TRAVELING BEYOND THE TRAIL.
AN ARROW, A WISH, AND TRUST
ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
BRECKENRIDGE, COLORADO
by Mia T. Starr
ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
BRECKENRIDGE, COLORADO
by Mia T. Starr
A branch with a leather string rested on a table at a weekend fair in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I hesitated to stop, preferring to decide from a distance whether to take a closer look. The artisan, a woman in her fifties, watched and gave me space from the chair she sat in, watched me walk away and return. I stood a step closer. A crystal gleamed from the branch. The artisan said, "It's a prayer arrow."
I smiled and touched the branch. I was drawn to the green leather wrapped around it, the crystal encircled by a straw string. I had been searching for a branch to make a mobile for my home. This one had potential.
"What is a prayer arrow?" I said, opening the way for the branch to be part of my life.
"It's the act of saying a prayer, or making a wish, then letting it go," the artisan said. "You take the prayer arrow to a place you hold dear -- a creek, a field, the mountains, any place that is special to you -- and you hold the arrow to your heart, close your eyes, and reflect on a wish you would like to see come true. You say a prayer. Then you throw the arrow away without watching where it lands and trusting all will come to be."
An arrow, a wish, and trust. Instead of a mobile, I was being offered an act of faith. I contemplated the exchange. In a moment of skepticism, I discovered I lacked a special place. I thought harder and came up with Lake Michigan, not because it was special and held meaning for me, but because it was convenient, down the street from where I lived in Chicago, Illinois.
"You really believe it works?" I said.
"Yes," the artisan said. "It has always worked for me."
I confessed I did not have a special place for the prayer arrow. The artisan named a few other suggestions, doing her best to help. She believed there was a special place for me, a special place for each of us.
I turned the arrow in my hand. It did not hurt to believe, commit to an act of faith. I paid for the arrow, taking a step on an unfamiliar path.
"What is a prayer arrow?" I said, opening the way for the branch to be part of my life.
"It's the act of saying a prayer, or making a wish, then letting it go," the artisan said. "You take the prayer arrow to a place you hold dear -- a creek, a field, the mountains, any place that is special to you -- and you hold the arrow to your heart, close your eyes, and reflect on a wish you would like to see come true. You say a prayer. Then you throw the arrow away without watching where it lands and trusting all will come to be."
An arrow, a wish, and trust. Instead of a mobile, I was being offered an act of faith. I contemplated the exchange. In a moment of skepticism, I discovered I lacked a special place. I thought harder and came up with Lake Michigan, not because it was special and held meaning for me, but because it was convenient, down the street from where I lived in Chicago, Illinois.
"You really believe it works?" I said.
"Yes," the artisan said. "It has always worked for me."
I confessed I did not have a special place for the prayer arrow. The artisan named a few other suggestions, doing her best to help. She believed there was a special place for me, a special place for each of us.
I turned the arrow in my hand. It did not hurt to believe, commit to an act of faith. I paid for the arrow, taking a step on an unfamiliar path.
*****
In Chicago Lake Michigan greeted me with an endless stretch of blue on my two-mile walk to work. A pink and orange tint from the summer sun brushed the sky. I could throw the prayer arrow somewhere over there, I thought. There was no better place in Chicago. I made my decision, choosing a Saturday or Sunday for going to the lake early in the morning when no one would be at the beach to see me press a branch to my chest and wonder what and why.
Unable to pull myself away from my writing desk and break the flow of a novel in progress, weekends came and went without a trip to the lake. The prayer arrow waited for me on my bedroom dresser. Summer ended and September was disappearing. Another Sunday morning passed. I was left with an afternoon that began to weigh as a last chance. I grabbed the prayer arrow and hid it in my bag. I hurried down four flights of stairs, stepped outside and saw the lake. As I got closer to the crosswalk leading to the beach, I noticed the crowds soaking in the last warm rays of the year. I stopped.
This was not going to work, and trying to force a wish to happen went against the spirit of the prayer arrow. This much I knew. I turned around, afraid something was getting lost. Maybe me.
Tom, who had recently returned from a trip to Australia, knew of the perfect place in Breckenridge, Colorado, where he lived and where I was going to in a week. I packed the prayer arrow that now took on the heaviness of an infinite, incomplete task.
I said to Tom: "Have I been to this place before?"
"No," Tom said. "It's a surprise."
On the flight out I reflected on my wish, which was beginning to change.
Unable to pull myself away from my writing desk and break the flow of a novel in progress, weekends came and went without a trip to the lake. The prayer arrow waited for me on my bedroom dresser. Summer ended and September was disappearing. Another Sunday morning passed. I was left with an afternoon that began to weigh as a last chance. I grabbed the prayer arrow and hid it in my bag. I hurried down four flights of stairs, stepped outside and saw the lake. As I got closer to the crosswalk leading to the beach, I noticed the crowds soaking in the last warm rays of the year. I stopped.
This was not going to work, and trying to force a wish to happen went against the spirit of the prayer arrow. This much I knew. I turned around, afraid something was getting lost. Maybe me.
Tom, who had recently returned from a trip to Australia, knew of the perfect place in Breckenridge, Colorado, where he lived and where I was going to in a week. I packed the prayer arrow that now took on the heaviness of an infinite, incomplete task.
I said to Tom: "Have I been to this place before?"
"No," Tom said. "It's a surprise."
On the flight out I reflected on my wish, which was beginning to change.
*****
I arrived in Breckenridge on a Saturday afternoon. I had been here once before, a decade ago. It was March, the grounds covered in snow and made perfect for skiing. Today at the dawn of fall in September, pine forests and aspen groves rose from the landscape in waves of green and gold. Above blue skies and white clouds shared in the space to create a different kind of day.
"You'll be okay?" Tom said, lifting his golf clubs and seeing his friends waiting for him to play nine rounds.
"Yes," I said, settling into a chair at The Clubhouse Restaurant overlooking the golf course. "Have fun. It's important for me to see and experience you living life as if I'm not here, as much as it can be."
"I won't be long."
After Tom left, I opened my notebook and thought about the research on the town, people, and lifestyle I had come to do for my novel in its beginning stages. I had no expectations outside of listening and following my muse, letting the days unfold. I noticed the flowers on the deck, the burst of yellow, orange, purple, and green along the banister leading me somewhere I did not know. I pulled out my camera and took a series of pictures, sensing the hours shifting with the light in the skies as it moved across the horizon.
The next few days brought rain and snow, the weather having also decided to go with the flow. At the Blue River Bistro Tom's tennis buddies said, "Welcome to Breckenridge."
"How do you like it so far?" Lou asked.
"There's an openness and carefree spirit I like," I said. "I can see myself living here one day."
"There's no other place to be," Jeff said.
"I'm from Peru and used to visit here often with my wife, who is from North Dakota," Walter said. "Then one day we decided to move here and open a women's clothing store, Caamano, which has been very good to us. We've been here for twenty-three years."
We raised our glasses and cheered. Each suggested I forget Chicago and extend my stay in Breckenridge. It all seemed possible in a place that celebrated a lightness of being. At night I slept with the feeling that treasures and dreams were within reach.
"You'll be okay?" Tom said, lifting his golf clubs and seeing his friends waiting for him to play nine rounds.
"Yes," I said, settling into a chair at The Clubhouse Restaurant overlooking the golf course. "Have fun. It's important for me to see and experience you living life as if I'm not here, as much as it can be."
"I won't be long."
After Tom left, I opened my notebook and thought about the research on the town, people, and lifestyle I had come to do for my novel in its beginning stages. I had no expectations outside of listening and following my muse, letting the days unfold. I noticed the flowers on the deck, the burst of yellow, orange, purple, and green along the banister leading me somewhere I did not know. I pulled out my camera and took a series of pictures, sensing the hours shifting with the light in the skies as it moved across the horizon.
The next few days brought rain and snow, the weather having also decided to go with the flow. At the Blue River Bistro Tom's tennis buddies said, "Welcome to Breckenridge."
"How do you like it so far?" Lou asked.
"There's an openness and carefree spirit I like," I said. "I can see myself living here one day."
"There's no other place to be," Jeff said.
"I'm from Peru and used to visit here often with my wife, who is from North Dakota," Walter said. "Then one day we decided to move here and open a women's clothing store, Caamano, which has been very good to us. We've been here for twenty-three years."
We raised our glasses and cheered. Each suggested I forget Chicago and extend my stay in Breckenridge. It all seemed possible in a place that celebrated a lightness of being. At night I slept with the feeling that treasures and dreams were within reach.
The day before leaving Breckenridge, a beautiful sun and seventy-degree
temperature gave warmth to the town. The snow had melted. A soft breeze
whispered in the air. Tom parked the car on the side of a six-mile dirt
road, an old railroad bed in the early 1930's. This was the secret
surprise. He and I stepped out, walked farther and higher on Boreas
Pass, 12,000 feet above sea level. The prayer arrow was in my hand.
We found a patch in front of a golden aspen. I gave my camera to Tom to hold.
"May I?" Tom said, raising the camera to his eyes.
Days ago I would have said, No. Letting go, I nodded and closed my eyes. I placed the prayer arrow to my chest. I thought about my wishes, thought about the one that spoke to my spirit and opened the door to possibilities. Three words formulated two wishes, both connected. I made my prayer. I threw the arrow without watching where it landed.
We found a patch in front of a golden aspen. I gave my camera to Tom to hold.
"May I?" Tom said, raising the camera to his eyes.
Days ago I would have said, No. Letting go, I nodded and closed my eyes. I placed the prayer arrow to my chest. I thought about my wishes, thought about the one that spoke to my spirit and opened the door to possibilities. Three words formulated two wishes, both connected. I made my prayer. I threw the arrow without watching where it landed.
Trusting all will come to be.
September 26, 2009.
Breckenridge, Colorado.
September 26, 2009.
Breckenridge, Colorado.
