Friday’s Quick Pick: The Falls that Felled Me

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The Columbia River Gorge (All photos, Cynthia Guenther Richardson 2018)

Every year I revisit Bridal Veil Falls where, in 2001 while hiking, I experienced the heart event that garnered me a diagnosis of aggressive coronary artery disease. I was literally brought to my knees by the proverbial “elephant on the chest” that gorgeous early September afternoon. I was 51; my doctors were not optimistic about the future. After stent implants I entered a difficult period in body and soul, but labored long and hard to regain health. It’s possible to take this disease in hand, and for the heart to become even stronger.

It’s been a thrill to once more vigorously hike the trails in Columbia River Gorge as I please. As I trek to the Bridal Veil Falls especially, it is easy to count abundant gifts of life with deep gratitude. The pictures posted are of that waterfall. At the top of the steps to a viewing platform, I collapsed. For a couple of years following my fateful hike this trail frightened me and I could not face it down. Soon I had had enough of intimidation and began to seek it out in August or September to celebrate staying alive. I am about set to head out this year once more.

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Last visit in 2017, so glad to be there again

I love it there: the heady scents of damp earth and dense forest, the rush of water and wind-singing leaves, the birds chorusing and my heart and feet and legs carrying me up and down the rocky paths. I love that the place remains in its wild variations, its cyclical nature and its impartial acceptance of my visitations. I am filled with more joy each year I set out on the trail to Bridal Veil Falls.

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(If you are interested in learning more about heart disease, as well as recovery and health maintenance please search for my series entitled “Heart Chronicles” on this blog.)

(Belated) Friday’s Quick Pick: Hawk Eyes

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Photos by Cynthia Guenther Richardson

What was it you sought,
ecstatic heart pounding,
heroic wings bringing you to earth
amid city’s wilderness?
You wait for the denouement,
crows circling, black wings
cutting into sky with cries that can wound.

I want to be the one to rescue you
but there seems not one way out.
To leave in search of help may
sooner bring down crow strategists,
precise, swift against your loss of power.

Your eyes seek mine as I leave you,
a pawn in nature’s game, beyond my reach
but not without this moment of sudden recognition.

(This is a juvenile red-tailed hawk. I have never been within about 3 feet of one, able to study it, then wait with it. The deafening crows were arriving en mass. I have seen crows harass an owl to the point of exhaustion and one assumes, to death. I wonder what happened to this exquisite bird. The Audubon Society was called; I was too far from home to help it in time and I am hoping the Society was able to send someone out to soon retrieve it and care for it. But I will never forget this encounter.)

Friday’s Photography/Poem: High Desert Enchantment

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(Over the years we’ve spent time in Oregon’s breathtaking high desert and ranch lands. Our state is nearly 45 percent desert despite having lush forests and much rain in the western part. We once stayed at Kah-nee-ta Lodge, a resort on the Warm Springs Indian Reservation and owned by Warm Spring Tribes. I felt a stranger in a strange land….but found it all compelling. Enjoy some photos of the area below. You will soon understand the expressions on our faces: true enchantment.)

Winds talk. Shape time. I listen to
stories riding on brittle air,
Native, Caucasian, Hispanic
tales woven and split apart like
strands of rope, bracelets
of bright, hard beads,
rawhide twisted and turned.
I am silenced, prepare for
discovery, too much I do not know.

Those old, old voices mumble,
whisper and entreat. They shear
rock and sand, insistent,
striated with memory of blood
coursing, blood spilling.
A woman like me can be entranced
so slips through mirages, spirits,
springs for healing, treacherous passes.
A landscape erupting with grief.
Desire. Power. Peace.

Raw beauty is strong,
burrows deep in dreaming,
hallowed and dangerous like a charm.
The scents of heat in high desert:
harrowing and pungent so it stings
but brightens the senses. The mind.
Light on rocky buttes, in valleys–
so pure I pray as it bridges earth
to Crooked River, volcanic ridge to beyond.
Chase it, embrace the land’s heart,
magic of juniper, sagebrush,
common woolly sunflower.
Life recapitulating. Surviving.

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Friday’s Quick Pick: Poem/Day 2, A Design of Vast Goodness

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All photographs by Cynthia Guenther Richardson May 2017

From here I can see only possibilities of
eternal renewal that shatter all we insist
seems true: the final ruination of beauty,
brutish betrayals that extinguish love,
relentless human industry absconding
with more than can ever be given back.
But we are the life we seek; we can awaken.

There is a design moving deep within
and without: I open to sea’s lush rolling waltz,
ingenuity of snails, wild birds chorusing whether
hunted or hunting, bold spirit wind riding waves.
They have as little thought of our
foolishness as do we of their brilliance.
We perseverate, escape; they be and do.

Then come children, small prisms reflecting
all light that air and water molecules offer.
They are singular in perfection as they
chase sun’s glitter and happiness across sand.
But together they secure whole worlds
with great wide hearts, souls streaming.
Perhaps this world, this one that fights

and bleeds even as it yearns to heal
but, too, those faraway shores we left
to be born in flesh, home where every
being knows its worth, its sacred place,
our praise-making souls burnished and vast
and each of us could not, cannot help

but shine and shine
as magnetic brightness skimming water
as moon, sun, starlight on wings aloft
as clarion of triumph in all children’s laughter.

Remember
then be the design
you already are and want to love

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