It Would Be A Miracle

It Would Be A Miracle

January, 1986. What am I doing in this dilapidated van on a bumpy road with 11 strangers headed for Chichen Itza? At 4:00 a.m. for God’s sake! The turbaned couple leading the Retreat are proud they got permission for us to climb this Mayan pyramid before the crowds. The quiet, bearded guy next to me keeps leaning on my chest. Not his fault. The van is too small, even for flexible yogis like us.

From the front seat I hear, “This newspaper article said it would be a miracle for me to get married because I’m 34. A miracle! I’m more likely to be hijacked in an airplane.”

I think, I’m 34. And I work in airplanes. But I’m trained for hijackings. And I’m never, ever getting married again.

I fold my arms tight and curl up into the seat corner, trying to doze.

Impossible. The birds! The birds aren’t just singing; they are a raucous predawn cacophony.

And I suspect one guy is on a garlic cleanse diet. He reeks! At least the quiet, bearded guy smells good. Like pine mixed with truth, I think. If truth had a scent.

An hour later, we spill out of the van like marbles from a bag and contemplate the soaring, 100-foot high El Castillo pyramid. The eastern horizon is a deep turquoise expanse with streaks of coral, reminding me of my favorite superstition: Turquoise for Transcendence.

Following the group leaders’ example, we all lean forward to our hands and knees and begin clambering up the ninety-one steps, each one a full foot high.

With the grey mists of dawn swirling around our feet, we finally pull our panting, weary selves up to the temple platform and stand together in speechless awe. Far below us is the unexpected grandeur of an ancient city cloaked by the secretive forest.

We find our places to begin the opening meditation. I shiver and pull my sheepskin around me. The quiet, bearded guy regards me curiously, and I tell him, “The air smells sweet.”

He nods. “This day will be sweet. When you look back on days that have yet to come, they will be sweet.”

What a strange thing to say! But a hidden part of me that has been battered and broken and shoved way down deep awakens, sits up, and stretches high. Did he just say he thinks days could be sweet?

February, 1986. One month later, back home in Minneapolis, I check the mail on my way out the door to teach a yoga class. Huh. A letter from Albuquerque. Oh wow – it’s the quiet, bearded guy. His name is Tony. He was a gentle, protective presence in the Yucatan, but his letter is only one paragraph. Each line is pithy and funny and I wonder why he didn’t write more. No matter. I really don’t have time for a pen pal.

March, 1986. Tony and I meet up for a yoga class in St. Louis. We see a movie called Back to the Future. He’s pretty funny. And easy to talk to. I tell him how this guy I hitchhiked around Europe with is now a highly successful lawyer in Washington, D.C., and has proposed marriage. Tony says, “Will you invite me to the wedding? I want to be there to look you in the eye.” I tell him, “Sure.” But I smile to myself. I have you both fooled. I’m never getting married again. Not after the last nightmare.

He asks, “What are your favorite colors?”

“Turquoise,” I reply. “And coral.”

May, 1986. I receive notice of a package at the Greyhound Bus Station. My girlfriend goes with me to pick it up. The box is a flat 4 ft. square. Inside is a 3 ft. wide, stunning Ojo de Dios hand-woven in shades of turquoise and coral. My friend says, “I think you better take this guy seriously.”

So I invite Tony to visit me in Minneapolis, and I start conducting little comparison tests, even though I’m never getting married again. I ask the highly successful lawyer, “If you only had $5 to your name and I wanted money, how much would you give me?” Without blinking, he says, “I’d give you half.” Fair enough. Then I ask Tony the same question. He studies the ground for a moment, then says, “I’d give you as much as you need.”  

July, 1986. I’m visiting Tony’s house in Albuquerque after frequent, lengthy phone calls, pithy correspondence and one more yoga class. We play a make-believe game about how my furniture hypothetically (!) might fit into his house. I tell him the brown couch would have to go, along with his brown lamp and brown throw rug. I really don’t like brown. He says, “I’m not crazy about brown, either.”

The next day, at the world-famous Frontier Restaurant, we stuff ourselves with homemade tortillas, roasted green chili and the best cinnamon rolls in the world. Then to my shocked embarrassment, he gets down on his knees and suggests that we get married. I am even more shocked when I nod and say, “Yes.” I tell my panicking inner self to calm down. We can still back out, right?

September, 1986. Tony and I are visiting Reno for the balloon festival. Ostensibly. In reality, I want my parents’ opinion. Turns out my mom and dad both like Tony. Things begin to take on a budding feeling of warm and welcome inevitability.

October, 1986: I feel like a stranger in my own skin, giving notice at my Minneapolis apartment, and resigning after 11 years with the airline. I hear myself declaring, “I’m moving to Albuquerque, marrying Tony and getting my Ph.D.”

Upon departing from my last work flight, I sink to my knees in the concourse at the enormity of what I’ve done. A nice old lady helps me up.

Thanksgiving Day, 1986. The Albuquerque sunrise peeks over the horizon and I can see rainbows in the clouds of our frosty breath. I wear fur-lined snow boots and a rabbit fur jacket over my white silk dress. In my pocket is a copy of the wedding vows we wrote. Tony, his brother, my best friend and the minister help me climb into the basket of the huffing hot air balloon while the pilot stokes the burner.

We have only spent 14 days together. But as we start to lift off and the safety of solid ground slides further away, I have never felt so much like I’m coming home as I do this moment. We sail over the ground while dawn paints the sky in ribbons of turquoise and coral. On the ground below, people cheer their congratulations as we pass overhead with our “Just Married” banner unfurled over the balloon’s basket.

Summer, 2016: Tony and I join hands with my brother and his wife, Tony’s sister and her wife, and our three godchildren on the luminous beach at Lake Tahoe. We are celebrating our 30^th wedding anniversary by renewing our vows. The sky is pure azure and the lake shimmers in shades of aqua, lapus lazuli, indigo and . . . turquoise. For Transcendence.