I stepped on a thorn two nights ago. I'd gone outside barefoot in the dark and the 1-inch acacia spike drove through my thick hiking sock and into the ball of my foot. I yowled, grabbed and jerked and limped back to the (still-unnamed) trailer. The wound wouldn't bleed. I washed w/soap and water and crawled into bed to watch "Zelary" on my computer, ignoring the tendency to ponder just what the jolt had delivered.
The next morn I went on my merry, albeit tender-footed, way. I walked the dog and sipped espresso with a friend as we made plans to scout a prominent arch a few miles away that afternoon. A couple hours later we stood at the side of a sandy wash staring off at the arch that beckoned. The Mojave desert was emerald green with spring. Creosote bushes exploded in yellow bloom; long-stemmed evening primrose, lupine and desert milkweed burst forth amongst volcanic rock. Fresh desert bighorn scat dotted a secluded draw.
And the arch---the thick band of wind and water sculpted rock that remained as the mountain around her crumbled. The scout morphed into, "let's do it," (was there ever any doubt?) as I overrode body's dictate to rest and heal in favor of the call. The final twenty feet was straight up, all pressure on the ball of that punctured foot as my fingers sought rock that would hold. An exhilarating ascent; a friend's helping hand, reaching down. As I walked into her shadow I felt I was the first. A potentially life-saving shadow, given the 120-degree heat that would soon blanket this unforgiving landscape. I stared upon the miles of lonely desert desolation; felt the pure vital energy of the stone rainbow.
By the time I returned late-afternoon I could hardly walk. My foot was swollen, red and excruciatingly tender. I wasn't sure if I was dealing with the toxins from the thorn or an outside infection. I started to have chills. I pulled out my magic kit of homeopathic remedies and found ledum, a remedy for puncture wounds that has anti-tetanus properties. I should have done that 12-hours sooner. I fell asleep at 7:30 p.m. and woke at 10:00. I peed, boiled up a cup of chamomile tea, lit a candle and wrote of the necessity to seek and stand in narrow bands of shadow. Then I blew out the candle, rolled over and fell asleep.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
CLICK
I traveled on new moon Sunday two hours to Kingman, AZ to look at a trailer I thought was ‘it’ but ‘it’ wasn’t. Too sloppy and way over-priced. That met I was Yuma-bound. A three-hour drive with girlfriend Johanna to look at three rigs I’d lined up from Craig’s list. I was one week from closing on Tortuga. Time was running out and Yuma was the market I’d yet to tap. We arrived at 9:00 a.m.; then I stepped aside and let the universe work the turn signals.
Trailer one was not it. To bland. The second appointment took us east to Foothills. The trailer was gorgeous but too heavy to pull with my Toyota Tacoma truck. I missed a turn going back to the interstate (be aware of ‘missed turns) and came upon a "Park and Sell" lot where owners must stay with their RV’s to sell them. I found a trailer I liked a lot. A little old lady rig with a retro can opener and kitschy paper plate dispenser hanging from under a cupboard. It had a slide out with a couch. Very nice but my body held back and well, I trusted my body.
On we went, passed by another park-and-sell in favor of an RV lot that advertised free lunch. About 15 RVs later we returned to the trailer with the avocado green can opener. There I sat; trying to imagine myself inside. It was nearly 4:00, our departure time in order to return home before dark. “Let’s go to the other park-and-sell lot,” I said. The one we’d skipped that morning.
I drove in, rounded a corner and saw her immediately. A small, new 19-foot Fleetwood Pioneer. One step inside and I knew---a beautiful walk around queen bed on the right, dinette, kitchen and bathroom on the left. Linoleum (easy clean) floor. And a place for Teak to sleep and not be underfoot. “Is this yours?” I asked a handsome albeit harried looking man. He’d just taped the price to the window. A price that numerologically equaled 3. My birth number.
When the universe goes click she does so with gusto. Two negotiation rounds and she was mine as interested parties swarmed her. My personal check was okay with Lynn upon a call to my credit union to confirm funds; and I took the trailer without title which was in his home in Salt Lake City. Lynn and wife had not planned to sell but fell in love with a 5th wheel. They were trading up; me down. They’d just moved out the previous day, cleaned the trailer and had arrived at the sell lot just ten minutes before me.
Too late to travel, Johanna and I dry camped in the lot where Lynn was parked. My cell phone was near dead (no charger…wasn’t planning on an overnight). I used my black cotton bikini underwear as a washcloth to shower and dried with paper napkins. Johanna and I shared a 59-cent toothbrush and a Vidal Sasson hair brush that was waaay over-priced. Too tired to go out we sprung for apples, a cooked chicken, a loaf of pumpernickel bread and a bottle of scotch. My first meal in the little Kasbah as we toasted our success!
It took awhile to rest the adrenaline and fall towards slumber on the heavenly custom-made bed. Tortuga the motorhome was sold; the trailer was secured and six days remained before closing. I was pure exhaustion and exhilaration. “Oh gawd! Did I lock the truck?” Johanna and I laid there and contemplated the question and simultaneously broke into hysterical laughter. Goddess help the guy who drove off with US in the back of a trailer.
The new moon crescent floats like a smile above the jagged rock peaks. I know she’d wink if she could. High five an initiation well done. I’d negotiated the slots and followed the signs in an unnerving series of moves. Now I would follow that waxing moon towards spring.
Trailer one was not it. To bland. The second appointment took us east to Foothills. The trailer was gorgeous but too heavy to pull with my Toyota Tacoma truck. I missed a turn going back to the interstate (be aware of ‘missed turns) and came upon a "Park and Sell" lot where owners must stay with their RV’s to sell them. I found a trailer I liked a lot. A little old lady rig with a retro can opener and kitschy paper plate dispenser hanging from under a cupboard. It had a slide out with a couch. Very nice but my body held back and well, I trusted my body.
On we went, passed by another park-and-sell in favor of an RV lot that advertised free lunch. About 15 RVs later we returned to the trailer with the avocado green can opener. There I sat; trying to imagine myself inside. It was nearly 4:00, our departure time in order to return home before dark. “Let’s go to the other park-and-sell lot,” I said. The one we’d skipped that morning.
I drove in, rounded a corner and saw her immediately. A small, new 19-foot Fleetwood Pioneer. One step inside and I knew---a beautiful walk around queen bed on the right, dinette, kitchen and bathroom on the left. Linoleum (easy clean) floor. And a place for Teak to sleep and not be underfoot. “Is this yours?” I asked a handsome albeit harried looking man. He’d just taped the price to the window. A price that numerologically equaled 3. My birth number.
When the universe goes click she does so with gusto. Two negotiation rounds and she was mine as interested parties swarmed her. My personal check was okay with Lynn upon a call to my credit union to confirm funds; and I took the trailer without title which was in his home in Salt Lake City. Lynn and wife had not planned to sell but fell in love with a 5th wheel. They were trading up; me down. They’d just moved out the previous day, cleaned the trailer and had arrived at the sell lot just ten minutes before me.
Too late to travel, Johanna and I dry camped in the lot where Lynn was parked. My cell phone was near dead (no charger…wasn’t planning on an overnight). I used my black cotton bikini underwear as a washcloth to shower and dried with paper napkins. Johanna and I shared a 59-cent toothbrush and a Vidal Sasson hair brush that was waaay over-priced. Too tired to go out we sprung for apples, a cooked chicken, a loaf of pumpernickel bread and a bottle of scotch. My first meal in the little Kasbah as we toasted our success!
It took awhile to rest the adrenaline and fall towards slumber on the heavenly custom-made bed. Tortuga the motorhome was sold; the trailer was secured and six days remained before closing. I was pure exhaustion and exhilaration. “Oh gawd! Did I lock the truck?” Johanna and I laid there and contemplated the question and simultaneously broke into hysterical laughter. Goddess help the guy who drove off with US in the back of a trailer.
The new moon crescent floats like a smile above the jagged rock peaks. I know she’d wink if she could. High five an initiation well done. I’d negotiated the slots and followed the signs in an unnerving series of moves. Now I would follow that waxing moon towards spring.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Ruffian Moon
She swamped me. Buried me alive under mundane debris. Pen, paper and the sweet quiet of my bed evaporated into lists and deadlines that raped the muse; left her staggering in three-night dark, desperate for bearings.
I returned to another rock crack; a six mile pilgrimage into ancient lands of the desert bighorn. Dressed in quick-dry sandals and shorts, my strong legs maneuvered through slick rock drops; water-hewn walls where the sun was lost. Sliding torso down wet passage; feet braced against walls in precarious chimney steps. Through wet sand and around small pools; I dropped down, down with gravity, faith-driven towards some unknown light.
The primal descent delivered me to a final pool, waist-deep in frigid water with an unknown rocky bottom. Teak dove in ahead on command; swam to a protruding boulder where she clung for several minutes until I caught up and we departed the water together. Two more narrow curves and the slot opened up on a wide sandy wash bejeweled with boulders, drenched in sun. I sat my cold-soaked body on a rock to dry.
Seven miles that day. Sacred seven and the season’s first canyon wren trill. Four desert bighorn leapt from boulder to boulder in the craggy mountains above. A historic presence, they have been here for hundreds of years. They, the spirit keepers of these lands.
We, a partnership of soul and body on the new moon cusp. Debris-free.
I returned to another rock crack; a six mile pilgrimage into ancient lands of the desert bighorn. Dressed in quick-dry sandals and shorts, my strong legs maneuvered through slick rock drops; water-hewn walls where the sun was lost. Sliding torso down wet passage; feet braced against walls in precarious chimney steps. Through wet sand and around small pools; I dropped down, down with gravity, faith-driven towards some unknown light.
The primal descent delivered me to a final pool, waist-deep in frigid water with an unknown rocky bottom. Teak dove in ahead on command; swam to a protruding boulder where she clung for several minutes until I caught up and we departed the water together. Two more narrow curves and the slot opened up on a wide sandy wash bejeweled with boulders, drenched in sun. I sat my cold-soaked body on a rock to dry.
Seven miles that day. Sacred seven and the season’s first canyon wren trill. Four desert bighorn leapt from boulder to boulder in the craggy mountains above. A historic presence, they have been here for hundreds of years. They, the spirit keepers of these lands.
We, a partnership of soul and body on the new moon cusp. Debris-free.
Monday, February 8, 2010
B'tween Shadow and Light
Light splits landscape. Friends I have not heard from in weeks awake from the winter drowsies and dial me up. Sandra in Mexico. Carole in British Colombia. Johanna down the hill wants to kayak more and paddle farther.
Obstructions, too, lift. La Tortuga (the turtle), my motorhome and primary residence for five years as I have traveled about western world, SELLS, triggering a landslide of question and possibility. A re-evaluation of home; new demarcations of love.
Sun’s return is no small matter. I may play and revel in new-felt warmth but I take seriously the landscape under new-shed light. Pay heed not to become careless in the wake of half-revealed truths. This is the care-full work that leads to spring. The slow illumination and move from darkness and long shadows.
I keep my nose to the wind; my ear to bird's call; my fingers upon my heart. Patience dances with exuberance as I sustain a lower case “t” on truth.
Obstructions, too, lift. La Tortuga (the turtle), my motorhome and primary residence for five years as I have traveled about western world, SELLS, triggering a landslide of question and possibility. A re-evaluation of home; new demarcations of love.
Sun’s return is no small matter. I may play and revel in new-felt warmth but I take seriously the landscape under new-shed light. Pay heed not to become careless in the wake of half-revealed truths. This is the care-full work that leads to spring. The slow illumination and move from darkness and long shadows.
I keep my nose to the wind; my ear to bird's call; my fingers upon my heart. Patience dances with exuberance as I sustain a lower case “t” on truth.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
To Light a Fire
It is the mid-point of winter. Imbolc to those whose church dwells in the wild. Candlemas to the Christians. The New Year to the Iroquois, Tibetans and Chinese. Tu Bi-Shevat to the Jews. Goddess festivals of light in honor of Celtic Brigid. And yes, Ground Hog’s Day in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania where as many as 40,000 have gathered to see if Phil will see his shadow, foretelling six more weeks of winter. It is, for me, the emergence from winter’s ebony cloak. My brain perceives the longer days; the sun rests hot upon my flesh. Shadows shorten; become more defined.
My psyche longs for all that is fresh. I skin the bed of covers and sheets. Wash and hang them on the clothesline to dry. I change out candles, replace the one by my bed with fragrant beeswax. It is the once-sacred bees that were worshiped on this special day. The bees who made honey and wax for candles to light the way. The dead were preserved in honey and bees themselves were a symbol of resurrection. The hexagon of the honeycomb was considered an expression of Aphrodite’s spirit as bees were thought to be the souls of priestesses in service to Her Highness. Pythagoreans, meanwhile, reflected on the honeycomb’s continuous sixty-degree triangular lattice, a hexagonal miracle considered to be the underlying symmetry of the cosmos.
This day…Brigid’s day, was dedicated to the Goddess of poetry and healing. Fire and purification festivals were held in her honor as people lit candles and fires brought warmth to the hearth; looked for signs of early spring and acknowledged the increasing power of the Sun.
So I sit, mid-way between winter solstice and spring equinox. The roadrunner cackles, coos and makes throaty sounds beyond descriptive effort. My body is like a maple that feels the return of sap to her veins…sweet life force that rises to the strengthening light. These simple markers live in our cells. Call forth a time when signs of spring and the omens thereof were essential to the cycle of life.
There is no doubt in my body…no hesitation to my spirit…they still are.
My psyche longs for all that is fresh. I skin the bed of covers and sheets. Wash and hang them on the clothesline to dry. I change out candles, replace the one by my bed with fragrant beeswax. It is the once-sacred bees that were worshiped on this special day. The bees who made honey and wax for candles to light the way. The dead were preserved in honey and bees themselves were a symbol of resurrection. The hexagon of the honeycomb was considered an expression of Aphrodite’s spirit as bees were thought to be the souls of priestesses in service to Her Highness. Pythagoreans, meanwhile, reflected on the honeycomb’s continuous sixty-degree triangular lattice, a hexagonal miracle considered to be the underlying symmetry of the cosmos.
This day…Brigid’s day, was dedicated to the Goddess of poetry and healing. Fire and purification festivals were held in her honor as people lit candles and fires brought warmth to the hearth; looked for signs of early spring and acknowledged the increasing power of the Sun.
So I sit, mid-way between winter solstice and spring equinox. The roadrunner cackles, coos and makes throaty sounds beyond descriptive effort. My body is like a maple that feels the return of sap to her veins…sweet life force that rises to the strengthening light. These simple markers live in our cells. Call forth a time when signs of spring and the omens thereof were essential to the cycle of life.
There is no doubt in my body…no hesitation to my spirit…they still are.
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