Darkness and Light: My Life in Lots of Hikes and Two Memoirs
This is the image I chose for something when I started on Substack—a scene from the start of the Wicklow Way. I don’t remember what the setup process wanted that picture for. But it shows up as a default image now and then—I don’t know why.
Whatever the reason, it makes sense as a default for me. Darkness into light, a path that leads—where? An image that draws me deeper, draws me on, even into more darkness. Don’t make assumptions here. Darkness isn’t scary or dangerous. It’s just different.
I am a hiker. What I think that really means is that I don’t sit still. Even in my chair, I don’t sit still. I am captivated by the notion of moving forward. My first sub stack is called What Next?
That forward motion probably kept me alive in the days when my brain was not a friendly place to be, but I had no other place to be. When all the treatments and all the advice and all the therapy were just wrong, I kept going. I had to figure it out, find my way, get to the other side. My first book, Prozac Monologues: A Voice from the Edge, documents that journey, a book within a book—part flinging words out in front of me, part painstakingly retracing my steps to figure out what the hell had happened, part laying a trail for others to follow.
All the walking I did in those days was the physical incarnation of a mind that was on the move, that saw the darkness ahead and had no choice but to go through it. Saw glimpses of light on occasion, and kept traveling to it.
Photographing that journey is something of an obsession. I recently went through my photo roll and found picture after picture that illustrate the journey. Each one represents a movement of my body while my brain raced ahead through light and darkness.
Montevideo, Costa Rica
La Conner, Washington
Glendalough, Co. Wicklow, Ireland
Canyonlands National Park, Utah
Misery Ridge, Smith Rock, Oregon. This was not the trail. Oops. I had to slide back down on my backside.
Coco, Costa Rica.
I returned again and again to this particular road, around the corner from my casita. Sometimes, my brain wasn’t racing. It was present. It saw the wildflowers that looked like Dr. Seuss had drawn them. It heard the kiskadees—birds whose call is like their name: kis-ka-dee. It smelled the burning sugar cane. It tasted the pinto and salty salchicha. It told me to move, out of the way of the brahmas.
I mean, when you are surrounded by a herd of brahmas, you don’t have much choice but to Be. Here. Now.
If Prozac Monologues documents the inside of my brain, A Gritty Little Tourist Town: Bar Tales of Costa Rica documents the life happening outside of it. A second memoir, not a sequel but a segue. More light, more fun this time round. It is like the proverbial second child. Over the next few months, I will be introducing it here. I am looking forward to that.
Question for the day: have you ever been to Costa Rica? Would you like to go?
New feature - it took me months, but I have figured out how to insert a button (it’s near the top of the article) that allows you to support my work without subscribing. The button takes you to a page that suggests different levels of support. But you can insert whatever amount you would like. The coffee at Anne’s Coffee Bar is a mere $5.
Here are two musicians who have taken over my regular seat at Anne’s where I write my Substack posts. They were leading a community singalong that day.
