The Distinction Between Homesteading and Survivalism

  This morning was the big clean-out day in my pantry and larder. Through the years, one tends to amass items that, for a short time, seem important but upon further reflection bear no real significance to one’s current daily activities or lifestyle. Today I came face to face with the small nooks of my own hording and asked myself, truly, if these items were really necessary for me to continue to hold on to into the future. Some of the treasures I uncovered included various shapes and sizes of vessels for holding any number of products; gallon jugs, half gallon jugs, salad dressing-sized jars, glass cylinders for ferments, etc. etc. etc…. Every item I touched was covered in a thick layer of dust indicating their obsolescence to my current life stage. So I sucked it up, grabbed a cardboard box and one by one placed these items into the give-away pile. Some I pondered longer than others before placing them into the box….my inner preparedness expert screaming out that ‘someday-I might need this or that’ and when that time comes I will be overcome with regret for placing said item willingly into the hands of someone else. And then a part of me opened up and was overjoyed with the prospect of the future life that existed for everything contained within that box.  To someone else, my ‘yesterday’ would be their ‘today’. And with a great sense of relief I placed the box in my car, forever sealing its fate.

  Next on my list was my stockpile of canned and dried food. Each jar I touched contained hours of love and labor. Each had been prepared under the best of intentions; the long-term security of my family’s needs. I ruminated over the small mountain of clearly past-prime goods that started to build on my pantry floor. Then, one by one, I opened the lids and dumped the contents into the compost.  And inside, part of me rejoiced and part of me cried.

  The reality of the matter is that it is impossible, even when you try your hardest, to hold on to everything. All these jars were my attempt to hold on to the sunshine that I felt years ago, to hold on to the colors and flavors that I no longer feel a desire for.  These jars were meant to hold onto a feeling of safety and of ‘enough-ness’ in a time when I felt so much vulnerability and desperation (and despair).  Today, I came face to face with my past and chose, for the most part, to move into the future.  I realized that there is a distinct difference between survivalism and homesteading and often that line is a blurry, hazy mess of emotions based off of past life experiences and future hopes and dreams.  A survivialist goes it alone; a homesteader believes in the power of community.  I mean really, how naïve we humans are to believe that we have the ability to make do in this world without reliance on the talent of others. Truly, my pantry is not large enough to ‘survive’ any major catastrophe longer than a few weeks, maybe months. How large of a horde would one need to really survive or more importantly, to continue to thrive? Frankly, thriving is not something I would choose to do alone and instead feel it is much more rewarding to continue into the future believing that given the opportunity to test ones abilities, we would all be better off working together.

  So today, I transitioned back to being a homesteader and made one more move away from the depressing world of survivalism.  I will continue to set aside the provisions I need to keep my family well-fed and comfortable and I will hold on to the tools I still feel are relevant given my own personal talents. But I will no longer hold on to the quiet expectation that has lingered on and off in the back of my mind that, if the moment arrived, somehow my family’s future would be fulfilling without the assistance of others.  This little lie is the distinction between optimism and fear. I am letting go of my fear and am trusting in my friends.

The Flower Garden

I find myself in the midst of another farming and wedding season. There is a fatigue that begins to settle in during this point of the summer; it sits behind my eyes and spreads itself slowly across both temples, down the bridge of my nose and continues through my neck and into my spine. It is a dull, tired ache that becomes a permanent part of my every moment. Days off are now rare and hard fought jewels of time. The great irony is that when on the rare occasion  I have a moment to myself, other than sleeping the only activity I find myself longing for is gardening (and  maybe a little writing...). Essentially,  I need time away from gardening to garden more.  However, during the hours that I scrape together for myself, the gardening that happens is a free-form version of love and creativity. It is less about rows and more about art. It moves in waves and rounds corners. It manifests in bursts of flowers and the sway of fruit-filled trees and bushes. It's hauling rocks and stones, mining the creek for sand and muck, removing mats of grass and dead-heading spent blossoms. It's whacking back brush, building trails and cutting out beds from hard-packed hillsides. And, for some crazy reason, it is more than just relaxing but is a respite, a calm in the eye of the storm, a world away tucked within my everyday life.
My flower garden is where I can wander barefoot, where the wind can whip my hair into a knotted frenzy, and where I can speak to no-one but my soul can open to everything. It's a curiosity even to me.  I carve out places of sanctuary and rest yet hardly stop moving myself.  And although at the end of the day I am tired and disheveled, there is less room in my mind for the dull throb of farming and wedding season and more room in my heart for patience and love.

In Praise of Homework

On a regular basis, I come face to face with articles telling me that homework is not helping my children. These pieces are laced with strong feelings about the value of childhood and playtime and the complaint from parents that they don't want to spend their after school time 'fighting' with their kiddos to complete the assignments that have been sent home in their backpacks.
I have many friends who feel inclined to take the homework packet and chuck it directly from the take-home folder into the recycling bin. I hear these stories and then proceed to keep my mouth zipped tightly shut. I am not looking to start a fight, but I can't help but vehemently disagree with the 'anti-homework' movement. In my experience, some children may actually need homework to thrive.

I concede that homework may not be for every child, but it is certainly a necessity for at least one of my children. Now at the age of 9, my oldest and I have had years of negotiating after-school routines. I have found that our happiest days incorporate a very rigorous homework schedule; just the opposite of what is advocated by the 'no-homework' movement. Although there are probably some kids who would use their after school time to play outside, create artistic masterpieces, or challenge themselves with advanced reading and writing, my kid is not one of those. My child would choose instead to spend any and all extra unstructured free-time playing video games and lounging on the couch until dinner or even bedtime. And I am certain that he isn't the only one. Giving him the freedom to 'just be a child' is not helping  him....in fact, I am pretty sure that left unchecked it will cause more harm than good in the long term.

Homework serves many purposes in our household aside from the skills that they are intended to strengthen. First and foremost, homework gives me insight into what my children are learning at school. By sitting with my kids or at least being present while they are completing their take-home assignments I can see where they are struggling and where they are excelling. When I know where the point of struggle comes from, it allows me to step in and 'guide' them through the learning process to help ease the stress and frustration that comes along with a difficult task. I don't give my children the answers, I just help them to think about their assignments in a different way and offer alternative suggestions on how to achieve success. This has helped my reluctant learner to become more confident and engaged academically and has helped my younger learner to feel comfortable sharing learning suggestions with others in her class that may also be struggling with the same concepts. When I know where they are excelling, it allows me to offer my kids greater opportunities for learning that keep them challenged and engaged. This helps to eliminate the boredom that comes along with mastery. It gives us the opportunity to discuss, together, the 'bigger picture' of the target subject (beyond just grade-level) and for the kids to choose for themselves how they would like to progress. For my oldest, it usually means  learning math concepts that involve algebra, geometry and basic calculus since grade-level math (adding, subtracting, and multiplication) is no longer interesting. Without the homework, I would not know where their individual skill levels fall in relation to what is happening in class. I actually give my kids additional homework to help them explore subjects that they are passionate about...and they like it.

For me as a parent, homework is also the tool that I  use to keep my children engaged in learning even when school is over for the day. That is a pretty important skill to master; as important as unstructured play. I have seen very clearly that our society puts a weak (at best) emphasis on life long learning. Since I am in disagreement with this as well, it is natural that I find myself opposed to the 'no homework' mindset. Moreover, I feel that free time should be a chance to learn about all of the things that interest you but that you didn't have the ability to study during the hours of the day that were set aside for structured, goal-oriented learning. Homework sets a precedent that just because the school day is done, it doesn't mean that learning should stop. This is a skill that I wish more adults possessed as well.

Homework offers some structure and routine to after school free-time. I find it interesting that so many people argue for a lack of structure in free-time for elementary aged children when it is so obvious how important structure and routine are for pre-schoolers and toddlers. Elementary aged kiddos still thrive on routine. They like consistency. For us, homework lessens the anxiety that comes along with too much free choice. Trust me, that sounds ridiculous, even to me....but I still believe it to be true. The school days that do not involve homework evoke a different 'feel' and often, my children are more likely to mill about fighting with each other; uncertain of what their role is in this unstructured time. Because homework is such a part of our daily ritual, my kids will now assign themselves their own version of 'homework' if none has been assigned to them. They find it comforting. Homework is used as a transition time between 'school time' and 'home time'.

Elementary school homework is the 'soft' transition into accountability. If you think it is hard to get your kiddos to do their assignments now, just wait until middle school or high school when after-school work begins to take an hour or more to complete rather than 10 minutes. I don't believe that you are doing your children any favors by delaying this inevitability. Again, homework establishes the routine that will become a common, unavoidable theme later in life.

 Lastly, I believe that homework sets a precedence for responsibility. As a parent, if you are taking your child's homework and throwing it away, it is telling your child that it is okay to give the finger to work that you don't agree with. Honestly, there are many times that I would like to do the same thing with my work. However, if I started to chuck every work assignment that I didn't agree with or thought was boring, I would eventually be fired. The homework that your child is bringing home in elementary school is the easiest that it will ever be in their entire life and it is your chance as a parent to start instilling a sense of responsibility for completing the task (however mundane) that is assigned to them.

Obviously, I am expecting a lot of mixed feedback regarding my own personal opinion on the subject. I am not saying that homework is right for every family, but I am tired of hearing that is wrong as well. Ultimately, parents are as responsible as schools in the education of their children and it will be up to each family to decide what the important things in life are. In our family, we place a high value education. Homework helps us to strengthen our familial bonds around this fundamental core value. Please stop telling me that I am harming my children by asking them to be active, life-long learners.

From now on, I am always going to wish someone a happy birthday on Facebook

We all have a love-hate relationship with Facebook. On the one hand, we feel the need to keep in touch with one another and on the other, we want our privacy. Most of my 'friends' are so different from me, that if we were forced to hang out with each other in real life, the chances of us finding anything in common to talk about would be in the fractions of a percentile. If you have 'made' friends with enough people on Facebook, eventually you will find that your feed has a birthday reminder popping up just about every day of the year. It is pretty easy to skim past it and not acknowledge the person who is celebrating because maybe in a strange way, it feels too personal to wish someone a happy birthday....especially a person who may be a long lost acquaintance and nothing more...especially if it is a 'friend' who is a lurker; someone who logs in on the FB but never comments, never posts and never interacts....Ever.
  But today, I learned my lesson the hard way.
I don't throw parties. I never throw parties. I hate throwing parties. For the most part I am a social introvert. People scare me. Even my friends scare me. But this year, I decided to go out on a limb and invite my friends and 'friends' on a camping trip out to the desert. March is a shitty month for having a birthday. It ranks up there with November as The Worst Month on Record for having any type of outdoor party....and our house is too small for much of an indoor event.  So, I decide that to celebrate, I am going to have a camp out at the only place I know of where the weather is mostly reliable this time of the year. Its a place out in the Washington desert that I have been visiting for a long time and a place where I feel pretty comfortable. And it is beautiful. And there is climbing and hiking and bird watching and a bunch of other stuff that a person can do if they decide to make the short drive. It seemed like the best bet I could think of for an 'easy sell' to even my most reluctant friends.
  Except that, even though we have been making the day trip out to this climbing area since January (because it is sunny and warm and dry), on this particular weekend (which also happens to be my birthday), the weather has turned to shit and the forecast calls for wind, rain and less than ideal temps. So, this person (me) who never throws a party and decides to throw a party, has to cancel said party. This person (again, me) cannot convince even her best of friends that it could possibly be a good idea to make this trip happen. The one notable exception to this being her steadfast husband who smartly decides to remain neutral in this situation.
  Canceling your own birthday party feels shitty....like 'cry in the shower all morning and try and pull yourself together' sort of shitty. It shouldn't be a big deal. I keep telling myself this. "Whatever, the weather is bad...it will be better some other time". But I know myself, and the likelihood of me having enough courage to actually ask people to do something for me on my behalf again in the near future is slim to diminishing. It isn't gonna happen.
And then I turn on Facebook. And for some stupid, crazy reason, it makes me feel better to see all of the birthday wishes pouring in on my page. It's kind of lame, I know. And at the same time, it isn't lame at all. It is like opening little packages of happiness. And suddenly, I don't feel so bad about having to cancel my own party because none of these people would have been able to come anyway and they are still taking the time to tell me that they love me. And that is a pretty special thing.
So from now on, I am going to return the favor. Even if it is a person that I may never see again in my entire life, I am going to take 30 seconds out of my day to wish them a Happy Birthday. Maybe if they are having a sucky day,  it will help them to have a better one....even if it is for a minute. Because everyone deserves a little love on the day they were born....everyone.

Middle Age; The Short List

Several truths of middle age that no one will ever tell you about (until it is too late); these are the things I think about when I am stuck at my desk fulfilling the tasks that are required of me to be a successful adult (When really, I would rather be outside playing).

1. You will drown in paperwork. You will spend hours of your life sorting through applications for health insurance, sports team sign-ups, vehicle registration, employment forms, school permission slips, jury duty surveys, mortgage applications and tax documents. You'll hate it and wish you could pawn it off on someone else but find that there is actually no one who can save you from this dreadful fate.

2. In your late 30s your skin starts to loosen. Those small, fine ridges that you observed on the arms of your grandma have now become the same topography  you observe on your own arms. Suddenly, your evenly toned pigment begins to dissolve to reveal every scab you ever picked, every sunburn you ever regretted, every cut or scrape that you forgot you even received. Its all there, written out in the colorless blotches that now begin to spread over your hands.  Your veins begin to fatten and pucker; popping up like a hidden mountain range in purple and green.

3. Hair grows at an astounding rate. Your eyebrows, nose hairs, chin hairs, lip hairs, mole hairs, shoulder hairs, back hairs, ear hairs, belly hairs.... all take on a life of their own as the hair on your head that you are accustomed to caring for coarsens, grays and may eventually fall out. Slowly, you spend more time managing all the funky unwanted hairs than the hair you actually like on your body. You invest in multiple pairs of tweezers and stash them in emergency locations (like your purse).

4. My God! You own a purse, and its getting bigger. Probably to hold all that paperwork....and all the other odds and ends that you now seem to require on a daily basis just to make it through life. Gone are the days of a tube of chapstick and a $20 bill stuffed into the front pocket of your jeans.

5. Your favorite music is at least 20 years old. Yep, it happened. Somehow along the way you stopped spending your life's energy keeping up on the most popular, most hip, most cutting edge new bands and found that really, all you wanted to listen to on this beautiful sunny day was the Cure. You still attend shows but have found that even your favorite bands are now touring acoustically and with assigned seats. Eventually, your kids will discover that everything that you have been forcing them to listen to all these years is actually Not That Cool when you are under the age of 30. And, even more cruelly, when you do start to find yourself gravitating toward modern day talents, you start to feel awkward and creepy; like that old dude who always stood at the back of the show and you wondered why the hell he was still hanging out with a bunch of kids. Congratulations, that is now You.

6.You want to go to bed early. Your parents weren't actually as lame as you thought they were. You really do get tired more easily as you get older. Must be all that shitty paperwork....

7. It's harder to stay strong. Part of the loose skin issue mentioned in #2 comes from the ever-decreasing muscle mass that actually took up space under all that skin. Take pictures of yourself in a bikini now...your days of  looking good in it are numbered. You feel every major injury you ever received and realize that if you stop moving now, you will remain forever stuck in an arthritic stupor that will never loosen its grip. You decide to start drinking lots of water just to keep your eyes from sinking into your skull, exposing the dark circles that show exactly just how old you are becoming.

8. Sugar doesn't taste as good. Probably because now, every time you eat it, you feel it gnawing away at your receding gums, the root canal you should have gotten last year or the cavity that seems to be forming just to the side of your last filling. Your teeth are f*d up, but at least they haven't started falling out....yet....

9. You now know with certainty that you are never going to retire. All those aspirations you had when you were younger of putting aside enough money to quit your job when you turned 45 to travel the world, are laughable now. Mostly, you are hoping that you will be able to save enough to get your kids though college and maybe hold on to your house long enough to die in it and not in some housing complex above the senior center.

10. You never knew you would have so much happiness and heart ache in your life. You never knew the world could be so deceptive and so kind at the same time. You never knew how lucky you would be or how hard you would have to struggle. And now that you know it, you can't help wondering how you will make it through the second half of your life without suffering a mental breakdown. But you also know that time seems to move faster as you get older and, in a way, you wish it would all slow down and that summertime would last forever the way that it did when you were a child.

And lastly, and most importantly, you realize that although your body will eventually fail you faster and faster with each passing year, your soul will go on forever. And beauty really is in the eye of the beholder and that youth is a state of mind. And that nothing is certain in life except death and taxes. And that the only way I am going to finish mine so that I can go out and play, is to get back to work.....Happy Saturday.

TATTOO

**This piece was written for the Write On The River annual writer's competition where it received an Honorable Mention for non-fiction writing.**


Her grandmother called it a sin.

  March got her first tattoo when she was twenty-one. A Christmas gift from the Wolf (her lover), it was a modest self-drawn snowflake inked into place by a shaky-handed apprentice to the great Wanda H. of Peoria, Illinois.  They had driven 7 hours along flat, featureless winter roads to fill a weekend with wake-n-bakes, hard music, heavy drinking, long-standing friendship, unspeakable love and some virgin ink. The needle offered a new sensation to her life and her brain felt in tune with the rhythm of its sounds and the heat from its sting. Later, standing in the filthy bathroom with her shirt pulled up over her head, March carefully removed the bandages from her shoulder, examined the art she had acquired and smiled. It was as if someone had opened the door to an invisible cage and allowed her to walk out, free.

  Thinking back, March remembered the first time she had entered this room. Flash Art encased in protective acrylic sleeves filled the walls as her high school girlfriend flipped through the pages of each plastic-bound book of images. It was a neon-filled parlor in a Wisconsin tourist trap of a town. Overweight moms and Harley dads and newly turned eighteen-year-olds exploring their freedom and not much else. She couldn’t even remember the symbol that had finally been chosen since it was meaningless. Art didn’t live here. This was more like a dare. This way, was without love.....

  Her next visit to a parlor happened within the year but, again, it was not she who sat the chair. Standing alongside her enigmatic friend, March watched as the artist tried to make sense of the sinuous space left behind from the scoliosis along Little Bird’s spine. Little Bird had been a gymnast as a child and the rigors of training and poor genetics left her twisted but strong. The final piece followed the center of Little Bird’s back, but not the bones beneath. It was a list of carefully chosen symbols in black and flesh, set with an overly-heavy hand. The art healed dark and scarred and beautiful like Little Bird herself.

  At a party that winter, someone pulled out a home tattooing kit and began working the soft skin inside Kiah’s lower lip. Small stabs of blueish ink began to form out the word that would remain there forever. On the perpetrator’s wrist lived a bolt of lightning and on her partner’s hand a crescent moon.  Eventually, March would watch those two people grow older together, separate, remain friends and finally dissolve into obscurity. But still, the bolt and the moon remained alongside the memory of that night.

  In the spring, March got home late from class and had to ride her bike as fast as the wind to reach the shop in time. He was already in the chair and the work was nearly complete. The Wolf had chosen an ancient script that wrapped gracefully around his muscular calf. The needle began to bounce as it passed over the bone in his shin and he drew in his breath deeply to compensate. The size and scope of the art was larger this time, the session lasting hours. In the end, the Wolf was tired and drawn and shivering with adrenaline. March followed him home and kissed his watery eyes.

  The fall was crisp and golden. Always happy, Cat decided that her time had come and asked if March would sit with her while the ink work was done. Cat’s skin turned red and blotchy beneath the needle and small droplets of blood exuded themselves from the damaged tissue. A cacophony of musical notes spread gracefully across her supple back; a symphony to play on forever….

  And then, nothing. For years, there was nothing. No needles. No Art….at least not for March. She wandered into a small shop at some point during the hot summer and had almost conceded to a meaningless piece of work if only to have some connection again to the transcendence, focus and love that the ink offered. She made an appointment; but never showed up.

  Then quite suddenly and unexpectedly March’s heart was again moved. Captivated, for 10 years she carried a photograph tucked carefully inside the creased and dirty pages of a CrimethInc. novella.  Occasionally, she would pull out the aging paper and wonder if she would ever commit to fulfilling her desires. Once, she thought the image to be lost and nearly panicked; so encircled was her soul around its subtle meanings for her life. A mustang ensnared by a pair of griffins. In the face of certain death the steed remained poised and strong, meeting its fate boldly and without fear.

  It was her 37^th birthday. The Wolf had arranged for her to meet Little Bird in a back-alley parlor amidst the chaos and beauty of Capitol Hill. The room had tall tin ceilings and walls the color of new blood. The vertical surfaces were adorned with mounted animal heads (boar and coyote)and the gilded frames of petit paintings in oils and acrylics. The windows were large open panes of glass and as the needle worked, March watched a man walk past dressed in tube socks, underwear and nothing more. Over the course of four hours, the soft skin of her belly became transformed into the gruesomeness of a truth only she could really understand. The wings of each beast spread out toward the bones of her hips with the head of the wild horse dipping gently below her navel. As the ink flowed, March did not cry out. Indeed, she barely moved. Her thoughts remained quiet and her breathing came in long flowing sighs as she explored the calmness of the world inside her mind. After all this time, March had again found peace….. At last.

On The Road: Maui Part 1

Iteration #2. First iteration having been swallowed whole by a passing shark (or a bad keystroke).

Introduction:

For me, after a new experience, it is helpful to decompress through writing. I am not much of a travel writer. Or in reality, I have never tried to be a travel writer. However, having just returned from my first trip to Maui I am feeling compelled to write a travelogue of our adventure. This is the story of our trip, though my eyes.

 Hawai’i is a complicated place with a relatively recent history of upheaval that still remains a very real part of its culture. After this visit, I not only have an appreciation for Hawai’i’s fragile diversity of abundant life (both on land and sea) but also for its people and their traditions and language. Traveling can do amazing things for a person. It may be the most important form of education. It is one thing to read books with lists and dates and facts and figures and a very different thing to witness living reality with your own eyes. I am always grateful when life allows me the chance to expand my horizons. This trip has been one of my favorites. It has changed my heart and if anything I have left the islands feeling more compelled than ever to lend myself toward their conservation (which ultimately, relates to a planetary-wide mindset of conservation). Hawai’i sits in a precarious position. Without an awareness of and a desire for a change in anthropogenic habits, the decline of Hawai’i seems as inevitable as the loss of polar ice or the expansion of the great American deserts.

 Aloha and Mohalo Maui. You are an incredible gem. A paradise; proof of the profound beauty our earth is capable of. Thank you for sharing your treasures with me.

Prologue: The Plague

For the record, this trip was nearly cancelled due to natural circumstances. Leading up to departure, Leif succumb to a bout of stomach flu, Ingrid developed a 102+ fever and I came down with a mild cold. Fortunately, we persisted and everyone (except me) made a miraculous recovery just in time for travel. Illness did not re-appear until our return to the mainland (and a return to 20F nights).

Day 1: Meeting Stella

After an overnight on the backside of Tiger Mountain with Jeff, Lisa and Isiah, we are immediately swallowed up by the early morning rainy Seattle commuter traffic (When isn’t it rainy in Seattle in November?) on our way to the airport. A stop-and-go session leaves us 45 minutes behind schedule, yet we survive the late airport parking shuttle, the understaffed airline check-in counter and the ridiculous (yes) process of homeland security before being essentially forced to run to our gate. Breakfast is not a possibility and I make promises to the kids of on-board snacks (peanut M&Ms for breakfast…no problem!) as we become the last family to board our mid-morning flight.

Flying is uneventful and both Willy and I are amazed at how well the kids handle 6 hours of being strapped into their seats like sardines. Apparently the years of training them to survive 12 hour car rides to Salt Lake City have paid off.

We land in Kahului around 2 PM and are hit with a sweet-smelling wall of heat and humidity as we leave the plane. Birds fly through the open-air sections of the airport and banana trees reach for the sky all around us. We catch our shuttle to Kihei where we first become acquainted with our home away from home for the next 6 nights; a 1989 Steel Blue Volkswagen Westfalia pop-up camper van. Brandon, her owner*, briefly acquaints us with her quirks and shows us the location of several essential features including the jumper cables and an extra screwdriver….just in case…. We throw our packs in the back and prepare for departure. As I am about to turn the key, one of the mechanics knocks on the passenger side window. Willy rolls it down and the guy throws us a big smile…. ‘Her name’s Stella!’ he shouts through the window. We promise to take care of her and head out in search of a grocery store and a place to spend the night.

After stocking up on groceries, ice and guava-papaya juice, we end up heading out toward West Maui in search of an ‘official’ campground. We miss our turn and our turn-around ends up being a roadside fruit stand, which is a good omen for us. We stock up on pineapple, star fruit and strawberry papaya. The dude who runs the stand, although mildly sketchy, is friendly enough and gives us directions to the campground.

We arrive at Olowalu after the office has closed for the night and pull into an over-flow parking area that is currently under construction. There’s orange ‘Caution’ fencing everywhere and a shitload of torn up palms and vegetation stacked on the margins of the platform. Not exactly what I had envisioned when dreaming about camping on Maui but a perfectly acceptable option for the night*.

We exit the van and wind our way down to the beach to enjoy the sunset and wet our toes. Approximately 20 minutes in, Leif has the good fortune of stepping on an extremely thorny branch which alerts us to the fact that the trees overhead are littering the beach with shrapnel. ‘Note to self, wear shoes’ is the take home message of the evening.

We head back to the van, pull together a make-shift dinner of fresh fruit, rice and beans and figure out how to pop up the top of the camper. Still unaccustomed to the tropical heat, we restlessly move through the van trying to figure out the best place to store gear and how to open the windows without blowing out the flame on the propane cook stove. The night is WINDY with gusts around 40 mph. Keeping the windows open is nearly impossible due to flying dust and so we spend a semi-uncomfortable night tossing around blanketless. I get up in the middle of the night to pee and am awe-struck by the clarity of the sky. The stars are bright and clear and the planets are easily visible and in near alignment.

 The van continues to rock in the wind throughout the rest of the night but we are all too tired to care. However, even minor time differences are a bitch and by 4:30 AM all four of us are awake and staring at each other wide-eyed (but good humored) as we wonder when the sun will rise over the horizon. Renegade chickens begin to call from the forest all around us and at about 6 AM the darkness fades into daybreak. By 6:45 AM the van is converted back into a traveling machine and we are on our way.

Day 2: Beaches, Kings and Locals

We drive down South Kihei road and start to sus out the terrain. At the far end of the road we find a quiet public beach which technically falls into the Wailea district. It is 7:30 AM. We make some good strong coffee in the van, cut up some more pineapple for breakfast and head out to explore the beach. Ingrid begins to collect Plumeria blossoms like treasures and an older gentleman with an amazing tan shows us the overhanging avocado and banana trees in the parking lot. I nearly start giggling as I wade into the 80+ water. The sun is still low in the sky and everything is lit in a golden hue.  By 8:30 AM the kids have already built a sand castle village and the beach is filling up with morning walkers and runners. By 9 AM the air is hot and we decide to track down some snorkeling gear. We end up at a Kihei pawn shop and purchase a snorkel and mask for $8 and a fishing pole and reel for $25. We head back to the beach and decide to start doing a little underwater exploring….

On my second snorkel of the day I have my first real-life encounter with a sea turtle. I will admit that I screamed briefly through my snorkel. As it approached out of the blue haze of open water, its size was immense. For a mainlander like me, you spend your life seeing pictures of these incredible creatures, watching nature videos and even visiting them in an aquarium now and then. However, the magnitude of their size is not truly tangible until you are face to face in open water. I am 5’3” tall and my first turtle was almost equal in length and certainly larger in stature than myself. It moves through the water with delicate ease and I feel incredibly clumsy in my false plastic flippers and artificial air. The turtle swims directly toward me with amazing speed and just as quickly changes course and heads off toward the far end of the reef. I exit the water in a state of bliss, with a huge smile and my body vibrating with adrenaline.

We spend the rest of that first day wasting time on the beach (it was still so novel!). Our pale skin starts to feel a little bit crispy from the large doses of UV and salt, so it is time to take on a new adventure…preferably out of the sun. We agree that camping on the coast toward West Maui seems like the best plan for the night so we head in that general direction. There is just enough time in the day to explore the Iao Valley and, as a last-minute detour, we crisscross the van along roads lined in sugar cane for a quick hike in this valley of kings.

The Iao Valley sits just to the West of Wailuku. Wailuku and Kahului tend to blur together into one, large suburb. This is where I start interjecting the not-so-pleasant observations of my time on the island…..

So, we drive North along HWY 30 and encounter the first historical signs of Hawaii’s most recent colonization; namely old plantations, a sugar refinery and some beautiful old buildings that are now home to a grade school and a historic church. The guidebooks claim that before the surge in affordable airfare the islands received about 500 outside visitors a year. After airlines started using Hawaii as a hub (and the US set itself up as a military power) that number jumped to nearly 7 Million. Alongside the older buildings and structures from another era are the pop-up neighborhoods one associates with the suburbs of any large American city, including their strip mall accompaniments. So one starts to ponder the immensity of resources necessary for maintaining a Western-style standard of living on a remote, Pacific Island. Honestly, if the tanker ships stop arriving tomorrow, the population of new-breed Hawai’ians will be forced to live off of sugar cane. There simply aren’t the on-island resources available to keep this many people alive without major environmental degradation and collapse.

I avert my eyes from the new-found sprawl and divert my attention to the abundance of plant life that lines the roadside. The Pothos plant living in my house would be embarrassed to meet its tropical cousins! Hawai’i is a botanical paradise. Even mundane roadsides become exciting when a person stops to enjoy the diversity of species that call Maui home.

The road we are traveling takes a sharp left and begins to climb up toward a looming, cloud-filled valley ahead. Like all good roads on Maui, the driving becomes more involved as the road narrows. Corners become blind obstacles and all bridges become single lane right-of-ways.

We get to the entry booth for the Valley (which is now a protected State Park) and the guy inside looks at us, looks at the van and says ‘You local?’ We feel compelled to tell the truth and to pay our $5 entry fee…our small donation to keeping this place beautiful and accessible…..

Side Note: The Hawai’ian islands have become so popular as a world tourist destination that resentment has been building among the locals for some time now. After essentially having their royal government overthrown by a handful of white colonial sugar and shipping barons, there is still a strong negative emotion elicited toward the large population of visiting ‘Haoles’ (yes, this term is derogatory, and aimed strictly toward Caucasians). We knew this coming into the trip but decided that we would do our part to be respectful visitors and hopefully avoid being labelled too vigorously with this slanderous term.

As a consequence of the upsurge in visitation by the outside world, certain culturally significant and historical sites have been forced to check IDs; charging entry fees to off-island visitors while allowing the local population to continue to enjoy their home country free of charge. This feels completely acceptable to me. So even though, as it was becoming obvious that our family could pass for Hawai’ian locals, we were always honest about our origins and paid our way.

Immediately upon exiting the van, the Iao Valley swallows us whole. The kids run loose up the trail toward the overlook and I feel a little breathless as I marvel at my surroundings. The energy emitted by this valley resonates clearly with me and I understand why it has been set aside as sacred ground. We spend an hour or so wandering about on the winding pathways both up toward the needle and then down along the stream. We scan the treetops for native Hawai’ian birds. For the first (and only) time on the trip our bare legs are bitten up by hungry mosquitos. The sun begins to drop lower in the sky illuminating the foliage. Our stomachs are starting to grumble and we make the decision that it is time to leave and start heading toward our new camp somewhere out along the beach.

 We had decided to camp ‘legally’ on our second night and bought a permit for the county park known locally as ‘Grandma’s’; an unmistakable strand that winds along the coast between Maui and West Maui. All of the sites are drive-in style with a bush or two delineating one camp site from the next. We find a vacancy and back the van in so that it is parked about 20 feet from the edge of the breaking waves.

Within a half an hour we meet our first locals, Jimmy and Chris. Both of them live on the beach. Jimmy, in his converted cargo van and Chris in his Previa. They come over to check out Stella. This is when we learn that Westies are a hot commodity on the islands. Very few are still in private circulation, forcing most Maui surf bums to convert older mini-vans instead. We knew that at some point during our camping adventure we would be running the risk of stepping on the toes of the locals. But Dirtbags love Dirtbags and we all hit it off immediately….our parking spot being located directly between both Jimmy and Chris. Jimmy had been living on the beach for probably 25 years, with his spot marked by the grave of lava stones dedicated to his dog Nuisance. Chris is an East Coast transplant who saved enough money to move to the island full time for its warm and sometimes ‘sharky’ surfing. We talk about fishing and turtles and surfing and winter and van life. Then, as quickly as our visitors arrived, they departed… Jimmy leaves to go turn off his TV (so he wouldn’t drain the battery) and Chris decides it is time to settle in for the night. The beach becomes quiet and dark as the sun sets and the sky lights up in a rainbow of color. Everyone turns their attention to the ocean, the sky and the soft warm sand.

During the night the campground is dark and quiet so we open up the back of the van and let the air move in off of the ocean. We fall asleep to the sounds of crashing surf. I wake myself up regularly to look around and soak it all in. This was going to be a great trip!

*Westfalia rentals on Maui available through Aloha Campers 

*If ‘van camping’ on Maui, skip Olowalu. You can’t park anywhere near the beach. The tent camping is much more inviting here. We opted to not ‘pay’ for the experience of spending an overnight in their parking lot.

Mine Sne Hjerte

Soft whites in a steady cascade,

Of flakes, og perler or fragile hoar frost and rime

Of gentle sounds and dampened footsteps…

I come, born from arctic blood

Of Mo i Rana and fjørds cut deep.

Blue eyes flecked in silver and storm

As still as waters fractured with ice

Mine hjerte synger med winter light

Of long dark nights og branden  bright

Vi findes vores stemme med hver nyt søvn

Strong and steady and in continuous chorus it rises;

To meet the morning of the first fallen snow.

Thankfulness

What am I thankful for?  I thought I could summarize this in a word or two; maybe a string of emotions or the obvious list of nouns. 

As I sit here, my thanks is nearly overwhelming. It bubbles up from the center of my chi and enters the world through every pore of my being. I feel my inner heart filling and my eyes watering as I contemplate what it means to be 'thankful'.....

It is easiest to start with those closest to me.

I am thankful for my husband; my compassionate partner. We, by a small miracle, found each other long ago and the bond that we forged forms the ramparts of my heart.

I give gratitude to the forces that brought our children to us; each unique, loving, beautiful molecule of their beings....

I am blessed with a family; scattered across the frozen tundra, rolling fields, sapphire lakes and desert lands far from my home. Although we are far, I feel them calling...

I remember my ancestors; both those I have known and those who are a mystery. Without you, I am nothing.

My friends, near and far, fill me with happiness. I embrace them today with my love.

And yes, our pets. Dogs and cats living together in anarchy. You warm our beds and encourage us to curl up for a nap once in a while.

I am thankful for the divine intervention of art, creativity and ingenuity. Of mathematics, language and scientific inquiry. These human expressions of the innermost secrets of our world are the bright colors in the tapestry of my life. Without them, I am black and white.

I am thankful to live in peace. This thanks is larger than me. It is one voice in a collective sigh of relief and often of guilt. The world is in need of more islands of solitude. Today, I send my cry of mercy to those in this world living in struggle. May peace find you, may you have loving kindness surround you and keep you safe.

I send my gratitude to our Earth, our mother. You have granted us unlimited possibilities to enjoy your beauty. You create and destroy. May we all find a space for you in our lives. I remain humble before you.

I send my thanks to the heavens that surround us. Each night, I am afforded the opportunity to observe the immensness of your contribution in my life.

I live in a state of Thanks but today I celebrate it as the focal point of my thoughts. Love to all of you and a Happy Thanksgiving.

Elemental Life

Why does life form?
A better question would be, Why doesn't it?
Why does Iron form?  An elemental bi-product of the inevitable chemistry of the universe.
Life is an element. An inevitability that arises like a phoenix from within the universal rules of chemistry and physics. Life abounds in all places. Life abounds where we cannot yet see. We have never been alone. We are not alone now.

existential

I don't know much about life after death but I may believe in life after life.
*****
what do you see when you look at yourself? do you know that person well? can you look them in the eyes? who looks back?
*****
I used to turn myself around and around, in front of a mirror, trying to understand.
My mother hinted that I may be vain....a mortal sin. What I could not explain to her, in my child's voice, was my curiosity as to who I was. This shell that I inhabit must be very different from the last. Who grows up thinking that they have been placed inside the wrong body? Who physically feels their eyes becoming windows....not made of glass but a set fashioned from thin sheets of Muscovite; ancient and milky?
*****
A friend and I have shared the same dreams. Not a hypothetical dream for the future or the ephemeral dream to someday be a writer (although we do dream that dream together)  but the dreams of the unconscious soul. Dreams of lilacs blossoms blowing on the breeze, dreams of dead friends, dreams of the divine. He once explained to me that he can no longer meditate because he is afraid of what he will find. He has found the way....the tunnel that leads to light. He found the way and the one on the other side shot out of the darkness and delivered a hard right hooked punch to his gut. He will not meditate now; the pain was too real.
Many of us have found this place and are afraid to enter. We are not taught to know what to do when we arrive and so we flee. But we are drawn here, over and over, to stand at the gate and to let the wind howl past. The buzzing and crackle and the alignment of neural energy....if you have been here you may know how startling this discovery can be.
*****
I do not believe in who I am...Meaning, I do not believe that this is all I am meant to be. I have been more and I have been less. I have purpose and with luck, my life will have meaning to others. After I pass, I may return as a swallow, another woman, a man, or your cat. I may be the ant who is tortured by children or the peasant who is tortured by circumstance.
I will not return as a demon....one of the unconscionable souls tending the alter of economy, persecution and power. Hell is very real but its dimension exists now. Demons exist but they wear the skins of sharks and prey upon the poor. Damnation is often a choice.
*****
Are we animal or are we human? Do you know the difference? Lost Souls, you are not lost. You have only forgotten the way. The path is laid out before you, now walk forth and exist.

summer skin

I stand naked before the mirror and admire the return of my summer skin;
pale pink above my breasts and bronze in over lapping layers of straps and sleeves. Muscles form and re-form in a progression down the length of my arms.
The silt washes off in a torrent of mud mixed with the sweet scent of soap;
my hair once again bright as the moon; casting off the dullness of the day in its many layers of sweat, grime and sunshine.
My toes will not be clean again until the leaves fall from the trees in their cascade of relief and exhaustion, as summer wanes and autumn embraces us with darkness.
Next to the sink, I study the black of my hat. Its surface a rainbow of textures;  an oil soaked and sleek band fades into bleached and brittle edges. A history and a reflection of my unconscious habit of removing it and reapplying it over and over as I struggle to shield my eyes from the light....my fingerprints are nearly visible on the brim. Like my toes, my fingers will bear the burden of the season; rough and frayed corners, calluses, and healed-over blisters.
From head to toe, I am amused by my appearance and I contemplate Pearl S. Buck's The Good Earth. I remember my mother, grandmothers, great-grand mothers. I look into my own eyes and see eternity laid out before me.
I am the one that arrives with dirt in the cuffs, spots, stains and small tears.I am a woman of beauty; a creature of struggle, persistence and undying optimism. I am the light that is not seen and only felt. I am starlight and madness. I am the womb of creation. I am all of these things. I am dust.

Inside of Me

Only when you walk
Naked through your house
Are you Truly Free

It is when
You walk naked through your garden
That you are Truly Wild

el lago

As I sit here staring at these peaks, this lake, this life
My children with toes buried up to their ankles
The gentle slap of water on sand
And try to imagine a life without
this place....
without this warm sun....
without the evergreen, cedar skeletons, pebbles, solitude.....
On this perfect May day
 in this place that I call home
but is not the home of my birth
And will I ever feel fully at home
as at home as a birth-right allows?
Is this the gift we give our children
without them knowing it
This security of belonging
to a mountain vista
never questioning
only living
only alive

On Bees and The Fragility Of Our Food System; An essay on the eye-witness account of a honeybee massacre

I recently returned from a mini road trip to Seattle where I doused myself in culture, the arts and some amazing Puerto Rican cuisine. It was a long time in coming and I really relish the chance to don my city shoes, tapered jeans, chic skirt or something other than a pair of grubby work clothes and strictly utilitarian footwear. Visiting the Westside (wet-side) of the Cascades reminds me how very close we are to the Pacific Ocean. It is easy to forget the smell of damp, salty air on our Ponderosa Pine  and sun-drenched Eastern Slopes. I love to wake up on a sunny Ballard morning, walk out the door and greet the neighborhood. There is truly a part of me that loves city life....
But after 24 hours of  indulging in the privileges that only sidewalks offer, I begin to feel out of sorts and mildly uncomfortable; like wearing a coat that is one size too small. There is a very real and Vulcan-like instinct to assess my surroundings for what they really are...namely an ecologically unsustainable bubble of hipster culture. Sure, there are curbside gardens, but realistically these little 4 ft-by-4ft plots are not capable of feeding a household. At most, you may get a good salad or two once a month and maybe some garnish for your afternoon mojito.  At this point, Urban Claustrophobia begins to settle in and I am thankful that I get to jump back into my Subaru and high tail it out of town and back over the mountains to my country roads......almost....
Usually there is some anthropogenically generated roadblock that keeps me from escaping the urban interface unscathed. This trip was no different.
Except, that it was.

This time, the roadblock was a 3 mile back up at the intersection of I-5 and I-405 just North of town. That morning while eating breakfast, my friend told me he had heard there was some type of accident involving a truckload of bees. As I drove North out of Seattle and gradually lumbered to a rolling stop with all of the other late morning commuters, it occurred to me that I may have found myself taking part as an eye-witness to this bee massacre. Slowly, each lane crept forward in the timeless 'stop-and-go' dance that is now an unavoidable part of suburban life. I kept to the outside lane hoping to catch a glimpse of the over-turned truck.

The first signal of the approaching accident site was the honeybee that careened into my windshield about 300 yards South of the crash site. As we crept closer, small clouds of disoriented bees zigged and zagged between the traffic until the over-turned truck was in sight. It was a beautiful, warm day and the windows of my car were wide open. Approximately 200 feet from the crash I was hit with the overwhelming smell of honeycomb and wax; the scent any bee-keeper knows only too well.
The sight that lay before me was devastating. My heart ached in a way that I have never before experienced as I lay eyes on the mountain of broken bee boxes,supers, frames and comb; all having been pushed into a massive pile on the side of the road by WashDOT in an attempt to re-open one of the 3 lanes of Northbound Interstate. The carnage stood over 15 feet high. A fire truck stood nearby supplying a high powered stream of water to the first responders who were vigorously soaping and scrubbing the freeway free of honey.  Alongside the guardrail, in full bee suits were the 3 Latino farm workers who were invariably in charge of the large load. (* I will continue to document the ethnicity of the farm workers I observe until there is no longer a disparity between us out in the fields*). Meanwhile, lost bees continued to fly in search of their missing queen, their brood, their homes.

It was seeing the farm workers with their grim expressions, that really brought home the devastation of this event. The likelihood of them being gainfully employed was quickly slipping away with each broom-stroke. The farmer who had been expecting this shipment of bees to pollinate their crop would be getting the call that, indeed, no bees would be coming, as the window for pollination steadily drew to a close. The owner of the hives would also be receiving a call informing them that they were no longer the owner of some 100 or more bee colonies; a season of contracts negated prematurely with countless other farms left short on pollinators for the upcoming season. And most tragically, the hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of bees whose houses had been lost that day were nearly and almost undoubtedly destined to die as well. With no queen, no brood and nowhere to go, they continued to fly aimlessly, encountering one windshield after the next.
Who writes the insurance policy for a flatbed of bees?

And this is the system we have built for ourselves. In our ever increasing enthusiasm for playing God to the Natural World, we have placed ourselves precariously in exactly this position. We are continuously increasing the level of responsibility that We Humans have over the well-being of the World's many Creatures. Our folly is the undoing of the lives of our subjugates. In mythology, the persecuted cursed the gods for their callous disregard. Have we not become our own protagonists?

 I will remain obstinate to a paradigm that carelessly tampers with the natural order of our intricate living systems until we have proved ourselves worthy of such a position. From my perspective, we have a long way to go.

Dirtbags; a guide

*An edited version of this essay will be appearing in The Good Life Magazine in May of 2015

Becoming a well-seasoned dirtbag is a skill acquired over years of intentional fun-seeking away from the boundaries of the urban corridor. Although it is best to start at a young age so that the intricacies of living on the road become second nature, anyone has the potential of aspiring to future dirtbag status (just look at Fred Becky).

**A Quick Word of Advice: Avoid calling yourself a dirtbag  in public until you are at least 17 years of age. Avoid calling your parents dirtbags too....especially  in front of figures of authority....like your teachers....even if they are. This is a term of endearment that some people don't understand.**

The following is an easy step-by-step guide to the conversion of a sane, high IQ individual on a promising career path into a low-wage earning, high velocity, free spirited, dirtbag. Results will vary among individuals.

Step 1-Develop a love for a sport or activity where destination travel is a key component. The love of travel is not a prerequisite but it does aid the transition process from responsible student/adult into carefree adventure seeker. Suggested activities and/or careers that will gain you dirtbag experience points include snowboarding/back country skier, climber/mountain guide, mountain/dirt/adventure biker, surfer, kayaker/rafter, long distance hiker/runner, fisherman, anything involving a sail, park service employee,outdoor ed. major, nature photographer/writer, geologist, biologist, and journeyman anything.

Step 2- Be (and remain) idealistic.Idealism makes up for the lack of working capital (i.e. cash) that upholds the self esteem of the responsible folks. When cash fails, ideals blossom. Have ideals about politics, religion, the environment, society. Have ideals about love and family, war and peace, and good literature.

Step 3-Be comfortable around dirt. This means, be comfortable around your dirt, other peoples dirt, being dirty and plain old dirt. Be able to lie in the dirt, without a blanket. Be able to brush the dirt off of an item and think of this as 'cleaning'.

Step 4-Cook out of a can or be able to craft gourmet meals using free and/or scavenged ingredients. This may mean opening a can and eating the contents with your fingers or a modified utensil (crackers) with or without heating up the contents of the can before consumption. Some items to consider ingesting include tuna fish, ramen noodles, ketchup soup, dried fruit, blocks of cheese,chocolate chip cookies, coffee with cocoa packets and salami sticks. When in doubt, be able to identify the local bakery or  brewery to fill in where your personal talents fall short. Add +5 to your experience points when your Jet Boil meal incorporates vegetables and possibly, chopping.

Step 5- Be able to Tetris your under-sized, under powered Toyota Camry with all equipment necessary for a multi-week excursion with or without pets/co-pilot. This usually requires the purchase of multiple Rubbermaid roughneck totes that have been black sharpied with Duct Tape labels such as: Clothes, Camping, Food, Cooking, Gear and Emergency. Or skip the bins and the Tetris and aim for the 'scatter and dig' approach, maximizing the entire storage capacity of your trunk but requiring excess parking lot space for actually finding that last red cam. Add to your life's goals: purchase all-wheel drive Subaru (or possibly Toyota Tacoma with modified bed turned sleeping compartment/gear storage). If dirtbag is only a persona you don on weekends due to job constraints where personal appearance and mode of transportation invite judgement from co-workers and neighbors,  consider the Honda Element as a more suitable urban substitute.

Step 6-Practice improvisation and creativity. As a dirtbag you will be called upon to improvise such necessary items as tent poles, shelters, splints or slings, can openers, and any number of items that may be missing, broken, lost or forgotten. It is your ability to think creatively that will keep you cozy, dry and safe in nearly any conditions presented.

Step 7- Don't forget some reads, a journal and a good camera. Travel with a compendium of obscure publications and dog-eared maps. Old guidebooks, copies of the Alpinist, Frequency or Taproot are always welcome companions when wifi service becomes non-existent. Develop an eye for natural beauty or that perfect descent and capture it on film. Draw, paint and create on your rest days. Art always scores chicks.

Step 8-Love yourself. You became a dirtbag because of your passion for the interesting and beautiful places in this world. Be comfortable being you, even when those around you are not comfortable with you being you. Learn to convey your passion to others through words, photos and essays. You may be surprised how many other people secretly long to be dirtbags too.

Step 9-Raise future dirtbags. Fill your kids' heads with propaganda like 'Camping is Fun!' or 'Jump around and you'll warm up.' Make rhetorical statements like 'Well, we could go out to eat but wouldn't you rather stay here and have a fire?' Bribe them with marshmallows and their very own headlamps. Let them choose the hike out of the book. Stack the family tree; introduce your dirtbag friends to your kids as 'aunt' and 'uncle'. Be prepared for these future dirtbags to grow up to become tax attorneys, investment bankers or fashion editors instead.

And, if dirtbagging it just isn't for you anymore, there are alternatives.There's always the home in the sprawl, the lawn to mow, 15 lbs of potato chips and beer hoping to join your midsection and a full  televised sports schedule waiting to engulf you. If you have found yourself inadvertently stalled out on this side-adventure, remember that it is never too late to get back out there. The dirtbag life is always calling and the rest of us will still be here, waiting for you.

social anorexia

Writing this is difficult for me. The idea of how to explain my sketchy social behavior leaves my mouth dry and my head pounding. I will begin by saying that I am always filled with envy when meeting people who are actually good at consummating friendships and are comfortable with being overtly extroverted. It seems like most of the world has this skill dialed. I am pretty sure most people even enjoy themselves when they are with a large group of friends. And I can't help but wonder what is wrong with me.
Sometimes I feel like a social anorexic; denying myself the food of deep friendships, all the while slowly wasting away into a ghost or shadow of myself....someone easily looked through or seldom considered as an individual fit to be a good friend. And honestly, it is a symptom of my own choices. At some point, people get tired of inviting someone who never shows up or when they do show up, they are awkward, introspective and just plain weird. I have watched happy people become uncomfortably silent in my presence. And thus, the awkwardness between us grows and the intensity of my social discomfort only increases. I feel the need to run away, leave the scene or to find a chair in a dim corner and wait to go home.
And I will admit to bailing on more than one occasion when the pressure of just showing up to a party or event felt overwhelming and frightening. I have any number of default excuses that keep me from participating in large (or small) gatherings and I try and rotate through them; never giving the same excuse to the same person more than once in a row. And even as the excuses come tumbling out of my mouth, inside my head I am screaming to myself. Because more than anything, I want to be among you, I just don't know how to do it.

As it is with most people, personal baggage can be hard to identify and can take years of hard work to rectify. I have tried to pinpoint exactly when I developed such a friendship phobia (I don't have a people phobia; I love people) and it seems to have started in grade school and continued all the way through high school. Constant shunning by individuals I identified as 'good friends' and even some of my favorite family members, led me to build a wall around the softest parts of my heart. For the sake of self preservation I began to keep friends at arms length in anticipation of the eventual pain that comes with the dissolution of a friendship.
When I finally made my way to college my relationships became more genuine, stable and real. And although the wall was still there, I built a sturdy door with a solid lock and started handing out copies of the key to a couple of my favorite people. The door can still be barred from the inside, so even with a key, admittance is not guaranteed. I have heard the term 'social anxiety' and I suppose that applies to me. And although many people I know would describe me as extroverted (I interact openly with strangers, just not friends), the core of my being still houses a huddled and scared introvert.
But what I am really hoping to explain is that I understand that this is all on me; not on you, my friends. In fact, I love most of you more than you love me (certainly). I peek out of the curtains of my world into the great vista of yours and am satisfied with waving to you as you pass by. And honestly, I am content if you just wave back. If you are walking alone, I may even get over my fear enough to open the door and ask you if you want to come in. If you are traveling with a group, I will probably keep the door locked and I might even step away from the window and watch unnoticed through the gauze of the curtains. Some days, if I am feeling particularly safe, I might come outside and ask if it is okay to walk with you. And, mostly on those days, I am hoping  that you will smile, take my hand and lead the way. Because I don't know how to lead this dance anymore, although I am willing to learn the steps.

Ghanima

Preface: This was the essay I wrote for the Write On The River state-wide writer's competition in the spring of 2014. I feel honored to have been recognized with the prize of 2nd Place for a Non-Fiction essay. It is very personal and has taken me a long time to feel comfortable enough to share it openly. It is my heart laid bare.

I became an adult the day my dog Ghanima died.  

Ghanima had been a 3 month old stray when I found her on the Rez. She was the starving runt of a mixed litter. She had fleas, was covered in mange and had the most beautiful emotional eyes I had ever seen in a dog. I knew she was meant to be with me.

Ghanima was a fierce and loyal friend who preferred life out under the stars to the warmth of our home. She gracefully made the transition to over six different houses, as my husband and I struggled to find our place in the world, and she learned the property lines of each.  Her self-assigned position was border patrol, which she excelled at.

The day she died was the same as the day before. We met our neighbors at the bus stop. Ghanima smiled and wagged her tail, greeting each one of us in turn with a lick and a quick rumble of hello from her soft black and white throat.  She crossed the road to run up the hill, chasing a scent that eluded her. I let her go; my first child....the child you have before you have children. The one who teaches young couples how to care for themselves, how to care for another, how to be reliable and trustworthy. The one who teaches you how to be a parent. I let her go, remaining innocent to danger, tragedy, circumstance.

I heard the truck approaching. There was a deep rumbling that bounced off of the valley walls and traveled on ahead; around the blind corners. This was not a regular day.  The schedule was wrong. Maybe the driver was running late? Maybe he was ahead of schedule and humming happily.

I became aware of my children; analyzed their patterns of play, wanting to keep them away from the road. I looked across the pavement to see where Ghanima may be, hoping she was still on her wild goose chase through the forest high above. However, during my visual search Ghanima and I locked eyes which only drew her closer to me.

I began to yell...what could I do? I could not leave my children; I could not reach my dog ahead of the approaching truck. As she edged her way down the hill toward us, I yelled for my sweet girl to stay there, to sit, to stay. The panic in my throat convinced her that she must be in trouble and she began to come to my side to make amends. We locked eyes again, mine pleading with her to wait. Please wait, please wait. I knew there was not enough time for her to make it across the road. I was paralyzed....helpless and afraid.

The distance between life and death was minute. She made no sound. She looked at me, confused, and then was gone. Her body lay still. Silent, alone on the cold, black ground. I ran to her wailing, maybe moaning, but I could barely hear myself.  The soft brown eyes that I had known for nine years did not move. Her body was warm. When I lifted her, I felt the ribs shift under her skin. Her blood on my black jacket ran hot and red. It stained my jeans and covered my hands as I carried her body over to the shoulder and gently lay her on the gravel, safe from further assault. I had never in my life experienced this sensation....the bitter loss of love right before my eyes. I lay my head on her chest to be closer to her and began to sob. I buried my nose briefly in her fur and inhaled her sweet dog scent.

In the distance, my children were screaming. I drowsily came to my senses and made my way back to them...my hands still stained and sticky, my jacket dripping, the puddles on my jeans spreading into a coppery, dry stain. I grabbed hold of my children and pulled them in tight. We held each other and I calmed them the best I could. The three of us distractedly made our way down the driveway to our house. I barely remember saying goodbye to my neighbor and her child as they continued to wait for the school bus. I barely remember putting my children in the car and explaining that we needed to go rescue the body of their beloved pet.  I ran up to my room looking for anything I could use to cover the body, to gather it up and transport it to....where? I found a clean white sheet in the bottom of the pine chest next to the bed.

On the way out to the road, we passed another neighbor. He must have heard my screams from earlier because his eyes were crinkled with concern and mild curiosity. We passed by with barely a wave of the hand.

I drove the wrong way down the highway to the place where Ghanima’s body lay and jumped out with the sheet. I wrestled with her limp body and for the first time in all of her life truly felt her weight on my arms. My small frame could barely manage to move her sturdy, muscular body into the car.......

                                                                                                              

She is buried in our yard now, amidst the fruit trees and berry bushes. From where she lay, there is a view both to the north and south along the length of the canyon. It’s the place where the sky is large and where she can still see the boundaries of our property. We still talk about her in present tense. In the mornings my son and husband often walk down to visit her and wish her good morning.

The day Ghanima died was the day I realized that there was no safety net between myself and the violence of the world. I became that net for my children. I hope my love is strong enough to catch them when they fall.

An Essay on Reality

Holy Hell, what kind of world am I living in? I feel like I am living in a dream. For a long time now, reality has become less obvious and the lines between fact and fiction have become blurred.

Farming for me has always been a joyful act. Actually, a joyful accident. Spending time in the dirt has helped to calm the panic that rages inside me. It has grounded me and given me a distraction from the overwhelming noise of the world...a tune that is out of tune; a rhythm that I cannot follow without falling out of step; a song that I know the words to but refuse to sing.
The more blogs I read by other farmers the more conviction I feel towards the methods that Willy and I have chosen to use on our own farm. Although it is beautiful and effective, it is far from the norm.

I just finished reading a blog that was recommended as one of the best farm blogs in the nation....I am going to repeat this....one of the best farm blogs in the nation. This blog went on and on for pages about the virtues of large scale Ag. It showed endless images of massive semi-sized combines, argued the shortsightedness of scientists in blaming GMOs and insecticides for the demise of the honeybee, discussed farming futures and commodity markets. This is virtuous farming in the eyes of our nation? You've got to be fucking kidding me.

Thanks but no thanks fellas. Keep your GPS driven combines and your armies of migrant quasi-illegal slave labor.

On our family vacation, we spent some time in and around Pismo, CA. Every November we close up the farm and head out of town for a few weeks to show our kiddos the world. We rent a minivan and drive through Washington, Oregon, over to Utah, across Nevada and finally to California. During the entire drive, Willy and I scan the fields and look at the agriculture endemic to a particular area. We point out different crops to the kids (Uugh-huh...More grapes...is the typical response from the back seat).The stretch between Salinas and Pismo CA. is the 'salad belt' of the United States. Of all the ground we cover, this is the only place where there are crops resembling the ones we grow at home on our own farm. Namely broccoli, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, salad mix, kale, head lettuce, strawberries and cabbage.

There is a little corner of the Oceano Dunes SVRA (think 4 wheeling heaven with 2 story high sand dunes) where you can walk out on a boardwalk to see a variety of migratory waterfowl in their winter habitat; the small Oso Flaco lake which is stuck between the berms of the surrounding Oceano Dunes SVRA and the Guadalupe-Nipmo Dunes National Wildlife Refuge. We went to check it out since part of our trip involves the identification and cataloging of bird species that are new to us.
 Butting up to the parking lot for this boardwalk trail are the farm fields of the southern edge of the Coastal Range...the western flank of the San Joaquin Valley. Broccoli and strawberries stretch out as far as the eye can see....until your eye is broadsided by the sight of the Phillips 66 Santa Maria oil refinery that sits about a mile in-land and smack dab in the middle of the aforementioned fields (Images of oil covered sea-birds filled my thoughts during the entire walk).
The fields are full of farm workers; it is almost Thanksgiving. Not a single worker is Caucasian. A Mexican flag waves proudly from one of the multiple harvest vehicles.
So, this is agriculture of the future? Fields so large you cannot see the other side, an oil refinery in the middle, workers who do not consider this country their home?
I immediately became homesick.

What am I getting at here? I guess what I am saying is that I am proud of the way we farm. And I think we are doing a good job. Since my reality is looking at a forest full of wildlife when I am out working, it is hard to see farms set up any other way. I don't like to be belittled by my nation because I believe that small organic farms are advantageous to both the people they serve and the life that interacts with them. I believe that the alternative is a crime on so many levels that formulating it into words is close to impossible. It is a crime of the spirit.

So Viva la Tierra Madre. Because I know that when I die, you will be the one to set my soul free.

The Phillips 66 Oil Refinery near Oso Flaco Lake

How did I get here and why are my hands so dirty?

Oooh, just look at your shoes and how you float above the floor like an Aveda angel. You must spend a lot of time on flat surfaces. I have a pair of heels too...I got them for a wedding, not for work.
You look at me and I see your eyes move over my body. You noticed my unkempt hair. I am sorry about that. I should have taken a moment to brush through the tangles before I came inside. It was a windy morning.
Just look at you! Your skirt is so cute. It's pretty short. You must not have to lean over much. I saw your eyes pause when they reached the stains on my jeans. I wish I could tell you that I am not embarrassed, because I know we are friends.....but I am.
Oh, looks like my hands have come to your attention. Dang it, I know you didn't mean to but you just made the face that says you find them disturbing. I find them disturbing too....I didn't know that I would have hands like these. I washed them as hard as I could before I came here today but the dirt is deep and refuses to fade. I like your finger nails though....especially the color you painted them. I see that you don't seem to have a problem with hangnails. I wish I didn't.
But I brought you a present and I know you are going to like it. Your smile says you are starting to forgive me even though my pantscuffs are dusty and I am leaving a little bit of dirt on the floor from my work boots. I am bringing this to you because I love you. I thought I would be you....but I am me.