Author Archives: CarolMartell

And Where Do We Go Next?

Alabamagreen

 

The Maple’s leaves are pink and light green, curled in embryonic shape at the edge of the McDonald’s lot, someplace in Alabama. Tending to two traveling dogs, I’m a researcher of these hinterland edges. These are the places where swaths of green homogeneous turf meets bramble and wildflower punctuated with overgrown bits of trash. Here at the crease there seems just a whiff, a memory… of past identity?…History? Call it a sense of place of place that lingers at these edges.  Bulldozers with topsoil can only cover so much.  They are weak opponents for that which has lived here a long time. The land will always talk if you stop to listen. Dogs listen, even when I forget.

The golden arches don’t mean lunch to this contingent. McD’s food is untouchable, but the corporate penchant for cleanliness is not. They are the double blessings of good coffee and clean bathrooms without the dingy drama of gas stations.  The magical dog friendly edges are a reliable constant.  McD’s are a Postmodern, Post- Rockwell American icon, like it or not. If you want to know who really inhabits any small town, go look at the table in the back by the restrooms about 9 am any weekday morning.  They are the “real deal” and almost without fail, they give real smiles.

dosnooze

 

These generic oases are a banal replacement for the “search for shrubbery.” In my pre seat belt back seat, shared with three sisters, it was a quick, pink-faced dash to the tree line. When one became too old for the pink potty between the open car doors, there was no other recourse. There was no talk of ticks and snakes, and we could all identify poison ivy at 10 paces.  There was only blessed relief and guaranteed sniggering back at the car. I wonder if my interest in edges is an extension of my past forays into the “almost” wild?

It is warm and humid on this spring evening. A wave of thunderstorms are headed this way, but still a day away in car-time. Settled in to a comfortable car with snoozing dogs and spring colors, we move through the southern towns with appreciation for the soft green and buildings with well-worn edges.

Somewhere amidst the giant Live Oaks and the peanut stands we enjoyed a good conversation. The third party’s familiar voice emanated from the dashboard, the modern equivalent of coffee around a kitchen table. Talk of the past and talk of the future wafted through the car, out the windows and back in through the vents.

Alaroad

 

Past and future; they are the same, stories we tell about the edges,

before and beyond the only sure thing; the present.

It is all such a tricky business.

We know where we are headed, but where we are going is a mystery.

 

The Journey

sunset

The Journey

One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began,

 though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice,

 though the whole house began to tremble

and you felt the old tug at your ankles.

“Mend my life!” each voice cried. But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers at the very foundations,

though their melancholy was terrible.

 It was already late enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen branches and stones.

 But little by little, as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds,

 and there was a new voice

which you slowly recognized as your own,

 that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do,

determined to save the only life you could save. 

                                                Mary Oliver

 

I found this poem again today amidst the flotsam that is my cache of Resource Files. Under that name, I save bits of sacredness according to me, in image and words. Usually relevant to a specific time or place; some feel like lifeboats in a rough sea.

I looked into these files today looking for a landmark or lighthouse to find a path through these foggy times.

We have said goodbye to three parents, one per year and just when it seemed we were done, my Stepmother has died quietly this week. She exited this life unexpectedly and without witness of any of those whose lives were so altered with her entrance.

I was a sophomore in High School when my parent’s expectation of “until death do you part” fell to more modern moirés.  The explosion of divorces that rolled in with the 1970’s took most by surprise; our family was no exception.

It took a decade or so, but I did eventually recognize there was no “wicked stepmother” here.  She was pleasant and pretty, and anxious to please… please our father anyway. Theirs was a loving relationship steeped in a small town world and strict Baptist beliefs. It was a relationship that didn’t have enough space for everyone.wreath

Had another searcher gathered them, my Resource Files would have a physical dimension. This poem might be hand copied, lay in a file folder, held with a paper clip, topped with a post-it note inscribed with the date and source. The precise lines of the yellow legal pad would be ignored completely by the scrawling familiar hand.  The words would turn to cover even the vertical margin spaces.

In another time, these unfermented ideas and inspirations might be shoved into a thick book; tactile and heavy, holding faint odors of dark closets and seldom used hats. The words on the page tightly pressed to their brethren, waiting to be read again someday, by those who would find them, at just the right time.

But this is my life. It is 2014 and my inspirations are stored in a tidy, imagined file box named Apollo who lives in the upper right corner of my sleek silver MAC, a hand me down from the professional computer cowboy in the next room.

The thoughts on paper pages and the emotions expressed there no longer exist except in the liminal space between generations. The space, which right now, feels like the tiny breadth between the living and the dead. It is the map-less uncharted space that prompts this search through my files from the past. I am looking for reminders from my elders-like this poem, to understand how long “limbo” lasts.

For the uninitiated:

Liminality (from the Latin word līmen, meaning “a threshold”[1]) is the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of rituals, when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status but have not yet begun the transition to the status they will hold when the ritual is complete. During a ritual’s liminal stage, participants “stand at the threshold” between their previous way of structuring their identity, time, or community, and a new way, which the ritual establishes.

During liminal periods of all kinds, social hierarchies may be reversed or temporarily dissolved, continuity of tradition may become uncertain, and future outcomes once taken for granted may be thrown into doubt.[4] The dissolution of order during liminality creates a fluid, malleable situation that enables new institutions and customs to become established.[5] The term has also passed into popular usage, where it is applied much more broadly, undermining its significance to some extent.[6]

(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liminality)

 oceanrainbow

And we thought our sense of threshold was unique and personal?

As student of ritual, I am in the whirlpool, the paradox.  I am in the stillness, at the threshold, transitioning to my new status.

I will not be bringing the deep pains of the past with me.  Neither will the old fears fit in our new space.

We do however thank you all for the inspiration, the support and the love.

We will keep that in a safe place.  Blessings and Safe Journeys to all that travel.

 

 

Last Day

panpalm

We have reached the last day of our last week here. It was miraculously spent in a square duplex cottage, built optimistically on stilts, on the apron of beach edging a thin spit of land called, by some: Palm Island.

This is a quiet place, most days the beach sees more birds than people and the prevailing sounds are the waves and the wind. This center section of Don Pedro Island is set apart from the mainland by the inward tracing of the intercoastal waterway, a thin green river lined with impenetrable Mangrove colonies denying access to the casual boating interloper. What keeps this island quiet is a short ride on a car ferry whose $50 price tag for cars really curtails one’s desire to come and go.  You only get to stay, if you have the clams to pay.

ferry

Ours is one of the more modest perches, in a fine position on the sand. We could share breakfast conversation with our right hand neighbors were we to be able to hear them over the sound of the surf. There is nothing so precious as close proximity to the sea, especially to these decade long desert dwellers in the winter. Walking briskly, one can walk from Gulf to Bay in about 4 minutes from this vantage point. Crashing waves and windy bluster on the west side, peaceful green water, manatee and kayakers on the East.  It would be hard to be more one with water without being in a boat.

southbeachBuilt over the past 20 years with typical human hubris, this community is a neighborhood of Beach Houses; human poachers in the land of perpetual metamorphosis.

There are many massive multistory edifices here, many empty and more with For Sale signs than without.  They all stand on impossibly tall Heron legged pilings to keep them safe from the whim of moving water.  We hear from the old timers that those without feet came and went about 10 years ago. These sand castles will stand in this golden and blue-green place…until they don’t.  All barrier beaches move, sometimes across centuries, sometimes in a few days.  Ask those from Long Beach, NY, a place where more than one in our family /friend circle saw the unthinkable happen. (www.businessinsider.com/hurricane-sandy-flooding-pictures-2012-10)

We are grateful to be a visitor, to hear waves all day and all night, to witness the beauty in front of us “right now.” And is that any different from anyone’s life? Is anyone’s existence much different than a beach house with its toes pounded into the sand? Does anyone really have more of a guarantee of safety and longevity than this?

Thinking deep thoughts is easy when time is relative and days defined by sunrise and sunset.  Weather is the mist on your face and the flotsam at your feet. Wind and wave is a whole body experience best studied with wet feet and no agenda.  Each day brings new topography and new shells; the colorful refuse of life out there. Soft white Angel wings, pastel periwinkles and cockles of all sizes are tossed up like handbills for upcoming miracles.  It is nearly impossible to pass up these treasures, except when the dolphin passes by, or the Osprey dives for dinner, close enough to get you wet.

shelltree

Being surrounded by water on three sides washes the soul in its most fundamental element. Standing at the edges is to walk in both worlds of me and us. There is magic in awareness of a single human’s diminutive status in the overall scheme of things, and the coexisting sense of Unity with the flowing body of the mercurial and magnanimous Gulf of Mexico.  Under these conditions, the precepts of present human culture as we know it are “all shot to hell.”

As they should be. Thanks Mama Cocha

Why do Fish Jump?

Why do fish jump?

This compelling question surfaced a few evenings ago in the buttery glow that follows the setting sun in western Florida. WE, the collective inhabitants of this wondrous beach house settled into high and low mismatched beach chairs to bathe in the daily color extravaganza that is sunset on the Gulf of Mexico.

beach

 

Our powers of observation have been honed to a razor edge by days of surveillance of water and sky, sunrise to star-rise. Each day, armed with healthy fruit juice, punctuated with spiced rum and bitters, we participated in the miracle of BEACH. The miraculous intersection of air, water and earth.

As the sun dropped below the horizon, the fish follies began.  From our sandy perspective, the fish jumped like hot popcorn; first 2 then 20 then 100. We questioned the possibilities of all those fish simultaneously spotting an insect snack, or fleeing a predator.

We paused, we pondered and other questions arose. Why do Pelicans glide inches off the surface, with no apparent destination? What compels a mini manta ray to leave his cadre and fling himself into the air? That seagull that regularly plunges into the water at high speed and comes up with nothing is either a poor hunter, or it feels great.

shells

 

 

 

 

The oracle was queried and it was suggested that living things run, wrestle, romp leap and jump as a part of their existence, a necessary expression of energy that utilizes to the fullest extent the physical body they inhabit. Deer leap, dogs swim and birds ride the air currents. They do it because they can. They do it because it feels great.

feet

For this week we can abandon the human notion that all actions must have human ordained “purpose.” I propose that the energy expressed by finding a beautiful shell, feeling the surf as sound, watching an Osprey, is returning a debt owed.  We take in bright sun and clear water, good food grown in dark dirt and we keep it for ourselves. Get out there and laugh, run, smile at everyone.  Jump like the fish…

Owl In the Morning

quietriver

In search of a rare Café breakfast we took a morning walk through the shadows of this deep green swamplands.  This watershed area was designated parklands and built with the efforts of CCC workers in 1938. Timber architecture never gets old. No doubt remote and isolated at the time, it is now a gratefully undeveloped oasis just 15 miles or so from urban Tampa.   We started out from the campsite on the path that wanders along the peopled side of a meandering green river thickly faced by rough palms and pines, elegant Cypress and the sharp points of the palmetto.

The water’s barely discernable flow is remarkable here for its color and texture. Forget the transparent element in your water bottle; this water is something quite different. Thick, verdant and completely opaque after a foot or so, this river holds an entire universe in suspension.  What lies beneath the green screen, only the river knows.  We heeded advice from wise readers and kept feet, human and canine away from the edges. To be within reach of the river, was to risk being sucked into its belly.

This footpath is just barely removed from the behemoth vehicles of recreation and the tiny tents of the optimists neighboring our current camping site. Standing quietly as part of this land of camouflage we lingered, watching a mysterious swirl of green water initiate an easy flight of the white bird to the next hammock. A gleaming 4-foot alligator posed on a dead log.  Smiling from his post across the river, he looked like a decoy for an 8-foot cousin waiting below.

To discern what is here takes time, it takes attraction and attention.  It takes a willingness to become part of the mystery. As we stepped out of the brush where footpath crosses camp road delineated by a striped pedestrian crossing, a Barred Owl called out from the Pine.  We took note of this old friend, and familiar call, and felt blessed by this real life edition of Minerva’s Owl.

riverbranc

Hours later, driving on a mundane errand, I found her there splayed out on the zebra stripes between the fast moving traffic lanes of Route 301. Apparently she was sent reeling from this life by collision of wild raptor and passing car or truck on this busy corridor.

Spotting the striped wings, I pulled to the roadside and stopped.  I hoped it was not an owl, but maybe a turkey?  I watched a concrete truck rush towards us, displacing enough air and space to raise the broken body and spin it above the pavement. In a blur of feathers the body flipped over and dropped back to earth on her back, wings offered outward in a position reminiscent of beloved human martyrs.  Then I knew for sure who she was.

In a rare moment of embracing the rules, I considered the location just off the park grounds, and the hefty five figure fines for possession of raptor feathers by a non-Native.  I considered the road clearing prisoners up ahead and the fire tower to the south. I returned to the park to enlist the ranger’s blessing, hopeful that there would be interest in preserving this beautiful body. I thought of our grandson and his classroom unit studying Owls last Fall.  The subject had piqued his interest, pulled and prodded him to become an integral part of his new class, in his new school.  Owls are like that, they take you along.

I know from experience that it is against the law for Jane Q. Public like me, to have an owl preserved through taxidermy; this is not my first owl.  The Park employee I encountered seemed immune to the possibility of preservation, and I identified this route as useless when she asked me with surprise, “An owl is a raptor?”

I returned to the Spot, pulled off on a turning lane to “no place,” next to the zebra stripes.  A traffic pattern created for an “un-developed” development, this lane turned into nothing but an overgrown barricade guarding acres of cleared, but empty “lots.” It was the only place on this straight freeway of a Florida 2-lane where a fragile body could lay untouched by tire, and I could pull off without danger to life and limb. I asked for a break in traffic, and barriers of will went up at north and south.

Armed with a faded dog towel, I reached for her. The body was painfully soft, limp and fragile to the touch, and amazingly heavy. Certainly she was just hit, her neck broken, the rest of her intact and beautiful. There was the Face of Minerva’s Owl right there in my hands. She felt like family. I scurried across the road into the car as if the Feds were watching from the nearby fire watchtower.

owl

As I put her in the car her head flopped, but her wings folded perfectly back to her sides. Her legs were thick and furred as a cat, with sharp curved talons clenched, and frozen forever in that moment; a predator in pursuit. What I didn’t expect was her presence; the smell of the woods, the feeling of flight, the intensity of focus still frozen there in her legs. I didn’t expect the still animated life force that joined me in the car.  Driving down 301, going to Publix, with an Owl Spirit in the car.  The mundane and the sacred were taking a road trip.

I will take time pondering the meaning of this event. Look at my Minerva Avatar picture chosen months ago, and you will see what I saw on the road. Has she slipped from my imagination, riding on spirit through the ethers into our physical existence?  And for what reason?  Nature wastes nothing, certainly not a life of a wild thing.

We here in Minerva will think deep thoughts about how it came to be that an owl that greeted us in the morning was by afternoon, dead in my hands.  What can we understand from the story of an Owl spirit flying high and focused, taken down in a moment by a miscalculation of timing?  Was she on her way to her Publix too?

We brought her to see our grandchildren so they could see the magic and the mystery that belongs to the winged beings.  The next morning went drove to a trail that became a track, and made a path to the north. We put her at the bottom of a big tree with a nice nesting cavity.  If she died of old age, she might have just plopped there after a long life.

MinervaOwl

There is meaning here, the understanding of which was made more imperative by the owl calling last night so loudly and insistently over our camp that Mac growled in response each time and Bear threatened to do a full fledged howl.   It wasn’t quiet until I rose 2 hours before dawn to write this story.

There is no sentimentality in the divine Minerva, there is only her wisdom as a witness to an epoch divided by each single lifetime.  How then should we spend our minutes of eternity?

Muleshoe, TX

MuleshoeMuleshoe, TX, a note about connections between seemingly disparate peoples.  Yesterday, we passed through a small town of 5,000+ population holding their place in the winds of the high plains by the name of Muleshoe, TX. We bought gas, some dark coffee, and received a gift of remembrance of a forgotten time.

Remember when people respected the profound rituals of life, even if the rituals didn’t personally affect us?  Remember when we all would stop, stand and witness, a show respect for a “life event,” being present as a member of the human family?

Does it really take a profound disaster or personal pain to get our attention? Why is it so difficult to stop and give our undivided attention to another? Are there places where strangers still remove their hats to honor unknown fellow passengers on the ship of life?

We passed through this overtly poor village, surrounded by grain elevators and the peeling paint of abandoned buildings.  I could see the lights of a police car blocks ahead at the intersection. As we crept closer at 30 mph, I saw that it wasn’t an accident; it was a funeral possession.  In front of me, the 18-wheeler, ship of the plains carrying unknown cargo, slowed down and pulled to the curb. To my surprise, all our eastbound traffic passing in the opposite direction came to a stop.

We collectively pulled over and waited for hearse and cars in the procession to pass.  The head and the foot of this procession were county Sherriff cars; all lights flashing. In the middle, a 20 year old hearse and 15 or so cars of varying ages and occupancy moved slowly through town as everyone here paused their lives, just for a moment.

Muleshoemural

I have never been a fan of Texas.  Each way, our route through Texas is 600+ miles. Multiply that by three trips, and that makes over 1800 miles of ranches, BBQ places, prickly pear cactus, 100’s of Texas flags and very fast, but well mannered drivers Residents of New Mexico sometimes find the big trucks, big hair and big attitudes tiresome.

I have discovered that crossing Texas three times offers a new perspective, a more rounded sense of these independent folks ad myself as well. I’m not sure how this event will impact my life.

“It was nice to meecha Muleshoe.”

Coming and Going

Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.” 
― Terry Pratchett,   A Hat Full of Sky

http://www.terrypratchett.co.uk

Time to go…again. My internal experience is different this time. There is no sense of skinlessness from shedding multiple layers of possessions.  There isn’t ego whiplash from closing an office with my name on the door. I realize today, the stop no longer seems so sudden. There isn’t the search for an identity that doesn’t start with, “I used to…” When destiny knocks; answer the door, or die wishing.

Yes Mr. Pratchett, there are so many colors here; a thousand shades of brown! And the impossible ethereal color of the sky. What are missed most are so many of my very favorite hearts. Little hearts that call me Grammie, bigger ones that call me Mom.  Hearts I know, and hearts that are just being shown; one story at a time. Here in this place there are precious friends, colleagues, magical mentors, and my very favorite students of life. They all live here in this mystical and dysfunctional place called New Mexico.

Tomorrow we are “On the Road Again,” ala early Willy Nelson when he still traveled in old cars, and coach seats.  We will miss all that is here in our decade long home place. This is a place where we have no ancestors, no roots. It is a learning place, not a place to grow old, spin wool, and watch our grandchildren’s children.  Everything is a circle, we will be back shortly to the same place but we, and you will all be different.  I hope.Image

Elemental

Of special interest to those in West Virginia, and those of us who drink water.

Eric Waggoner's avatarCultural Slagheap

My dad, a lifelong firefighter, used to teach Hazardous Materials Response and Safety classes to first responders.  The first informational point he covered at the beginning of the course was how to read the classification marks on transportation tankers—the little diamond-shaped signs, usually mounted on the back of the tank, that announce via numerical code what kinds of chemicals are stored in those transport vehicles, and what levels and types of health risks would be associated with a spill in the case of a wreck.  The first homework assignment he gave was for the firefighters to go home and stand on the main cross street in their neighborhoods and home towns for about an hour, and write down the numbers on every tag they saw pass through that intersection, then go look up the numbers.  Dad said that the next week, when those students came back for class, invariably there’d…

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Vision Quest

http://bertc.com/subfour/truth/hubble.htm http://bertc.com/subfour/truth/hubble.htm

It’s been a week to value life. Death walks along our path closer than we think.  Early in the week I heard a local man of my age speak to a crowded room about his life rocking experience of life during death. In our limited understanding of the borderlands of being alive, he died and “came back.” His heart, challenged by an evolving heart attack, ceased to beat and was restarted four times over several days. In our limited definition of physical death, he died four times.

He did not come to speak about fear or sadness. There was no hooded terror with bony hand extended.  There was only peace, warm comfort, a sense of oneness, and a compelling choice given- to go back or to remain. In current vernacular this is a NDE, a near death experience as defined by Elisabeth Kubler Ross, http://www.neardeath.com/experiences/experts02.html

or Raymond Moody, http://www.lifeafterlife.cHieom/

He stood slowly, and sought the leading thread of his story through half closed eyes. He found his place in the faces around his, speaking seriously, humbly, of his unexpected journey into frontiers of consciousness. He led us carefully, with well-chosen words, through uncharted waters, and on into the space between life and death. He took this choir of willing participants to the edges of self, the land of less Me, and more Us.

hubblesnail

It was apparent that we were witnesses at the denouement of an ancient ritual.  The Vision Quester returns to tell his dream at the fire circle of his community. Countless eons of humans have increased their collective wisdom hearing the big Dreams of those that venture beyond the edges of collective experience.

And this is the community that will live this knowledge.   This was a room full of death midwives; psychopomps in the old words. These were Hospice folks, PhD’s, MSWs, Therapists for the grieving, bereaved family members and even some other members of this elite NDE club. These are people who have sat at the bed, witnessed the passage, and continue to seek the beauty of the whole of human experience.  Some are willing participants, others drawn by life experiences so painful; they seek and search relentlessly for relief from the pain of separation from their beloved.

Universalis Cosmographia 1507 http://www.learnnc.org/lp/multimedia/6969 Universalis Cosmographia 1507
http://www.learnnc.org/lp/multimedia/6969

Despite the imagined scenario for his family, he described no hair-raising escape from the jaws of death on his side of the experience. He remembered only absolute peace, serenity, limitless concepts of soul, and life on a continuum. I am reminded of the explorers that first crossed the abyss now known as the Atlantic Ocean. Some came back, some didn’t, but the “New World” existed anyways, beyond the horizon and beyond the fears of the perilous journey. Maybe it is finally time to throw out Hieronymus Bosch’s creepy mental constructs of afterlife, and reach for the unknown with joy and expectation beyond our wildest dreams.

Walk Your Talk

road

Here we are in the short brown days and cold blue nights that are January in Santa Fe. I am reading, A Walk Across America, Peter Jenkins’ chronicles of his life changing journey of 1973. If you don’t recall this saga; brave, disillusioned Alfred College graduate follows his existential yearnings to find something, or someone, still “good” in America.  This privileged, former Greenwich, Connecticut suburbanite walks from NY into the deep South fully engaging with the people and experiences in his path.  I noticed the book on my daughter’s shelf, and felt the pull of the “Walk” in the title. As we are currently stationary, I feel compelled to keep some part of me moving. There it was, a chance to exercise my imagination, live an “edgier” existence, and all without the sore feet.

So far, I have traveled with Peter in spirit, up and down the mountains of Virginia and North Carolina, in the cold and wet of December. The word dampness was invented here. Think Smokey Mountain mist, at the edge of frozen. His only companion is a dog named Cooper; robust in nature and fur.  Being blessed with a half share of Malamute genes, Cooper is up to the challenge of living “almost wild.”

I had a Malamute neighbor once; a huge bear of a dog. He would stop in occasionally to lay on the sun warmed tiles of our old house in Tijeras.  He presented himself on his own schedule to accept ear scratching as if it was beneficial to both of us. Indeed, at the time it was. I welcomed these moments of ease, in an uneasy time. To look into his eyes was to see the fearless ancestors of the dark north, and a level of confidence and acceptance that could only come from living in a pack.

Peter and Cooper have just passed through the mountainous and mysterious backbone of the Appalachians. I am moved by his courage. We passed through this area on a sine wave of a road this Fall, the easy way; on I-81.  Even on this banal byway, the geography demands vigilance and respect. Once off this human traffic corridor, the trees are tall and the forests dark. I am not a being that would feel at ease in a small tent on the side of a wild ridge.  This is a unique kind of human that seeks this quest! Is he the 1970’s version of a 1670’s Explorer? He is venturing “inward” to country, instead of “outward” to conquer. But wasn’t that the lost beauty of the 70’s, that sense of innocence.

path

I am comfortable and warm, curled up in front of a Kiva fireplace with the high desert winter just outside the door. He is finding shelter and food as they appear before him. There is no GPS, or Tripadvisor to create safety and guarantee comfort along the way.  His whole journey is based on the premise that he will find what he needs, he will get by on what he has….Food for thought in this!

Holding this book, I remember that I have also wanted to go on a “Walk.”  It was seven or eight years ago that walking books began to cross my path.  Mutant Message Down Under, a very fictionalized and potentially disrespectful account of a walkabout with Aborigines was my first “walker” novel.  This was followed by another about an unexpected group of women walking towards themselves, and away from crusty cultural expectations. The title of which, has walked on down the road. I am always a sucker for shapeshifters and skin shedders, they are my tribe.
What is this compulsion to join feet to ground and enter the slow lane seeking a steady path to enlightenment? What is different about Peace Pilgrim, Granny D, and World guy? Who ARE they?
I am quite smitten with walking elders. I hope my knees hold up.

www.peacepilgrim.com

www.worldguy.org/‎

grannyd.com/‎

http://peterjenkinsblog.wordpress.com/

Running of the Wild Horses

Today I dreamed  about a head of a dog, offered as a gift on my birthday, 6 months from now. Because I refused it, the head then turned to a bear. Suddenly I was here, where the Bear that is a dog, rests just there at the end of the bed.
It was an offering in a language that I understand in my bones, while my head denies, and my heart prepares for battle. Without thought to its meaning, I pushed away this unwanted package, not from disgust or fear. It was rational reaction to the memories that tore across the rolling hills of my mind scape, out of my past, on fast wild horses. These injuries to heart and spirit are those that require this denial.
singleAM
Or do they?
Is this true? 
Once wounded one must never tread here again….. Really?
Is scar tissue reason enough to turn away from the Mystery of life possibilities and potentials?
When the giant wave knocks us down, and we eat sand, should we never look at the ocean again?
Black wild horses (5)
All this effort to survive,
just to be…..safe?
Are the big dreams of our lives riding on the backs of the Wild Horses?  Herded off into our personal and national mythology  because they took up too much space and couldn’t be controlled?
Questions to wonder about on the last days of 2013

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Heart’s Home

Image

Florida to New Mexico in a snapshot;

First day: Tallahassee, Old style, dog loving La Quinta. Second story, the outside room confused the dogs. Of course they didn’t like it, it was a catwalk! He ate oysters, cheese grits, and she had Fried green tomatoes.

Next day: Hattiesburg Mississippi, site of important Civil Rights events the summer of 1964.  Almost 50 years ago hatred lived here. He found Crescent City Grill so I could have a great salad in a place where the greens are still green, and of course… more oysters.  It was not a great room.  I found myself eye to eye with a monster in the bathroom, another in the night, and a third in the morning.  All that time sitting under palm trees in Florida and never a big bug, but in Mississippi, they came to us.

On our way to Shreveport LA we saw a road worker in striped pants laying in the road, hurt or worse, surrounded by his armed Sheriff guards. The scene brought a chill to the bone.

Day three: Mesquite TX; a part of Dallas, 40 BBQ places in a small radius! We found a great one, ate BBQ ribs and baked potatoes with snippets of Jurassic Park 3. Gnawing on big bones and watching that carnage didn’t quite feel Kosher to me. We finished up with Patrick Stewart waltzing through the “Christmas Carol.” Is there anyone; actor or cartoon that hasn’t had “at” that fable?

It was a three hour trip out of Dallas via flooded highways and local streets. There were fire engines and ambulances on the roads, racing to reach the results of poor judgement. I discovered a new driving trick for torrential rain; turn on your flashers. The drivers feel mortal for a moment and slow down.

We came out of the storm in Abilene. For hundreds of flat, cotton growing miles, we marveled at the skies.  Not much happening on the ground in West Texas, but the skies are amazing.

Which brings us to Hobbs, NM tonight. So many miles! Good local food from land and sea; a tonic for the body. For the soul, an ongoing story called Dangerous Old Woman from my hero Dr. Clarissa Estes.  The radio in 5 states played the same 6 Christmas songs, all spouting “be of good cheer” and, “we’ll all be together.”  No wonder so many people struggle in this season with all this enforced cheeriness.

We watched the 2013 winter solstice sunset from the Hobbs LaQ hot tub. I have been thinking about last year’s solstice. I walked the Labyrinth at a church in Santa Fe. Three times into the center and back out until I went home at midnight.  A labyrinth is a trip into your psyche, a trail into your own unconscious. It was memorable because the intentions sent out there, played out in the coming months.

Tomorrow- through Roswell up the backside of Manzanos to I 40, through the canyon formerly our daily commute, and on to the “Breaking Bad” lands of Albuquerque. There are little and big hearts to tumble into this Christmastime in New Mexico.

For so many people this is a very hard time.  For all of us, our worlds are a changed place from last solstice; last Christmas. It’s a time to be happy, to be sad, to take in what has changed and honor it, honor what is here and be happy.

Two Christmases ago, my father was dying.  Last Christmas, I decorated for Christmas with my Mom. We adorned her apartment with her favorite pinecone lights and set out our childhood angels. It was wonderful. I hadn’t been with her at this time of year for a long time.  She died two months later. Those lights are in our storage space waiting for the time they will be joyfully put out again. This year I will take it all in, because I know next year will be different.  Love what you have today.

Thanks for reading, thanks for being part of our adventure, our lives and our shared human heart. Blessings on us all!!

Gypsy Diaries

campsite

We are headed West today, and yesterday, and tomorrow, and the next day. Leaving, if for a while. the palm trees, beach walks, squirrel habitats called campsites, and tiny little homes called RVs.  We have packed our ancient sleigh (2004 Toyota Highlander V-6 for those that need to know) with small amounts of each season’s clothes, electronics, dog food and good cheer. I can see out the back window this time, clearly we are traveling lighter.
In the road hours I have been considering our last weeks.  For anyone that imagines that traveling with two large dogs and providing the “cone of silence” to a working partner is some kind of relaxing vacation, think again.  It has provided some soul growth.  I am just not as peaceful a person as I once believed.
Our last neighbor heard my rumblings of discontent as we were packing to leave Minerva in storage. Campsite walls are nonexistent, and sharp words travel faster. There really is an unlimited amount of ways to bruise oneself in a space this small.
 Our campsite neighbor at site 27, and his 70ish wife, decked out in a big grin and a Santa hat, were heading home to their actual house, 60 miles away. She secured the trailer door, as he loaded his dog and chairs into his pick up. He asked me, “Having fun yet?”  Trying to be gracious to an elder, over the din of Bear and Mac barking at the 300th squirrel attack that morning, while not dropping clean laundry as I tripped over Bear’s leash and dumped the water dish….again. I said, “I have fun scheduled for this afternoon, but now it’s just all the moving!” He stopped for a moment, gave me a truly guileless smile and said, “This life is really all moving, isn’t it?  We are really just a bunch of Gypsys, that’s what we are and that’s why we do it.”
 Actually, I think “we do it” for a variety of reasons.  Not the least of which is to hear Truth from strangers who the smile and wave, and drive permanently out of our lives leaving us to digest a profound observation about ourselves. Well drop a pinecone on my head! Why would anyone live in an RV if they didn’t like to MOVE.  Ah… the sweet smell of perspective, bless you our hog hunting friend. So, Thought I might do some public processing on our last 6 weeks as nomads.
swamp
Best moments:
Nokomis drum circle with our children and grandchildren.
Realizing that as the temperature dropped in New Mexico, we had no pipes there anymore.
Heavy rain on the roof and being dry, happening at the same time.
Hearing Bear give an authentic New Mexican, Full Moon howl in answer to a Florida hound dog across the park.
Doing laundry outside, doing everything outside.
Glass bottom boat at Silver Springs; seeing 20 year old water.  It takes that long to filter through the limestone. Watching it gush without pause into incredibly clear 30 ft deep pools.
 Worst moments:
Being called away from Thanksgiving Dinner because Mac had bolted from the Dog caregiver, and was lost in acres of Florida underbrush.
Having to leave East children to see West children.
Feeling mad at my dogs, for being…dogs
 Seems there is more under the Best side. In our “regular” world time, I have plans for many delicious activities like baths, letting the dogs out, and being alone!  We will see how wonderful they are when they are easy and available.  We will see how hard it is to sleep where I can’t see the trees. It’s hard to beat hearing owls in the night, and finding an owl pellet under the tree in the morning.  We will see…..

Rituals of Steelhenge

ChartresLabyrinth We are presently staying in an official “Mobile Home Park” for snowbirds south of Sarasota, Florida. We usually stick to the forests, but those opportunities are slim to non-existent in the coming months. Hence, we set out to take a walk on the “mild” side to see if this more available venue was survivable with our pack. As we have a penchant for the privacy of perimeters, I hadn’t often ventured into the center of this community. Walking our dogs can set off a chorus of canines, our dog Bear turns into something from “Call of the Wild,” so we keep to the edges.

I came to Middle Earth today to wash and dry, and rub elbows with the locals from Ontario, Michigan and all points North. I soon realized I was sitting on the Axis Mundi of this Vagabond village. Two hundred or so sites are arranged in three concentric circles, dissected by an equidistant cross; a veritable Stonehenge of aluminum and fiberglass. I should have recognized the power inherent in this design, and the significance of the season. Early December marks the apex of Snowbirds migration here in SW Florida. I was unsuspecting witness to some of this flock’s winter nesting rituals.

At the center of this community lies a present day altar of sorts; two recycling containers and a huge trash compactor. Strangely enough, the latter had Mayan-esque sensibilities, as one had to ascend 5 steps, and raise the lid to reach the maw of the insatiable daemon. As in a scene from a sacrificial ceremony, each member of the community found themselves there daily, supplications in hand. I soon realized there was more at work here. As we all know, offerings are given with the expectation of reciprocity and this divinity didn’t disappoint. As I acclimated, I was able to see the pile of castoffs for what it is, the font of Sacred Stuff. It formed before my eyes.

Commencing with a TV cart, circa 1980 the altar was in place and the ceremony began in earnest. Some objects were proudly displayed, even arranged, like flowers at a funeral. “I don’t want it, but look how great it is!” Others were furtively dropped off, or casually tossed to the pile on the way to the compactor. Residents arrived instantly as called in by the pheromone of Free. It rolled like this: I leave “it” sitting conspicuously next to the trash. You come by on your bicycle, golf cart, or dog walk, and take it home. “Home,” being a vehicle with very limited floor space, and a yard smaller than motorcycle parking space. “It” could be just about anything that could have arrived by car, truck or 50 foot personal caravan. That possibility makes the plunder possible. Having been carried here, or been stored here over the summer, does not guarantee survival or retention. RVs are not built for excess, some days I’m not sure what they are built for, but that’s another post.

From my observation point, it was clear that these cardboard cartons standing open were a siren’s call, a “come hither” to pedestrians and car passengers alike. “It, ”might be a box of faux crystal glassware, seemingly a poor choice for moving mansions, one broken, one whole beach chair,( I’m curious about that story), two dusty wreaths adorned with beach finds and a tube TV with the positive message, “great pictur” taped to the front. Nothing unusual here, except for the quantity of joy and even avarice generated in passersby. From comments overheard in the laundry, I wouldn’t find it surprising to find some spouses out there on the pile.

I of course am not one of these people; I am merely waiting for my clothes to dry nearby. I only know the contents of the boxes because I found some trash in my car that needed to be discarded immediately and the boxes were on my path. I am actually not even old enough to be here in this Florida RV park, I have just thrown them off with my very light hair, white hair actually.

To add color, the box of glassware has been claimed. It has indeed passed right by my car window with its new owner, a 70 something lady with florid skin, who carried on a conversation with the box as she passed “If I can just get you home without breaking it…..” My point precisely. A gentle man on a bicycle has just stopped by to donate some nice latticework to the mix. I think I will donate my backpack beach chair to this alter. It’s a good, if bulky backpack, but a lousy beach chair, someone will LOVE it!

Where the Old People Dance

The last post asked, “What else is here that I don’t see?”

Well I saw it on Saturday night at Nokomis Beach Drum Circle.  This is an unexpected observation. I thought I caught wind of this, but I needed more time, more experience before sharing my thoughts with a wider audience.

 Here it is, today’s epiphany; A total subterranean culture exists here in Southwest Florida.  It is “Mature People” having fun, and they don’t care what anyone thinks. Life, like ice cream has many flavors.  This flavor is exquisite, and personally chosen, and lived courageously. When the crust of the body gets thin, the spirit shines through the cracks. That is a joyful event for everyone in close proximity.

 And I always thought coming to Florida was the default choice of being old and living in the cold and snowy north. Nope, this is the Spring Break of the Fall Folks.  And it is a joy to witness this freedom. Especially for someone reaching the end of Summer.Image

The Alligator in the Pond

smilealligator

Everyone knows there are alligators in Florida. Alligators are to Florida, what Moose are to Maine. They are apparently, everywhere. I say apparently because they are nearly impossible to see, even close up. Yes, Alligators lurk and live at the edges of beachfront, in canals, ponds, wetlands, swamps. They are not the bright green, upright icons chugging beer on a T-shirt. They are invincible archaic survivors, living in what to me, is the belly of the Underworld.

I have noticed in our time here that people in Florida seem complacent about the presence of these ancient beings.
No matter the frequent “on location” TV News reports of another 8 foot, armored, cold blooded creature showing up in the hot tub with Fifi’s pink rhinestone collar stuck between his teeth, your typical Floridian or Snowbird doesn’t seem to find their presence worrisome. Delude yourself if you must, but they are among us. More accurately we are among them; this is their swamp. And no indigenous creature does swamp better than a Florida (American) Alligator. (Alligator mississippiensis)
http://www.flheritage.com/facts/symbols/symbol.cfm?id=3

Let me illustrate the peaceful coexistence scenario

swimsign

Our present campsite residence has a small but attractive lake fed by a meandering stream, the color and opacity of 1970’s Army fatigues. This circular lake-ette is surrounded by trails, a grassy picnic area, and a small sandy beach.

One could easily imagine colorful towels laid out amidst the palms and pines. Small children are wading in the shallow water, filling their plastic buckets and racing to the sand, while Mom chats on her iphone, watching the clouds pass. The reality is gently offered by the Parks Department with this tame and tractable cautionary sign.

How could anyone consider swimming with alligators?
I wonder if the tone of this cautionary sign would change were we to replace the word “Alligator” with:

Huge Prehistoric Carnivorous Reptile?

Be watchful for Huge Prehistoric Carnivorous Reptile, especially if no Lifeguards are present.

(Tarzan doesn’t work here.)

Report approaching Huge Prehistoric Carnivorous Reptile to Lifeguard or Park Ranger.

Never feed Huge Prehistoric Carnivorous Reptile.

Here in Florida, Alligators are the “elephant in the room” of suburban development and tourism. Along with recent additions of Pythons and Gila Monsters, Alligators are just part of the Flora and Fauna of Florida. Would someone in say, Milwaukee be OK with one of these guys, laying in the driveway or coming across the yard?

Alligators are one of the few wild creatures comfortable living in suburban and wild places to have removed themselves from the endangered-species list. They were down but they weren’t out. Once it became rude to wear them as shoes and purses they bounced back.
Or did they just come back up to the surface? Amidst the Spanish Sword Palms and the pea green water they reign supreme. Never underestimate the resilience of a prehistoric reptile species. Here’s the facts:

American Alligator
150,000,000 BC – Present
Lives in southeastern America. Usually lives for 35 to 50 years, and grows to a length of 10-15 feet during that time.
(http://www.preceden.com/timelines/68990-evolution-of-the-alligator#sthash.e86DhO7E.dpuf)

Let that sink in…150,000,000 BC – Present; and still here

35 to 50 years? The oldest alligator in captivity is 76 years old and living in Belgrade Zoo.

Length of 10-15 feet -There is a 19.5 ft alligator caught in Louisiana

Bring on the reclaimed land, ice age, gated communities and global warming; they are still here. For our Darwinian Evolution fans this might suggest that they were built correctly the first time, no need to renovate or modernize this model! Yes, there are an estimated one million alligators in Florida alone. If this estimate is as humanly biased as the facts above, we can expect there are many more. Why are the Alligators so willing to cede ownership of this vast environment to humans and their suffocating need to drain and build?

I believe it is a conspiracy by the Alligators to keep the humans oblivious and complacent until Florida can be reclaimed by the rightful owners and original inhabitants: the Reptiles.

Just kidding,. …maybe…

To a greenhorn Florida camper like me, they are the Dragons, Giants in the Wood, the Yeti on the mountain. They are the minions of Sobek, the Egyptian Croc God. http://ancientegyptonline.co.uk/sobek.html
Look that name up, it’s an interesting read, a bit too juicy and conflicted for this missive. He is a Shadow side teacher; always interesting, always treacherous.
Maybe my curiosity about human “Alligator blindness” lies in the persistent “Reptilian Brain” conversation. This Reptilian awareness ranges from alien watchers suggesting we are controlled by Reptilian races, or we ARE a Reptilian race to the more concrete and mainstream Triune Brain theory, representing the current Psychotherapeutic paradigm. Triune brain says human brains are built on a Reptilian Brain chassis, with Limbic system and NeoCortex added later. Ask any trauma survivor, the reptilian part is in charge of fear, flight and fight.  This ancient part is effective for survival, but hard to modulate and nearly impossible to turn off.
Google Reptile brain and there is everything from soup to nuts; and they are strangely all related if you step back far enough.

Whatever the reason, I intend to give them wide berth. I will treat them with deference and respect and I will stay out of their pond. It does suggest another question:

What else is here that I can’t see?

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What are the rules?

MacBWleft

BearBWright

Minerva and entourage are camping in the place called Florida. A place that looks feels and smells as different from the high desert of New Mexico as a mangrove swamp is from a dusty arroyo. Minerva is also the newly claimed den to two big dogs: Bear and Mac. They are as yet, unsure of their roles and assignments on this adventure.

As a collective, these two are 165 lbs of focused intent and curiosity, both tinged with a backyard dwellers innocence. Much like a teenager, visual images spawn movement, and action happens before the intellect is engaged. We can see the canine questions floating like a comic strip bubbles above their heads.

“Are we exploring? Should we hunt? Are we supposed to protect?

WHAT IS THAT SMELL???”

“Why is the inside so small and the outside so big, and why do we keep moving?

Did you HEAR that?”


“Should we keep the other people, the dogs, the wildlife out of our space? (This is a favorite activity.)

But what is our space?”

Where’s the fence that made the boundaries so clear? For a dog it is easy to know their domain; they pee their way around the area until they have a safe bubble of familiar smell. This method is bit subtle for humans. We like fences, tall walls, bad perfume or unpredictable behaviors. The result is the same. We have marked our territory and have the right to keep it safe.

As large fierce New Mexico dogs, these two are capable of maintaining their territory with a minimum of might. Just sight of them gives pause. They have unceasingly honored the “Dog’s Contract.” They are charged with monitoring intrusions and maintaining the integrity of their personal domain; the backyard. Driving out skunks and herding Bob the cat over the fence were all in a day’s work. Intimidating marauding coyotes through the wire fence was Bear’s particular strong suit.

Our boys faced this question of a nomadic canine’s assignment at Ft. DeSoto State Park Campground. The questions that had been dogging them throughout the trip walked right through their campsite at midday, in the form of a small raccoon. Disregarding the four talking adults and two playing children barely 10 feet away, the raccoon walked past the Barbie bike, over the dog leash and attempted to climb the palm tree between the two shocked frozen dogs. A few seconds later it was a fight to the death, and the raccoon lost. The dogs worked together with precision. The raccoon didn’t suffer long. Watching your fuzzy, family foot warmer kill with speed and skill is disconcerting. There is more ancient programming running in our companions than our human-centric “sit and stay.” Eons ago, dogs in all their editions made a pact with human beings that says, “If I can sit by your fire, and eat at your feet, I will protect your babies,” …and they did.

Why was a nocturnal scavenger running through campsites at midday? Ft. De Soto is a very beautiful place. It is a place that draws a packed campsite on most weekends. It is also an island. The raccoons are so overpopulated that they have made their own rules and answered their own questions. Daytime gangs of panhandling raccoons are the norm at open beachside picnic pavilions and private campsites.

But that is another post.

Cape San Blas

Cape_san_Blas_ARial_shot (1)

“In every outthrust headland, in every curving beach, in every grain of sand there is the story of the earth”
–Rachel Carson

Cape San Blas

“On the way” to family and Minerva in stasis, is Florida’s Panhandle. With the desire for our favorite vehicle for rest and reboot called “Beach,” we dropped out of the Interstate corridor for some coastline adventure. Moving South eastward, we eased our way through Panama City, one traffic light at a time. This Spring Break Mecca is an older, possibly more tired version of Ft Walton Beach. FWB being a 20- someone’s idea of “The Beach.” The string of beach towns on this corridor are a congestion of high rise hotels, Beachfront Bars, and multiple editions of bright blue beach emporiums memorable for their subtly suggestive 30 ft shark painted on the front. Beach is baudy here. It isn’t a set, or even a back drop to fun in the sun. It is a drop cloth to the uniquely human search for diversion and debauchery. I was hopeful that our destination was something completely different.

St._Joseph_Peninsula_State_Park_Dunes_Cape_San_Blas_FL

To the Real Estate hawkers, and to internet searchers such as myself it is “the Forgotten Coast.” http://www.forgottencoastline.com/ If forgotten means natural and undeveloped, let’s hope everyone not already living here, continues to have amnesia. This is not a Florida that I have ever seen. It is still alive and breathing. The sands sway on the hips of the gentle and powerful mother gulf, there is life here on the edges.

We are in a place call Cape San Blas, Florida. A thin arm of green trees and white sand sprinkled precariously in the blue water of the Gulf of Mexico facing a real small town called Port St. Joe.” Y’all have a nice day,” seems to have some meaning here. Just after Port St. Joe’s, and just before Indian Pass and Apalachicola a spit of land elbows outward and upward. This pile of sand points at such a rakish angle that movement over time and weather is virtually guaranteed. The real estate signs announce these lots as X. As in X marks the spot for the next washout. Don’t bother to call us unless you like risk, the risk of discounting the purpose of barrier beach in the natural scheme of things. There is a great deal of humor in Nature.

Apalachicola…., let that name roll off your tongue a few times. Apalachicola. It is somehow more than a name. It creates a sound that is something between a song and a sneeze. Anyplace with a name that melodic must hold some magic. This is the land of oysters and shrimp by sea and hushpuppies by land. It is impossibly white sand that is soft on the feet, small waves to watch and sunsets that delineate the days. A good place to catch up with the pieces of ourselves that we have dropped along the way.

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Sunday Morning in Louisiana

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Sunday morning in Louisiana

The roads are quiet, the casino parking lots on both sides of the highway are nearly empty on this day of rest. Shreveport is promoted as “Louisiana’s Other side.” Having never been to the Southeast corner where New Orleans holds sway for good times, this may well be Big Easy country style. I’m not likely to find out on this trip.
The trees are just beginning to turn,a few red sumacs and oaks with burnt orange edges. It is chilly here this morning, lots of dew making mist when the sun shines.

What do I know about Louisiana?

Not too much. We are on the Interstate, a straight leafy corridor sliding through the northern section of this Southern state. These generic roads from city to city are an interaction free zone. Interstate Highways in any state are akin to traversing the intestine of the state; we just pass through. There is some commerce between traveler and locality; a snack or some gas. But for the most part, we come in and go out unchanged; like corn.

The important facts at this moment are these: there are a lot of churches, and most with the same steeple as if there is a “steeple supply” in each town next to “Tractor Supply.” The speed limit is 70 mph, the Highway Patrol drives white SUVs, and there is a fly in the backseat. The latter is only of interest to our dog companions; Bear and Mac who are always looking for some diversion from their padded position. Yesterday’s backseat activity was picking out the sharp sticky plant travelers who hopped aboard when Mac took advantage of a slack leash and a great smell.

What is in a smell?

Smell is not only a great skill of Canine Folk, it is their great joy, their Raison d’être. On our frequent roadside stops, both dogs approach each area with dedication and delight. As Cesar Millan, http://www.cesarsway.com/ notes; “Dogs are as interested in Pee mail as we are in Email.” Noses down, sweeping the area for sign and signal from their predecessors, Bear and Mac have investigated each comfort opportunity with unlimited zest. I believe we might be STILL be waiting for the final report on our first stopping place two days ago, the grassy edge of a Valero station, had the humans not prevailed.

At the rest area of the Sticky Plant there was a special treat. Both dogs were enraptured by a smell so sweet, so persuasive, that the pull of the leash and sting of the pricker bush was not enough to dissuade his enquiring nose. Was there really a sign left for the next dog? A combo of urine and spit that said, “There is a one-day dead disemboweled rabbit over there; under the sticky bush, to the right of the tree, …Enjoy!”

I imagine in a dog consciousness there is an exhaustive catalogue of nasal experiences that are continuously revisited and enjoyed. These choice moments are constantly updated as best, unusual, extraordinary and “Holy …..!”

Not unlike humans noting the landscape on the next towel at the beach, and updating their personal library.
We travelled a 20 mile stretch of road on the edge of Tyler, Texas yesterday that had no less than 7 “Gentlemen’s Clubs.” What an antonym. In the midst of a patch of dense forest on Route 31 there are such places as “Bare Assets,” and “Time Out.” Their existence wasn’t surprising or offensive, it was the extraordinary volume and the in-congruency of their surroundings.

I wonder if people and dogs are so different. Sometimes you just want a place to do your business in peace and sometimes the smell is too much for the pull of the leash.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
― Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems

20131101-210318.jpg

20131102-074544.jpgRoosevelt County, New Mexico

To reach this place, one travels through remote, beyond the “middle of nowhere,” and on into no man’s land. A flat, mostly straight road, shifting focus only to arc upward in order to pass over mile long trains, carrying mysterious cargo, moving West. The track and the road are laid out like a spilled liquid dripped onto the endless flat, dry Southeast New Mexico plains.

No wonder the UFOs land here in the mesquite and grass north of Roswell. Our infamous visitors from above could very well have entire communities complete with alien Walmarts, and they too would be swallowed up and invisible in this vista. This concept of SPACE is unknown to those in the east, this land is boudary-less and measured in miles. Out here every crow has their own ranchette.

A Verbal Visual

A small windowless house, set back from the road down a dirt track. A metal pole barn, empty corral, silent windmill, and 4 dead trees planted on each corner for shade. This is an an optimist’s hope of feeling rooted in this ocean of Wind. There is no graffiti on this empty house. What would be the point? There is no one here to shock or antagonize, and color is neutralized into the “Plains Beige” of mid-Fall anyways.
I’ve flown over these places many times, seen the three parallel lines of track, road and power lines, and wondered, “Why do they huddle together amidst all this space?”

It is an entirely different experience to be on the ground here. They are close together for survival, for the sanity of those that use these thoroughfares of modern transit. I wonder, how one could hold a thought here? Or a dream? Does one set out to live here ? Or do they get mesmerized until inertia sets in with the howling wind, and a horizon 50 miles away?
Anyone that believes there is human dominion over the earth needs to live here for a month or a season or a year, even a day might humble.

And into Texas

The wealthier, healthier neighbor to New Mexico meets us almost at Clovis. There was of course a detour at this state line. The road quite literally didn’t exist as if the two states couldn’t… quite… touch each other; they operate on such different states of mind. I was driving, so a detour isn’t a surprise; more an expectation. Instead of a smooth transition into this very different state, we made a 90 degree left turn, then right, over two sets of tracks, thankfully not hosting the multiple miles of trains that we wisely beat into town, and then left onto the 4 lane divided highway 84 that dives diagonally towards Lubbock and Sweetwater TX.

Two images for today will remain in my mental scrapbook. The first appeared on the range by Ft Sumner. A scene from the past and the present, a single cowboy on horseback herding a small corps of doomed cattle down a red dirt hillside to join the gathered herd. This is a classic image from the Wild West that I have never witnessed in 10 years of residency in this corner of the West. And in Texas, a modern day hero;

World Guy, http://www.worldguy.org/ walked along the side of the road with his dog, pushing a 6 foot inflatable Earth. Both brought this poem to mind;

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”

On this first day, of the second part, of Minerva’s journey, I’m grateful to be here.