Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

Mother made the sign of the cross before heading off again. “I don’t want to hear this.”

  This conversation was far from a matter of want. For either of us. “My desire to change isn’t something bad. Actually, leaving an unrewarding job and ending a painful relationship is healthy. I’m just moving on.”

  “I wouldn’t call throwing away all you’ve built up over the years, moving on.”

  “I’m getting unstuck, that’s all, knocking down my tower of blocks and starting over before it’s too late.”

  “Life isn’t a game, Marjorie.”

  “And neither is my desire to let go of things that no longer serve me. For once, I’m choosing how I want to live.”

  “And what will you live on, manna from heaven?”

  My mother knew I’d made enough money in the stock market to guarantee my financial security for years, though she had considered it stealing at the time. “Where’d the money come from?” she’d asked, “if not from someone else’s pocket?” Making me feel guilty for accomplishing something for which she admired and praised my ex-fiancé.

  “You always listened and obeyed. At least while your father was alive.”

  “And now I’ve stopped?” How I wished I could make it all better. For her—and for me.

  “Yes.”

  “And is that so bad?”

  Mother hesitated, then released a sigh. “I am proud of your strength and the way you’ve conducted your life so far, but—”

  “You don’t agree with the path I’m taking.”

  She glanced at the terrain around us. “It’s so primitive.”

  In the world my mother knew and subscribed to, you didn’t question authority or break old worn-out structures. Part of me understood her concern, considering the pain she and I were currently going through, but that didn’t lessen the disappointment I felt at the way she was repudiating all my wants and needs. “How about you wait in the Jeep while I finish my walk?”

  Mother’s face cleared for an instant before wrinkling up again. “You mean to that sacred path you’ve been talking about?”

  “It’s called The Great Spirit Path, otherwise known as the Stone Poem.”

  “How can they call this a park?” she said. “It’s nothing but dirt, rocks, and weeds. And what’s that irritating sound?”

  “Turbine engines. They pump methane and other gases out of the decomposing materials buried below the surface and use them to make electricity. This is an old landfill, Mom. I thought you knew...”

  “You think God’s going to talk to you out here on a garbage heap?”

  “Consider the sound as the rhythmic beating of the heart or the beat of a drum. Any steady rhythm, even one of pumping machines, can serve as a shortcut to meditation.”

  Mother shivered. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you.”

  That’s okay, Mom. Just love me enough to let me go.

  We’d reached the northeast corner of the park, another mile to go to the parking lot. In preparation for today, I’d gone over and over the exact words I would use to convince my mother of the existence of another reality—one I hadn’t even known existed three months ago. Only now did I realize that one’s concept of reality isn’t changed by words, but through experience. In order to redirect my life on a course of my own choosing, I would have to let go of my mother’s beliefs and learn to rely on my own.

  The Dumbarton Bridge rose over the San Francisco Bay like a steel ocean wave. Sunlight shimmered on West Point Slough. And the tidal salt marsh shivered and sparkled as though dusted with glitter. Such beauty, and yet… It didn’t soften the realization that misunderstandings, compounded by guilt and the need for self-preservation, produced enough emotional shrapnel to pierce and wound the heart in unspeakable ways. Wounds that, even when healed, would forever leave scars.

  When we reached The Great Spirit Path, I handed my mother the keys to my Jeep, took a brochure from the box installed at the beginning of the trail, and started my walk. Alone.

  ~~~

  “Welcome to The Great Spirit Path Sculpture,” I read out loud. “The rock clusters ahead of you—of raw, unhewn stone—have been assembled into a stone poem, inspired by American Indian Pictographs.” I skimmed over the poem’s history—how it had been conceived by Menlo Park artist S.C. Dunlap, how its four stanzas were spread over a 3/4 -mile trail, and how it was the largest sculpture of its kind in the world—all the while wishing that my mother would’ve joined me on this walk as a sign of her support. She had withheld the true story of my birth and nationality for twenty-eight years. What other truths had she kept hidden? And what untruths had she allowed me to believe?

  Cluster four was a pictograph of the words, I walk. I ran my fingers over the stones and called out, “I WALK.”

  At cluster number five, I called out even louder, “WITH THE WIND BEHIND ME.”

  As I continued to follow The Great Spirit Path over the small hills and undulations, I read the meanings of the poem clusters to myself.

  When I reached cluster nineteen, I took a deep breath.

  “I RELEASE ALL MY FEAR.”

  The park was beginning to fill with families, dog walkers, bicyclers, and joggers, but no one appeared to notice the crazy blonde talking to herself out loud.

  At cluster twenty-five, the stones formed a cross, reminding me of the Medicine Wheel that Ben Gentle Bear Mendoza had introduced me to in the Los Padres National Forest. He had helped me find the stones to create my own sacred wheel and then showed me how to set it up and take the first step in the direction of the East. I treasured those stones and those memories. In fact, I carried them with me wherever I went.

  At the point of the cross facing south, I asked Mother Earth for guidance, in the way of my ancestors, and vowed to remain open to her message, regardless of what may emerge.

  A loud screech broke the silence. The hawk again. I shaded my eyes to follow the flight of the magnificent bird as it swept past me and up toward the sun. Something drifted to my feet. I stooped to pick it up. A tail feather, by the looks of it. Flat with horizontal bands running across its length and a black stripe towards the tip. I stroked the feather’s soft, downy surface, then unzipped my belted pouch and placed the hawk’s gift inside with my treasured stones and mouse totem. I had received the mouse-shaped stone from Joshua, a child I’d befriended and learned to love in Carmel Valley and who would soon become my son. The totem—a reminder to examine what is right in front you—felt cool to the touch and filled me with comfort.

  After hurrying past the last twenty-eight clusters, I called out, “AMEN,” and started to dance.

  I danced to the rhythm of the breeze pulsating through the vegetation below me, the birds soaring above, and the park’s persistent engines. I danced in thanksgiving and because it felt right. I danced to the choreography of my earth life.

  “I’m glad your father isn’t here to see this,” my mother said from behind me.

  So, she hadn’t waited in the Jeep after all. Instead, she’d been watching me make a fool of myself.

  “Somehow, I think Dad would’ve understood,” I said. He would’ve understood my attempt to break through the rigid wall of ideas and belief systems that separated me from the rest of the world. He would’ve understood my need to release and let go of my old shell and find a new home. He would’ve understood my sudden need to shout and dance, rather than keep a stiff upper lip.

  My mother, however, thought me crazy, because she couldn’t hear the music.

  “Maybe you should see a psychiatrist instead of a psychologist,” she said, “someone who could prescribe something to stop the voice you’ve been hearing. Then you wouldn’t have to turn your back on everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve been taught.”

  “Dr. Mendez told me that what I was going through wasn’t a medical emergency, but a spiritual one,” I said, “something I should confront rather than suppress through medication.”

  �
��Don’t you think, if the dead could talk, your father would have reached out to me by now? What makes Antonia so special? Why would God allow her to talk to you, but not allow Gerardo to talk to me?”

  I’d been asking similar questions over the past few months, but the answers hadn’t come. What I did know was that I needed to find out more about my birth mother—who she was, what she wanted—and, in the process, discover the same about myself.

  “I’ll pray for you,” my mother said, her eyes moist as though mourning the loss of my soul.

  What was the use? I’d been trying to lead her through the door of change, but she wouldn’t step through it. What I saw before me was a park. She saw wasteland.

  In order to connect with the mother who had given me life, I would have to break free of the mother who had spent a lifetime trying to protect it. But knowing I was doing the right thing didn’t make it any easier.

  I’ll pray for you, too, Mom.

  “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

  Chapter Two

  MAYBE IF WE HADN’T ARGUED.

  Maybe if my mother hadn’t lashed out at me and called me a pagan squaw.

  Maybe then, I would’ve waited until morning and said a proper goodbye, instead of driving off during the night, putting an even greater distance between us.

  Big Sur. Images of mountains, forests, and ocean drew me, balms for my wounded soul. I was running away from one mother and reaching out to the other. How long would my journey last this time? What lessons, what teachers, would it hold?

  I could’ve called Dr. Mendez. He would’ve put my mind at ease, assured me that everything was okay, that I was doing the right thing. “You need to push past your perimeter of comfort and safety,” he told me during our first therapy session. “Slow down, follow some blind alleys, let the truth catch up to you.” When I responded that I was scared, his comforting words gave me the courage to move on. “Freedom comes at a price. Is your mother your protector or your keeper? Is your home your castle or your prison? How will you know unless you break the bonds for a while? Your heart has been silenced for too long. Let it be the expert.”

  A parade of vehicles surrounded me, their headlights piercing the dark, all illuminating the same path. But I wouldn’t stay on this highway for long. I would be turning off soon, to a place close to the trees.

  ~~~

  Big Sur. Big South. How I loved those words. To me, they symbolized freedom and hope, this ribbon of dark highway, my yellow brick road, Big Sur, my Oz. Once there, I would find the way to my center, and then, hopefully, my way back home.

  The sun was rising, but fog veiled the road with an eerie mist, giving me the sense of entering a new world. I checked my rear-view mirror. Gray fingers misted the road behind me, making it difficult to focus on what I had left behind.

  I lowered my window and breathed in the thick, icy air, marveling at the smell. Pine forest? Kelp? Iodine? Whatever, it smelled wet and wonderful.

  Robinson Jeffers’ poem, “Return,” came to mind, how it spoke of allowing life to run to the roots again, down at the Sur Rivers. It was time to allow Big Sur’s miraculous healing waters to pour out of the mountainsides and into my soul. Like a slab of clay that had been wedged, kneaded, and punched into malleable softness, I was pliable, responsive, and ready to surrender.

  Ten miles south of Carmel, I spotted the Rocky Point Restaurant perched high on a cliff above the dissipating June fog, a perfect place for breakfast and a fantastic view.

  The host led me onto a heated terrace overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Solid, dignified boulders protruded from the churning water, reminding me of mothers watching over their children. Vigorous waves splashed against the stable rocks. No orders, no signals, no directions from the elders; no whistles, no rules. The waves appeared fearless, energetic, and mischievous, slapping against the rock-mothers’ laps and encircling their rock ankles with foam-inducing play.

  After placing my order, I focused on the hypnotic churn of the ocean. Glittery sprinkles blanketed the water’s surface all the way to the horizon, and blobs of seaweed floated like powdered cinnamon on top of foaming coffee. There, right in front of me, lay the antidote for the emotional difficulties I’d been experiencing—nature therapy, instead of books and gadgets and antidepressant pharmaceuticals. Been there, done that, skimming across the surface of life, rather than pausing and holding my breath long enough to notice, let alone partake of, the generous gifts of nature. How tragic, that I could name the make and model of my car, the brand of my clothes and shoes and the vast number of manmade items in my possession, but could only name a fraction of the plants, trees, animals, birds, clouds, and rocks that made up my world.

  Breakfast arrived. Canadian bacon, poached eggs, and country potatoes. I gasped at the size of it. Enough to feed two people. Twice. “I’ll get a container for the part you can’t eat,” the server said, confirming that my jaw-dropped expression was nothing new. I dug into my meal, knowing I wouldn’t be eating like this for a while, not in a camp kitchen with limited cooking supplies and my equally limited camp-cooking skills.

  I left the restaurant sated and reflective, only to notice a butterfly land on the Harley parked next to my Jeep. What a contrast. Gossamer and steel, wings of iridescent yellow and orange quivering against slick and shining metal.

  “Like it?” a male asked from behind me.

  Transfixed by the glistening, almost translucent wings of the butterfly, I sighed. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  “It’s a Fat Boy,” he announced. “Just added those chrome pipes. Gave it an extra ten horsepower. Too powerful for a lightweight like you.”

  I turned and met the man’s flat brown eyes. “Sorry, I was talking about the butterfly.”

  A lift of his brow. The shake of his head. A grin. “Well, I’ll be...”

  Mr. Harley’s longish, windblown hair and tanned face appealed to my senses. But something about him triggered an emotional truth that made it through my memory-filter as significant. You’ve met men like him before, only to rock you off center.

  His glance wavered between me and his bike. “At least the butterfly knew something good when he saw it.”

  I grinned in spite of myself. “What makes you think it was a he?”

  “Because he appreciated my bike, of course. And because he just landed on your shoulder.”

  “Really?”

  He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and smiled.

  “Oh, I get it.” I chuckled at how easily I’d been duped. “No butterfly on my shoulder.”

  Another shake of his head. “Babe, you’re either a good loser or a good actress.”

  “I’m a terrible loser,” I admitted, grimacing at the term, babe. “I thought it was a lot funnier when the joke was on you.”

  He lifted his hands and shrugged in a you-hurt-me-first fashion. “How would you feel if all I noticed was the butterfly if he landed on you?”

  “Relieved,” I said.

  He folded his arms and narrowed his gaze. “Not the answer I expected.”

  “Oh, there you are, honey.”

  We both turned at the sound of a sultry voice belonging to a woman blessed with looks rarely seen outside of Hollywood. Her full auburn hair lifted in the coastal breeze as if encouraged to do so by a photo-shoot fan. Her eyes were light brown, her skin iridescent. She reminded me of the butterfly.

  Harley Guy signaled for her to come closer. “Hey, Claudia, I just met a woman who prefers insects to Fat Boys.”

  Her full lips stretched into a polite smile, then curled into a grin, as if she had caught the punch line to a joke. Nice, too. Darn. She angled her head and presented me with a demure Lady-Di smile.

  This goddess, shy?

  Well, there was nothing shy about her outfit: red spandex top, brown fringed-leather jacket, and black leather pants and boots.

  I pulled out the keys to my Jeep and unlocked the door, feeling sudden loneliness weigh do
wn on me. How I wished Morgan were here with me now. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Maybe Cecil and I will see you around,” Claudia said with an eager note in her voice.

  I opened the door and tossed my takeout container onto the passenger seat. Strange. For a moment there, I sensed that Claudia was lonely, too. Nah. Not with that hunk she was with. “You never know,” I said, though I doubted it. By the looks of her, tent-camping wasn’t her style.

  She pulled on a full-face helmet and buckled it under her chin.

  Cecil’s half helmet struck me as more of a choice of style than safety. Or maybe it was a sign of defiance. Full helmets are for pussies. He straddled his Harley and ignited it into life.

  It rumbled. It roared. I took a step back.

  Claudia smiled an apology, then slid her visor down and swung onto the elevated seat behind Cecil.

  Broad handle bars. Monster chrome headlights. Nothing skinny about that machine.

  Another, louder, roar.

  I raised my hand in farewell.

  Three months earlier, I would’ve been impressed with this couple’s obvious wealth and good looks.

  Now, I was just glad to see them go.

  ~~~

  After another sixteen miles down Highway 1, I turned into the entrance to the Pfeiffer-Big Sur State Park and drove past the Big Sur Lodge to a dollhouse-sized building where I verified the number and location of my campsite.

  Shafts of sunlight penetrated the branches, needles, and leaves of the redwoods and oaks that formed a canopy over my reserved spot, highlighting my temporary allotment of paradise—as well as that of my neighbors. Cramped into their small space were two family-sized tents, a giant gazebo, tables, chairs, a camp stove, a sink, a stack of deflated air mattresses, and... Jeez, was that a portable loo?

  Currently, all was quiet, my neighbors nowhere in sight.

  It didn’t take long for me to figure out that pitching my tent would take a while. After spending a week camping in the Los Padres National Forest two months earlier, the process should’ve been second hat. But the tents we’d used then were small and strictly functional.