Don the Chaps and Climb Aboard

The wind is supposed to gust to 55 mph tonight; a wind chill of minus 15-degrees. It will be the greatest test of La Perla; of my down sleeping bag; of Teak curled up on the floor beside the bed. As if in preparation, last night I hung the words, "Cowgirl Up" above the window next to the bed.  A cursive spread of wire letters sculpted by Babette. And yesterday I bought two poinsettas to cheer the soul. One white, one red. They sit on my table next to four candles that cast their primal flame across this little space. Another squat, salmon-orange one burns next to the bed where I type. My tribute to chilly dawn.

In my final act of preparation, I gave up on the easy-to-clean-and-set plastic mousetraps and bought four of the old fashioned wooden Victor's. I was tired of waking up to a trap licked clean of chunky peanut butter. Within ten minutes I'd nabbed a little gray culprit. I wouldn't mind em, really, if they didn't chew into my life and leave turds in the cupboards. The metaphor isn't lost on me.

It's not the easiest living in a winterized trailer. The pipes are full of RV anti-freeze and I have no running water. But I remind myself of my vow of simplicity; of a debt-free life and of plans to head for Mexico on December 5th's new moon. I have one more house sit the week after Thanksgiving. It is on a ranch in the country overlooking the Mancos River. It is where "Target" hangs out. I plan to snap some pictures of the arrow-breasted gobbler and write an article.

In the meantime I spend precious days and evenings with daughter Hope. I count my blessings as Thanksgiving closes in. I cherish love in my life. Excellent health. Teak. Even clean teeth and the $140 it cost to get them that way. I will join hands with the universe on Thursday. Toast friends as I look into their eyes; pray THANKS to the earth, Mother Ultimate.

I feel a poignancy this year. An edge, as grace and urgency converge. I sense that our free ride upon this planet has come to an end.  That we are in for some bucking bronco days. As yesterday, today and tomorrow enfold into holy now, we might all do well to ...

On Target

I talk and teach of the confluence of the planetary and personal souls. Of intense times. How we are in this reckoning together. So why would my life be any different? I say yes to one thing that should be simple, even freeing, and just like that a wave of new details comes from out of the blue and swamps my life. As if one moment I'm standing outside taking in the spectacle of the backlit, snow-capped La Plata peaks and ker-plunk, a wave of the white stuff slides off the roof and buries me up to my crotch. Ya. Kinda like that.

Last week I spoke at the Mancos Libray on the subject of "Saced Place, Holy Wild: Caught in the Spiritual Crosshairs." I followed that up with a workshop for women in which we dove ever deeper into the call of the times; how to maneuver and cushion ourselves in the midst of muddle. The same week my x-husband took a stroll down flip-out lane and I found myself moving my things out of storage at our home. And as if the universe wasn't quite satisfied with the mix, I received an invitation to house sit and care for the beautiful farm home of two dear people. Thus, this past weekend I moved twice (from house to storage; from La Perla to house sit) and conducted the most amazing workshop I have ever done.

It is Monday morning.  I have claimed my writing space in the farmhouse. Green chili beef stew simmers in the crock pot (this farm raises organic beef) and a light snow falls outside, draping the earth in a veil of peace. I am cocooned in silence except for the occasional sound of the frig; the muted tic-toc of the clock on the wall. Down the road a bit is a wild turkey scavenging for acorns along the Mancos River. She has an arrow through her breast that protrudes several inches into the air  from both sides; compliments of an autumn bow-hunter.  She eats. She follows along with her flock.  She flies into the cottonwood trees to roost at night. In short, she carries on with pierced flesh, learning to live with her role of target.

She, the ultimate teacher. We must all learn to live these days with an arrow through our breast.

Taking Heart

My movement from Juneau to Mancos, CO was an elegant cascade; a waterfall of feminine. I hadn't planned to travel from one hot water spring to another, but that is what I ended up doing. I soaked in warm water pools; basked in the glow of friendship with women-friends.

There was Carole in Kaslo at her homestead on the edge of wilderness. Everyday she donned her cute rubber boots (not at all like my he-man Alaska boots) and made her way down the hill to collect eggs and feed the chickens, turkeys and sheep. Many late mornings, following my writing and her chores, we departed for the skyline...Monica Meadow's wilderness of ancient alpine larch, treeline valleys surrounded by snow-capped marshmallow creme peaks. We walked wildlife sanctuaries (appropriate title!) awash in geese and ducks; shopped organic, fresh-picked apples and made stops at roadside pubs. And every night she transformed her kitchen and garden into a luscious meal as her husband Chris and I stayed carefully on the periphery. Carole was territorial about her kitchen. Best to sit on the sidelines and cajole.  Set the table. Clear the table and load the dishwasher. But leave the kitchen alchemist to her creative cauldrons.

Three more seductive hot springs south and I landed in Boise and the home of friend Johanna. Johanna with her RV cleaned, packed and pointed south for the winter. Seventy yr old Johanna whose biggest chunk of spirit still lodged in her prior home of Homer, Alaska. This women has traveled all over the world outback, oft times with one or two of her child-daughters. For years she drove from Homer to the tip of the Baja for a winter's stay. This is where I spent my 60th b-day; close to this trail-blazing woman.

A two-hour trip down the highway delivered me to Twin Falls and the home of effervescent Phyllis. This woman, true teacher. She cares for her elderly mother who lives on the other side of her duplex. Cares, as in dresses, bathes, cooks, checks in on her, takes her to the doctor and helps to make the difficult decisions that relate to quality and length of life. This, as her 41-year old daughter deteriorated in the throes of liver disease, collapsing as she was assessed for a transplant. As one part of Phyllis waited anxiously by the phone for a progress report from her grandson, the other part attended to mom. Every evening Phyllis and I had cocktails and dinner with the sweet, diminutive woman who continued to grasp life with gusto. And every day we made an excursion to a hot springs or a walk along the Snake River. Made room for Phyllis. Snagged some  laughs on the winds of change.

I'm in Mancos now, parked a few blocks from my daughter, Hope where we're walking our dogs and sharing meals. Watching football and movies. Talking and laughing, heart to heart. Mother and daughter, sans shopping. Neither of us has the extra change to shop, altho we did walk into a yard sale yesterday where I found a sleeky, sexy dress for $3.00 and Hope, a couple of wine glasses for a quarter. God knows where I'll wear the dress. It will be fun to see what circumstances pull it onto my body.

Mancos also means Babette, my wine-drinking, cigar-smoking, get down truth-telling, hike-and-bike-Sister. I found her several years ago in her little coffee shop in downtown Cortez.  She found me several years ago when I walked into her little coffee shop in downtown Cortez. Not long thereafter she closed the shop. It served its purpose.

Friday was Lunar Samhain, the new moon in Scorpio and the Celtic New Year. If your roots are in Europe you're Celt. This time of autumn descent has forever been my favorite. I savor the the year turning over as the spirit world closes in. Babette and I sojourned to Song Haven, the organic farm home of splendorous, Venus-of-Willendorf-Michelle. Twenty of us feasted, danced and drummed for six hours. Phyllis' daughter, Debbie, crossed over in the midst of that dance. As the drums beat loud and deep, Johanna pulled into her winter camp in Arizona and a package arrived at my door from Carole. It was my 60th birthday present, a hand-quilted pillow of songbirds and owls and shiny golden suns and stars.

Carole, Johanna, Phyllis, Hope, Babette...we are a microcosm of life, movement and change. Of love. We are the ultimate test of relationship---we who bring out the best in one another. Even as life resembles more of a pin ball machine than a sweet linear line. I shoot up and over roads, land in a welcome-hole for awhile until POP, it launches me down the road again. I gaze south, towards Emilie and Mexico. Towards some vision of myself reborn.

I lay my head on the love-stitched pillow and dream. 

Hallowmass

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. I am in Mancos. Colorado. The snowline dips ominously low and the final autumn holdouts reluctantly turn yellow and await the next next gust of wind to render them leafless. My daughter Hope cooked me up a birthday meal of Mediterranean Pork with a sizzling delicious olive, raisin and balsamic vinegar sauce; a spice cake with maple syrup frosting. I am here. But my spirit isn't so sure. She and I, we've been on the road since last June-Juneau-bound. She needs a few days of repetition before she trusts that stop is stop; that the 6000-mile circle of wonder is closed.

Yesterday, barely 12 hours back, I drove the truck and trailer to my once-shared casa with Tom. The purpose was to off-load things I no longer needed; to see Pooka my Bengal cat. She followed me like a shadow. We went for our once-ritualized walk and she did as always..mewed to be picked up about a quarter mile down the two-track. I lifted and swung her onto my shoulders; held onto her tail in our familiar precarious game of balance. Eventually she climbed onto my back, her signal that she was ready to jump onto the road and walk again. I bent over to provide a platform for her to leap but she didn't. This time she sat upright on my back and held me in place. I wiggled. She would not budge. And so I let her...realizing I deserved this. I'd left her behind and she was going to make me pay. She didn't budge from my back for ten minutes. Me bent over in the road. She and I, alone in the world.

We walked back to the house and I took a seat on an old stump in the sun. She made little peep purrs I'd not heard before. Then she walked to the door and looked back at me. Mewed. She wanted me in that house again. Like old times. But I could not follow. "Ours" was no longer a label that applied. I rose, loaded Teak into the truck and performed my best job of backing the trailer yet.

I stepped on the gas, drove a short ways, stopped and looked back. Pooka was still sitting by that door as I drove away. Sunlight etched her golden leopard-spotted flecks.