The Delicate Arch

It’s a steep climb to the Delicate Arch, in the Arches National Park in Utah, so steep I wonder now how we ever made it. But we did. And how joyous we were at our accomplishment. Marilyn especially. I had been there before. Twice as I recall, when I was in better shape and carried less weight. I was younger too and had not yet tasted the intimations of mortality. I believed I could do anything.

Not so Marilyn. She was not the hiker type. Climbing mountains was not her bliss. But the red rocks of the Arches Park drew her as much as they did me. We were alike in our humble awe of nature. We were as swallowed up in the immensity of that blue-skied space as if we had been catapulted into another dimension of reality. Our silence was a testimony to the harmony of our spirits. Such places, such times, such moments needed no words. The touch of our hands was enough to bring full circle the miracle of God’s nature.

Our last visit was in 1999, and she could not climb the mountain. Increasing difficulty with breathing and troublesome knees that refused to carry her, kept us on level ground, gazing across the canyon to our arch we loved so well. There were tears in her eyes, prompted more by frustration than by grief. Or so I thought. I wonder now if she had a premonition there would be no more climbing to that special place we admired.

Our first hint that life would not be endless for us came in 1991 when a suspicious spot on a mammogram proved to be a malignant tumor. We were amazed and afraid.

Thank God she was a nurse working at the hospital in Norman which meant she had available to her outstanding medical services. We had total confidence in her care givers, and our confidence was not betrayed. The treatment was grueling, her spirits badly shaken at times, but through it all we endured and could even find laughter in her Valley of the Shadow of Death. When her hair began to come out, we stood before the bathroom sink plucking out hand fulls and laughing as I remarked, “There have been times I’d liked to have snatched you bald-headed, but I never thought I’d ever actually do it!”

There were moments when she felt so sick, so weak, so defeated, she could not see beyond her sickness to the return of health her doctors assured her would come. I, probably more intolerant of such gloomy thoughts than she, refused to let myself dwell on the dangers that beset her. Blessed with a knack for ignoring what was going on around me, I don’t know that I ever really fully understood the words “she has cancer”. That was a statement one heard on the news cast about somebody else, it simply did not apply to Marilyn. Love is not temporary, and anything that threatens the eternal, simply isn’t real. So as she completed her treatments, after she put behind her the nausea, when her hair grew back, the “c” word receded in my conscious mind.

For one thing, Marilyn was a fighter. Raised by a mother who demanded much of her daughters, Marilyn would not give in to discomfort or weakness. All through her radiation treatment, she scheduled each session at the beginning of the day where she could then go on down the hall of the hospital to the OR where she worked her eight hours no matter how weak or tired or energy-less she might feel. Such spirit bolstered my confidence in her invincibility. This was an unpleasant phase through which we were passing, nothing more. Soon the treatments would end, her hair, now surprisingly curly, would be more beautiful than ever. The old Marilyn, the one who was never really sick, would be back and all would be as if nothing untoward had ever happened.

So eight years later, when she began to have breathing problems, when lying down was not an option and sitting up too exhausting, I did not know what to think. Doctors now talked of heart failure, a menacing term that had no real meaning to it for me. “Not getting enough oxygen” made more sense, but not all that much. She slept with oxygen at night, and with the coming of dawn the bothersome plastic tube was put away, out of sight, an intruder only in the night time, almost as if it did not exist at all.

We were on an adventure. We had left familiar, flat land Oklahoma and moved to western Colorado to a small town nestled in the heights of the San Juan mountains. If she had difficulty breathing, it was only natural. So had I. We were living at an altitude of close to 8,000 feet. Of course we had difficulty breathing. Everyone did - at first. Some so much so they had to be emergency airlifted to lower altitudes.

Fortunately, we did not. We adapted. Not quite as much as those who had lived there all their lives. We never would be able to walk all over town as they did - at least not without having to stop and rest and “catch our breath” momentarily. But we did adjust. We stayed. We luxuriated in the beauty that surrounded us. We basked in a kind of air we hadn’t enjoyed - ever. The fact that we made new friends we loved passionately only confirmed we’d found our hearts’ true home. And while my work there was only temporary, our sojourn in paradise limited to a single year, yet we knew we would come back some day. Nothing could keep us away.

That was our adventure. That was our bliss. That was our taste of what heaven should be like. How easy it was to pretend all was well. If only her heart ...

The heart is a strange organ. Even when it is diseased, it does not stop working. It has its “orders” from the beginning. It persists in spite of everything. And when life kisses us with beauty and goodness and love, how can we also believe such treasures aren’t eternal? God forgive us if we take for granted such richness. Of course we will go on. We will accept the plastic tube and the oxygen machine tucked inconspicuously away in another room as a nuisance-necessity just so long as we don’t talk about it. We will accept a slower pace of living, always with the reminder that “after all, we are living in a higher altitude”. We are not sick. We are not weak. We have not been diminished in any way.

When we returned to Oklahoma we left behind the oxygen machine and it’s irritating plastic tube. We left behind the notion that we could not walk as far as we wished. (Yet, as a matter of fact, she did not walk quite as far, nor quite as fast as she once walked.) The number of pills were reduced. The visits to the doctor almost non-existent. Yes, there was a time when she was an “invalid” but no more. She was a survivor. Cancer had attacked, done its worse, and she had met the enemy with courage and determination. Death was no longer her enemy. Not now.

So when my new job ended and we were completely retired and free to do whatever we liked, we returned to where our hearts belonged. That had always been the plan. Even though it meant leaving family behind, and she pondered the “selfishness” of her choice, still she was ready to resume our “adventure.”

Who knows what all she thought about this move? Did she know she was not the woman she had been before cancer struck her? Was she aware that her heart was damaged, so damaged it could not do its job properly? She knew the uses of denial, just as I. She had long years practice putting out of her mind whatever ache or pain might be troubling her. She was well-trained to ignore such things. They were the price of being human. No one escapes the nuisances and irritations of the flesh. But there was too much to live for, too many things to enjoy, too full the banquet table with the good things of life, to deny one’s self its blessings.

Then came the knock, the one we could not ignore.

She recognized the symptoms immediately even as she tried to deny them. Heart failure. Not returned to a higher altitude three months, and the old enemy was back, sitting on her chest, forcing her to gasp for breath. At first we called on old explanations. Neither of us had been prudent in our eating habits. We both carried more weight than was good for us. This was the consequence. If she weren’t so heavy, she could breath. Her heart would not have to work so hard. Once more she would force herself to eat properly. Maybe she would not have to hate herself quite so much for her sins at the dinner table.

And she did learn to eat properly. She lost weight. She luxuriated in buying new clothes in sizes she had not been able to wear in years. But her heart did not respond to her new regime. The damage was deeper and mending was not happening. Now she was sleeping with a CPAP machine, a contraption she despised but which she dutifully employed. Not a night went by that she did not face her enemy and defied it to make her feel better. I slept beside her, afraid to ask “how are you dear?” afraid to hear what she might say, afraid I could find no reply to her complaint. I took comfort in the thought of a heart that was strong enough - in spite of everything - a heart that had never met an enemy it could not defeat. It was still there, still beating faithfully, and as we had once done with the plastic tubing each morning, she cleansed and put away the plastic tubbing that was her umbilical cord each night.

“How are you?” How I have hated those words. I thought I hated them because I did not know what to answer. Now I wonder if I hate them because I was afraid to ask them of the one person I truly cared about. Yet had I asked, would she have answered anything more than she always did? Fine. Or “What do you think!” A sure invitation to explore her exasperation with a condition she knew - in the very marrow of her bones - she had, yet one she could not admit to herself or to me. Of course we all have our aches and pains. Get over it.

Now there were more pills. Now there were more visits to the doctor’s office. Now there were repeated trips to the specialist in Grand Junction. She had hated him at first - some misunderstanding that colored her opinion of him had made her swear she would never consult him again. He it was who inadvertently planted the idea in her mind that it was her weight that was harming her heart.

Now we knew better. The rigors of treatment for the cancer had defeated the malignancy, but taken its toll on her heart. Her cancer was not her fault. Now the heart specialist was her friend. Gone was the resentment, the irritation, that had made him anathema to her. Perhaps she now realized he was her life line, a line of reassurance and courage she could rely on gratefully and not despise as she had the CPAP machine. When he remarked that he could see no real benefit in her continuing her use of the hated machine, she gratefully and joyfully put it away.

“It was about time. I used it for five years and it never did a thing for me.” she proclaimed with satisfaction. But her heart did not get better. It was another warning, another sign that we were losing ground, not gaining it - yet it went unheeded. Far from telling us she was no longer sick, the doctor was only verifying that her malady was beyond the reach of a breathing machine. Her heart was tired. More immediate aid would be required.

Why didn’t I understand it? Why didn’t I see the obvious? Or, more realistically, what made me think I could have effected a difference if I had? It was not my denial, my retreat into only thinking of the good things in our world and enjoying them - it was her obstinate refusal to allow herself to be sick. She was not a sick woman. She was not one to ponder the state of her body with anxious attention. She was not sick.

Her friends in “Bosom Buddies”, good people who had faced down the assault of breast cancer, had spoken of themselves as “cancer survivors.” That word would not do for Marilyn. “I’m not a survivor” she asserted emphatically, “I’m a thriver!” Mere survival was not enough. No half a loaf for her, the banquet was spread and she would taste it all, to the full limit of her ability - and in her mind, that limit was movable.

A sign of that adjustable limit was her confidence that we would one day return to the Delicate Arch. I believed it too. It was a top priority when we moved back to Colorado. Several times we made plans to go, only to postpone them again - not because of her health, but because of the weather, or the press of other activities. The arch was eternal, it would wait; it would always be there.

Already it had become a metaphor for our love. Delicate. Love, no matter how strong, must be nurtured. It must never be taken for granted. Too often it was, just as I took for granted strength and health in her when it was not as strong as it needed to be. But it was strong enough.

There was a dependability in our love that was like the abiding dependability of the arch. God knows what winds that piece of stone had endured. The scooped out hollow before the arch is testimony enough of what the arch has withstood through the centuries. Add to it the rain and snow and my admiration for that arch is only intensified.

I see in the arch how great beauty emerged out of adversity. I have often said the best years of our marriage were those last years. In spite of the ravages of time, the diminishment of our strengths and abilities, there was an increase of affection and devotion that made those final years the happiest ones for me.

She might have disagreed. She might have reminded me of the children. She’d recount the sense of excitement and anticipation we felt as we watched those miracles unfold before our eyes. Or she might remind me of the accomplishments we made, she in her work and I in mine. The list was long, longer perhaps than either of us knew. We had few regrets. At least I remember little she ever spoke of.

Instead, the satisfaction I recall is the growing closeness that seemed to come quite naturally, a gift we neither earned or required of each other. If boredom with the way things have become, or curiosity about what life might be like with a different partner is a chief cause of divorce, these never entered our marriage.

I will leave her to speak for herself, should she ever find a way to do it. For me, in spite of the zest and excitement of those beginning years of marriage, the ending was the benediction I value most of all.

* * * * *

But I started by saying it’s a steep climb up to the Delicate Arch. It’s over a mile from the parking lot where the trail begins to the lip of the basin before the arch, and much of it bare rock that rises like a dome, smooth and round. The final approach to the basin is behind a hill that blocks any view of the arch. In fact, the arch is not really visible at all during the whole trek. You approach it with the guidance of markers along the way and the belief that the arch will be there, somewhere, at the end.

We made the trek slowly, since neither of us was accustomed to rigorous climbing. We paused frequently to rest our legs and catch our breath. Marilyn was as incredulous as I when I told her of the woman in high-heeled shoes I once met on the path. How she ever made it, I’ll never know.

That climb to the arch is a metaphor, in a way, a physical description of our life together. Begun in hope and excitement, with no real idea of what we would encounter along the way, I think marriage is like that for us all. We’ve seen pictures of the arch, we’ve been told there are ups and downs, we think we understand that adjustment will be required, but much of the climb is in ignorance. A fond memory of our newly-wed days is of the two of us cuddled together on the living room couch, perhaps six weeks married and enjoying a moment of quiet relaxation. Marilyn looked up at me and said, “I think we’ve made a great adjustment, don’t you?” Ungallant, perhaps, was my laughter, but it did seem obvious to me we hadn’t even started! That’s a sign of her spirit and her confidence in herself and me.

There would be many more adjustments, far more dramatic and spirit-quaking in the years ahead, but we had found a rhythm for that journey and the steeper the climb, the more confident we became that we could make it to our goal.

I found counting my foot steps and pausing briefly after five or ten steps was a good pace for mounting that smooth dome. And as I climbed, I could add one or two more steps now and then, and not need to rest quite as long. Others might have made the climb faster, but I was in no hurry. That, too, was a metaphor. Getting to the end isn’t the best part of such an adventure, especially if you are so worn out by the effort you can’t enjoy what you’ve reached.

And we enjoyed that destination! What exhilaration! Unused to such effort, we were particularly excited by our accomplishment. It was difficult to climb up over the lip of the basin, once we reached the site, and Marilyn was reluctant to attempt it. Also, the slope of the basin was steeper than she had expected it to be and she felt unsteady on her feet. But eventually she dared to try it. Together we stood in the basin itself and exulted in what we had done.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was bright and warm, but not too hot. A clean breeze swept the rock and added to our sense of aliveness. There were other tourists there, but not too many. And it was quiet. There was the sound of murmuring voices, but they were muted. It was as if we were in church! One did not want to speak too raucously in the presence of God.

I took no pictures. I don’t much care for lugging a camera around and viewing God’s world through a view finder. Besides, there was something about the moment that seemed resistant to being captured for all time in a photograph. The way I felt, this was an ephemeral moment that was outside time and space. It was as near to the gates of heaven as I could ever recall being, and to do anything more than simply “be” there seemed unthinkable. If there was anything at all I would liked to have changed, it might have been to ask everyone to leave so that it would be just we two. Total stillness, naked in the sun, embraced by wind and the music of the desert air - that might have been the best.

I had the problem one always has when on a mountain top: we had to come down. It was probably significant that we made our way down in silence. There is always an afterwards, and lucky the man or woman who can bless the afterwards with pity and gratitude and not resent the too quick passing of the glory.

We did not go back. Not as we always planned to go. But we did go back for all that.

It was the day after Christmas and a year and a half after her death. The day was carefully chosen. It would have been our 47th wedding anniversary. I carried a small plastic bag in my pocket and in the bag was about a half a cup of her ashes reclaimed for me by our daughter. I wanted to take Marilyn back. I wanted to complete that uncompleted mission. I wanted her to know she’d made it after all. If her body was unable to carry her there, I would be the feet that climbed for her. If her heart was no longer strong enough to take her to the Delicate Arch she would have my heart gladly.

Weather had been uncertain. Rumors of a winter storm on its way gave me pause. A last minute change of plans meant my minister could not go with me. However a good friend, one accustomed to hiking and climbing and willing to be my “Sherpa”, was not daunted by the approaching clouds. We set off on our three hour drive, daring whatever might come.

Always before, Marilyn and I had been skittish about the weather. Most often it would be too hot - Moab is desert country and the heat can be fierce. But the thought of ice and snow on the trail was also a consideration, and who knew what we would find when we got there.

We reached the parking place. I changed into my just bought hiking boots and looked at the head of the trail.

“Where are the clouds?” I asked.

We’d driven under cloud cover all the way. Yet as we stood at the head of the trail, nothing but clear blue sky arched above us. There was a slight breeze, just enough to add energy to our breathing. The temperature was ideal. The trail was clear, and most of the way, dry. Only near the top did we encounter a treacherous patch of snow and ice. Yet even there, a judicious scouting of the area revealed a passable path and with my friend’s help, I stood at the lip of the rim gazing at the Arch once more.

I wish I could describe all that went through my mind. So many thoughts, so many memories, so many emotions. The arch stood there, solid, immovable, a declaration of eternal fidelity, a visible, tangible link to former days, former lives.

I would have liked to see Marilyn there. Her absence was painful. I did not know one could feel so empty when feeling so full. Looking back, I think in some very real way, I was a dead man glimpsing the possibility of a return to life. It was a daunting vision. I faced a taller mountain than this dome; I was about to climb out of a tomb that had encased me since the day she died. The walls that surrounded me were infinite, they stretched deep within me, far deeper than I’d ever plunged before, and their top was invisible in a burst of glory not even music could convey.

Stillness, and a breathless waiting, held me transfixed, and my friend, with a delicacy that was almost holy in its simplicity, gave me the space and time to be fully present to that moment. There is a large boulder near one end of the arch upon which we could perch, and it was there I took up my place and waited, waited for some sign, some inner urging, some way to honor what this moment was really all about.

I had brought her to this place. I had accomplished a sacred pilgrimage. I held the small bag in my hand, wondering what to do with it. I opened the bag and scooped some ashes into my fingers. I wanted to feel them, feel her, feel the concrete reality of her. It was not enough to say she once existed: here in my hand she was totally real. Forty-five years of marriage had not been a mirage. It had all happened. It was all real. It was still real right then and there.

I reached my hand out and felt the breeze stir the ashes. I flung them out into the void, only to have the breeze lift them up and send them back into my face. I hadn’t expected that. I was amazed. It felt as if she were embracing me. It was not just ashes in my face, it was one last kiss of affection and sadness. I scooped up more ashes, determined that not one would be left, and not one merely “emptied” out into space. I must own each one and release it, feel it between my fingers and release it to God’s infinity.

How quickly it was over. And how completely she was gone. I don’t know what I expected. I don’t know that I thought I would see signs of her remaining there on the sandy rock at the foot of the arch. I don’t think so. Nothing remains - except the arch, and it was now but a symbol of the completed arch of our marriage. Far more solid than we may have thought it could ever be, yet just as vulnerable to the ravages of time and weather, it abides. Mere ashes are blown away, with perhaps a single grain remaining lodged in a tiny crevice too small for me to see. Just as Marilyn had to be transformed, to be released from a body that could no longer sustain her spirit, so the arch would stand until it, too, was eaten away, yet its image would be imperishable. The two had met, kissed and been released from human expectation and desire.

My pilgrimage was over - and finally beginning. The love was completed, as the arch was complete, and had been transformed into the open gate to a new reality, one that encased a love like no other I had ever heard of or known.

The jaunt back down from the mountain proved to be as arduous as the climb up. The effort to keep on my feet demanded strength from muscles I scarcely knew I had, let alone ever used. They complained and would not cease their twinges of displeasure just because we had finally reached level ground.

“I heard the mountain speak to me” I told my friend, wryly, “It said ‘I let you up this time, but don’t you ever come up here again!’” I promised I would not, and I shall keep that promise. I do not need to make that climb again. It remains in me, and will until my end.

* * * * *

An arch cannot be an arch without a hole in it. The empty space is essential. One may dismiss this as a detail, see it only as a measurable dimension, one to remark upon and compare to other arches. Certainly the Delicate Arch has attained its iconic reputation as much for the graceful line of its space as for anything else. It is, after all, only an arch and not the biggest or the widest in the Park.

Yet that space, if meditated upon, leads to another truth for me. It is a caution, a reminder, that the truest love must always have an empty opening that allows for continuation and growth. I honor that openness for Marilyn and find solace and comfort from the realization that she is not bound by death, or a grave: she is free. Her essence knows no boundaries. She now explores space in a way my mind cannot really comprehend.

This truth was brought home to me in a striking way. A year later, two Buddhist monks came to our town, leading and nurturing a group of students on a spiritual pilgrimage. They were invited to set up a table at the Indian Ute Museum where they painstakingly created a sand painting mandela. It took them about ten days, and it was stunning. I went to the museum several times to watch the progress of the design. It was incredible.

Once it was completed, the public was invited to participate in a ritual ceremony when the mandela was to be dismantled and swept away. This was a vital part of the whole experience, symbolizing the impermanence of all things in life. When the chanting and meditation ended, the monks swept up the colored sands, and distributed spoonfuls in little plastic bags for anyone who wanted some. I accepted one and could not help but think of the little plastic bag I’d held at the Delicate Arch. There had been no bright colors in those gray ashes, but both gave witness to the impermanence of all things.

When all had received their little bags, the remainder of the colored sands was swept up and carried to the bank of the Uncompahgre river across the road from the museum to be strewn upon the water.

We followed the monks and watched as they gave the sand back to the earth in the rushing water of the river. When they had finished, I took my little bag of sand and moved to the river’s edge to pour it in the river too. As I did so, I heard a woman behind me call out, “No, don’t throw it in the river. You’re supposed to keep it.”

I smiled to myself. Perhaps she could keep hers, I thought, I did not know. But I had no desire to keep mine. It did not belong to me. It never had. It had to be given back.

All arches have holes - all but the arch in the heart. Marilyn had been a gift, our life an arch. The wide space between framed the ineffable beauty of our love. We had held it for a little while and it was precious.

The arch still stands, and so does the love.