I had never seen volcanic ash, let alone walked in it. It's like beach sand, but black. You don't so much walk through it as slog through it. Out of our travel group of 23 or so, six of us and a guide elected to make the climb up the side of Orsono. We walked up and up, guided by a rope and a ski lift. Skiers glide down Orsono's slopes in the winter; February is summer in South America.
We slogged along, occasionally grabbing the rope that marked the path and finally reached a plateau. We didn't go all the way to the top. The view was glorious. We walked around the plateau, stopping and gazing in awe at the sights below us. Clouds floated below us. We could see craters formed by ancient eruptions and colors--reds, browns, yellows. We saw snow-covered peaks and green from plant life. It was awesome, in the original sense of the word "awe," a feeling of wonder and spirituality. We lingered at the top, reluctant to return to the bottom, but finally we did.
On every trip, I try to surprise myself by doing something I thought I couldn't, or maybe thought I'd never get to do. On the Patagonia trip, I had several of these experiences, but climbing the volcano was the most memorable. I can still close my eyes and experience it. And, thanks to one of our group, a talented photographer, we have a wonderful photo of ourselves rejoicing in the moment.
More than a year later, we found ourselves once again climbing a volcano, slogging along. Two of our closest friends, our next door neighbors for almost 30 years, passed away in less than a year. The widower asked us to take care of their affairs after his passing.
Unlike Orsono, this volcano was active. Unexpected hot spots happened, causing emotional eruptions: gifts from shared friends who have passed away; clothes and jewelry that brought back memories of our times together; birthday and Christmas gifts we gave them; an afghan my mother knitted for them.
As I sorted through carefully saved letters and artifacts, I began to gain insights into the forces that shaped their lives. They gave me a close look at life in a small town in Oklahoma, in Indian schools, as a member of the Creek Nation and as life as the son of an immigrant in a close-knit Italian family in Pittsburg, life in the Air Force for both of them, a carefully planned elopement to Alabama from Florida where they were stationed, moving to Oklahoma after a few years in Pennsylvania, and 54 years of marriage, good times and not-so-good times, times of happiness and times of great grief.
The photographs, though. I dreaded sorting through those and postponed the task as long as I could--albums, boxes, frames--photos of every aspect of their lives; trips, family, friends, at home. So many photos and so many emotional hot spots. Then I began to look more closely at the photos of the two of them. They are so happy together and so much in love. From their wedding photos in 1959 to photos with family to photos on trips--always happy and always in love.
That became the plateau where I rested. Nothing was stronger than the love they shared with each other.
I stood on the plateau on Orsono and was awed by the beauty it began creating when it erupted 180 years earlier. The metaphorical volcano was my own creation and I didn't expect to find beauty in a task I dreaded. But I found it in those photos of two people wonderfully and passionately in love. Love was the force of nature that created the beauty of their lives.
May it be so for all of us.
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