Walk On Your Tip Toes, Don't Tie No Bows

I was lost in the trance conjured by the sound of my feet thundering across the dirt trail; a cathartic, clarity producing rhythm. I ran towards the horizon line. The bright blue sky faded effortlessly into the deep blue sea; surely the gate to some sort of heaven, all pearly and blue. A living, breathing heaven that is earthbound, tactile and holds incorporeal mystery; the kind of heaven that offers unwavering acceptance and clemency to be gleaned by all those who seek. This is the heaven I belong to.

I had not seen anyone else so far. I remember that seemed strange to me at the time, it was such a beautiful day. I’m sure that there were others out on the trails, taking in the colors of the day. Beauty calls to many of us in such similar ways after all:

Abandon your habit and responsibility in favor of remembering a different, older, way of life; an older, wilder way of yourself. 

Still, I had been out for at least an hour and I’d only crossed paths with animal friends: a few soaring birds, a handful rabbits - small enough to sit in the palm of my hand, a lovely orange winged monarch butterfly, and a lizard or two. I don’t mind being alone, most days I prefer it. I love to imagine other solo runners and hikers out on the trails in their own worlds; hopping over rocks, skirting around mud holes, glossy eyes staring into the heavenly horizon, sweat spraying alongside the ocean mist. I get lost in my own daydreams of what their world looks like to them. I wonder what their eyes see: Does their world look like mine does to me? What does their spirit catch wind of and stick with? What colors of blue or green or gold spark their interest and imagination? That tree right there, do they love that tree too? What drew them out of their shell on this day? And this trail, why? Is it joy, sorrow, despair, beauty,or a more primal feeling that evades conceptualization, like a powerful piece of abstract art. 

I’ve learned that the best measurement for my inspiration and creative zeal is empathy, the range and the magnitude of the feeling. Not only in the extreme hardships and victories - when empathy is applauded and expected - but also in the simple, oftentimes overlooked and even mundane parts of life. Like what it feels like to see the ocean meet the sky through their eyes; to feel the freshness of the wind rush into their lungs; to sit at their dinner table all alone at night; to look into the mirror. I’ve come to understand and respect this about myself. That paying attention and feeling connected to the world within me gives me access to feeling this ‘every day’ kind of empathy with others. Empathy is fodder for the depth of my soul and kindling for the fire of my shapeless imagination. 

I’ve been called to these trails, to this sky blue gate of heaven, during the highs and the lows of my adult life. I’ve ran and hiked these trails thousands of times since moving to Marin County years ago. Even so, on this particular day the old familiar trail seemed to have a spontaneity to it, a freshness that breathed new life into me. I was happy, perhaps even relieved, to be out in the peace and quiet of the deafening coastal breeze; happy to be among the beautiful shades of blue that stretch into forever; happy to have been born in a body and mind that learns and relearns how to read the maps of freedom, truth, and wildness -especially when society feels so constricted, breathless, and lifeless at times. 

As I came up to the next trail junction I was feeling good, strong, and connected.  This junction marks where a side trail splinters off and steeply descends off the ridge line, down to the main trail and the parking lot; I call it “the shortcut”. However, I was passing on the shortcut today in order to continue along the trail that follows the ridge for a few more miles. I had no place else to be, the sun was out, and I was enjoying myself.

As I got closer to the junction I noticed two people loitering by the shortcut; two boys -young men- hanging out listening to music on their phones. Teenagers-15 years old, maybe.

That’s nice, I thought to myself, It’s nice to see young people out here enjoying the sunshine. 

My quick gait shot me closer. The boys must have noticed me coming along because they killed the tunes, promptly turned away from me, and huddled towards each other; like two sheep confining themselves to the cramped corner of a big open pasture. Each kid futzed with their phone, and nervously shifted their weight from foot to foot while I passed by. I continued on the ridge trail, past the junction, past the young ones, towards the forever blue. I returned my attention to the dust beneath my feet, the sun burning my skin, the heavy weight of my long braided hair pulling towards the wind, the cool breeze clapping in my ears. I returned to peace and a feeling of contentment. I returned to casting my prayers and blessings into the open space.

“OH HEEEEEEY BAY- BAAAAAY!”, a barely pubescent voice screeched out from behind me. 

My legs came to a dead halt; my feet stopped on a dime; dust kicked up around my bare legs. Those little shits, I thought to myself as I quickly spun around. Heavy beads of sweat lurched from my temples and caught flight in the wind around me as I turned to face them. Square. There was only about 50 feet between us, we were close enough that I could look them dead in the eyes, close enough that I would burn holes into their memories. It was just me and them, like an old western face off, a duel of sorts. I imagined the color of their world filtering to dusty sepia tones, the sound of a distant whistle in the air and the lonesome tick of a town-square clock striking high noon. Based on how frozen in shock they were they must have known that they were up shit creek with me, known that they were one second too late in realizing they had spoken one second too soon. They had just agreed to duel the fastest draw in the west; a grown ass woman- too old for their shit, and too smart to ignore it.

Someone else's voice echoed in my head, “just boys being boys”. 

I’m fairly certain that their shock in my stopping stemmed from their inability to imagine the consequences of their words and actions. These two scrawny teenagers were expecting me to not respond to their catcalling. Why? Because most women, most girls, don’t. Why? Because we are taught not to. I was taught not to. At a young age I was instructed to ignore unsolicited attention from people I did not know- males, in particular; walk way, no confrontation, no instigation.

For a long time, most of my life thus far, I have followed that code of conduct; I avoided inappropriate attention, I played invisible, I followed the rules set fourth by society that kept women safe from men and young girls safe from young boys: ignore, walk away, run away, find safety. This code of conduct saved me from possible harm, I’m sure, but it also left a mark on my psychology, a kind of blind spot to my self-worth, that I would have to reconcile later in life - as all women do. As a young girl I learned how to navigate my safety as a women, and with that I also learned that the degradation and sexualization of women goes unpunished in our society; we the recipients learn to live with it, while the exhibitors are rarely penalized for it.

What these two teenage boys probably don’t know is that I’m almost twice their age; that by the time I was their age I had been catcalled and whistled at and sexuality by men two times, three times, four times my age at the time; that I’d heard the old “Hey Baby” rattling out of the mouths of men and teenage boys since I was 11 years old. What these boys do not know is that young girls and grown women have boundaries; boundaries that extend beyond the confines of our bodies, expand outward into the beautiful network of personal space that whirls around us, and reach into the minds of others. What these boys have not learned is the that a woman’s earned, dignified, and rightful boundaries include the way you speak to her and the way you treat her.

Every person has boundaries, every person needs boundaries, every person needs to respect the boundaries of others. Personal boundaries are the safeguard of our well being and the gate keepers of our soul. Personal boundaries are the parameters of the self-worth that we uphold within ourselves, and they are the parameters we must require others to respect and uphold in the world; regardless of age, gender, or race. “Boys just being boys” is a phrase I’ve heard and read countless times in my life. A phrase that usually prematurely forgives abhorrent behavior before the hammer drops; it excuses one from having to feel ownership over one’s own behaviors, and the consequences those behaviors generate. Boys turn into adults and often carry with them the behaviors that were excused and allowed in their youth. And I think we all can agree that the last thing this society needs are more adult boys who do not take ownership of their behavior, do not understand consequence, and do not treat women with value and respect. 

I set my eyes dead on theirs, “Excuse me. Are you talking to me like that?”

They were frozen in space. Their sense of time, gone. I waited for a response.

One second passed…..

Two seconds passed….

Still frozen in place, like a deer in headlights.

Three seconds passed…

One of the boys jumped sideways, limbs flailing, into the nearest manzanita bush; a poor and painful attempt to dodge the daggers of my focus. The other boy, perhaps the one who hollered, was still frozen in place.

Four seconds passed…

I waited. Unmoved. Unblinking.

Five seconds passed….

The boy still standing, looked towards the the manzanita bush that was slowly devouring his buddy, then looked back towards me. Nothing. Frozen.

Six seconds passed…

He shifted his weight from foot to foot nervously as his pudgy fingers fidgeted compulsively with the bottom hem of his t-shirt.

Seven seconds passed…

He raised one hand modestly; half like a wave, half like he was raising his hand in a classroom, daring himself to try his luck at the right answer.

Eight seconds passed…

Then, echoing through a high pitched frog at the very back of his throat, he quietly said,

“Sorry”.