouncements of doom: We had to get back by check-out time or we’d be charged a penalty. The housekeeping crew would clear our stuff from the room and leave it in the parking lot. If we didn’t get back in time, we would be breaking a rule.
My son was a bit ahead of me and instead of taking the path to catch up with him, I took a shortcut across the field, walking right through a stand of wheat colored shrubs and brush. Even as I did it I thought, “I hope there’s nothing poisonous in here; better yet, why don’t you go around?” And then thought, “Nah, nothing’s going to happen. Nothing here looks like the poison plants that bring me down. Too late now, anyway.” We made it back a little after eleven. Our overnight bags (all packed and ready to go) were exactly where we’d left them; the cleaning crew was nowhere in sight. We gave the room a once over and checked out, pleasantries all around, expressing hopes to return to this beautiful place.
Exactly forty-eight hours later, the consequences of my rash move through the shrubs came to call. Literally. itchy red patches blossomed on my face, my arms, and my neck. I looked like the poster girl for what NOT to do when hiking. Undoubtedly the inner puppeteer was smirking with glee. “See what happens when you don’t leave yourself enough time? See what happens when you don’t stay on the path?” Two weeks post-contact with those vegetative bad guys and I’m not yet back to normal. But I will be.
Ever the navel-gazer I strive to learn from this latest encounter. Finally, I realize the lesson has nothing to do with being punctual or keeping to a set path. This time around the lesson is to sever the puppeteer’s strings. I am free to depart fifteen minutes past check-out time if I need to. I am free to stray from the path if it serves me. And lest there be any doubt, before my next trip I will be able to I.D. California’s poisonous plants on sight. .
