Up Here in Wild Cuntry

It's new moon. I awoke to a shaft of sunlight of biblical proportions screaming down the crotch of the Purcell Mountains. I brewed up my first cup of java in my moka pot, added a splash of Half n Half and gazed east, over glassy Kootenay Lake; enveloped in a world reborn.

Cosmologically, it's an edgy time. I'm not an expert in astrology, but I take notice. We're coming off the upending power of three summer eclipses and August 2nd is the heart of a 36-hour void moon, the same day that Mercury joins five additional planets in retrograde. Mercury, which governs communications and turns plans into snafus, is its own full plate. A 36-hr void moon is an unnerving window. VMs are commonly known as the Murphy's Law of Astrology: if anything can go wrong it will. In the past few weeks, one friend cut his finger tip off with a Skilsaw when he got up late in the day to do "just one more cut." I said, "Hey, let's just sit and watch the sunset!" Had I realized it was a VM I would have screamed, "No!" This week another friend on his bike had a head-on collision with a truck. Void moons, and their strange energetic vibration, now have my attention; particularly this upcoming one, with no planetary safety nets.

A few moments ago I walked to the stream that rushes down the mountainside next to La Perla and snuggled my large quartz crystal under a moss-lined waterfall. I  call upon her vibrational powers to open and clear chakras. Particularly the heart, the throat, the third eye. I plan to be graceful with myself on Tuesday; positioned so that energies can brush up against me and waft with the softness of Tai Chi. I'll use this time to ponder. It is somewhat of a miracle that I am in Kaslo, BC this summer. I wonder why? What's in store, as the influences of a chaotic planet permeate flesh and spirit. As many are brought to gigantic posturing in a last ditch expressions of ego, others dig into the earth, bastion of instinct and common sense. Of primal wisdom.

It's no surprise that women around the world are organizing "slutwalks," reclaiming a word that has subliminally deterred and defaced women for centuries.  Cunt is another. A derivative of the Oriental Goddess Cunti, the Yoni of the Universe, it signified the Goddess' genital opening through which life emerged. In ancient writings the word for "cunt" was synonymous with "woman." It was a holy place.* At last night's Kaslo Jazz Fest singer Toby Beard belted out a salty, erotic song that began with, "It smells like sex in here..." Then Toby told the story of a group of 70-plus old women approaching her after she'd sung that song. She thought they were going to reproach her. Instead they wanted to talk about orgasms.

Here I sit, in pulsating wild cuntry. Bring on that void moon. Let's see what revelations drop in. I might just stay in my jammies on  Tuesday. Or nothing at all. Jousting with the naked truth.

*Thank you Barbara Walker and your Women's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets, one of the most important books ever written.

Miracle in Canuck-land

It was a ratchety croak that came from --  from where? A friend and I had pulled over to the side of the highway and stopped to look at an old cemetery. We scanned the grasses and the ditch before us. A bird? A frog? Or perhaps the imagination -- because it stopped as quickly as it began.

We climbed back into the pick-up and continued down the road. Now up to about 30 miles total, we turned off the highway to follow a garage sale sign. We slowed to a stop and the sound came again, as curiosity turned to concern. Were the bearings going out on the truck? I bent to glance underneath but didn't see anything obvious. We went into the garage sale where I purchased a beautiful rag rug. I was carrying it to the truck when the sound pierced the air. Definitely NOT the truck, since it was parked. I edged underneath on my back, further and further, until I spied a terrified little kitten on the frame. I yelled to my friend for help; the garage sale folks came running too. I reached for the fur ball but he launched like a rocket and headed into the thick forest. "Probably won't see him again," said the owners. There are bear, fox, skunks around here ... you name it." So I looked even harder. I spotted the little guy twenty yards away in a ditch drinking furiously  from a stream. It was  hot where he'd been riding, and how long was he under there? I approached but he bolted, jumped into the ditch stream and swam away. A little survivor.

I left my name and phone number with the garage sale hosts in case he showed up. I didn't want him to die in the forest, especially after he'd gone to the trouble to attach himself to the truck and hitch a ride. I woke up around midnight and decided I was going to drive back the next morning and look for him. At 8:00 a.m. the phone rang. He'd shown up outside the garage saler's window ... coincidentally, around midnight.

What WAS I doing? I lived in my travel trailer and was NOT looking for a cat, but this little fella's mystery got my attention. To hop on the truck and ride at full speed down the highway? To somehow make his way to me? He was about seven weeks old and in sorry shape. His eyes were real weepy and he had a sneeze; his sinus' were congested. From up the road in Kaslo, Carole consulted and prescribed some homeopathics as the symptoms slowly dissipated. His orange marbled coat turned from scruffy to gorgeous. He had a precious kitty spirit: he perched like a parrot on my shoulder. Teak was indifferent and kitty was fearless towards the dog. He took to the litter box in a snap. When I packed to move from Creston to Kaslo my friend offered to take him to the animal shelter. I was sure about that option -- kitty was going with me.

The appearance of two little lumps recently confirmed that he was a he. Named the little guy who hitched a ride HOBO. Everyone who meets him loves him. He's a savvy little stinker. Carole says she'd love to take him, but he would make a good RV cat. Of course, I'd have to sneak him across the border. I have time to think about it.  My replacement driver's license has yet to arrive in the mail from my purse being stolen. I won't be driving into the US until it does. Meanwhile, Lil Hobo bores deeper and deeper into my heart.

Rain of Love

I'm cleaning up the rose petals from three pink posies that Carole brought me from her garden. For several days they filled La Perla with fragrance and color that lifted my oft-sagging spirit. Then the petals began to fall. Onto the table. Into a small Mexican dish. Their velvet softness scattered across the floor. This morning I gathered and tossed them outside the door. I wasn't prepared for the instantaneous response; how the sight of floating petals propelled me to the countryside of Denmark.

Several years ago my cousin Ole from Odense and I were traveling across Jutland in an effort to find some sign of my namesake, Grandma Christina, in old church records. We slowed the car as we entered a picturesque village, the only car on the road in a country that relies mainly on bikes and trains. Three little girls pushed dolls and teddy bears in carriages. They looked up and smiled wide as we slowly drew closer. In a sudden synchronous act, they reached into the buggies, pulled out handfuls of color and tossed rose petals in our path.

It was, simply, one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life, as their faces of glee met our shouts of surprise and laughter.

It was near summer solstice and flowers were thick in yards; small, homemade vegetable stands showed off gardens' first bounties. All across Denmark was the same: take what you want and slip money into the can on the counter. We stopped for gas at the far edge of town. Ole went inside to pay as I stood outside the car and watched teenaged girls canter ponies across fields of emerald green. I did not want to budge.

I would discover a few days later, in the archives of Copenhagen, that my Grandma was born near there. That rose petal welcome was a genuine coming home. My personal ticker-tape parade.

Dig, Squat, Wash

The pounding hail and sheets of rain finally stopped. A neon band of rainbow appeared over the lake, contrasted by the charcoal sky. The end curved and dropped directly in front of La Perla's door. But as it is with rainbows, you must view the richness from a place called 'away.' If you're in it, you can't see.

I am far afield; seeing rainbows but not touching them. I know they are there, on the cusp of some altered reality. They come and go. As signs and omens come and go. Like when I dropped the moka espresso pot that Dahn and I shared and the plastic handle went flying off. I knew then, we were over. Weeks of trying to forge a relationship culminated in our inability to "get a handle on it." Misplaced loyalties and bad judgements won over our intent to bring out the best in one another. 

A good friend reminded me that to answer an invitation to travel to to British Colombia from someone I barely knew came too fast. But I answered Dahn's suggestion for me to retreat. Come and sit for the summer, he said, you could use a rest. And there were 135 emails and countless phone calls from him that spanned three months that proclaimed a magical, eternal love. As I thought about her comment, I realized that my relationships have happened relatively fast. Some lasted a few weeks, but most lasted years; the best and the worst, for many. If waiting has to do with knowing someone I am quick to remind myself that the person I spent the most time with, in the end, turned out to be the one I knew least. If waiting has to do with spying incompatible habits, wrong again. Intuitions ferret those out pretty quickly; much more effectively than time. As in this case, waiting was not going to divulge the man who admitted he was a different person when he returned to his hometown milieu.

Some environs respond to the soul, others don't. Creston didn't fit for me. The vibration never matched, but it was only for the summer, right? I thought Dahn and I would be just fine if we took to the mountains to hike, got onto the lake or rode bikes. But in three short weeks we were deluged by dramas as Dahn cut off his finger tip, his best friend took it upon himself to charge at us like a rampaging bull and evict us from his land, and my purse, with cash, jewelry, cell phone and bank cards, was stolen.

You sit there reading and think: "And she had to wait for the coffee pot to drop?"

You'd be right, if energies hadn't appeared to take a turn. A kitten riding on the frame of the pick-up for miles brought us care and laughs. We shared family gatherings ~~ I dearly loved Anna, Dahn's mom; we made it onto Kootenay Lake in the boat for one glorious day. But it turned out that energies were like the goosenecks in the Kootenay River, swinging around and onto themselves. Dahn and I had different sensibilities. We dealt with stress in different ways that ran counter to the hope of any partnership. The same day Dahn bought a pre-owned truck camper for future excursions we imploded; I packed and skedaddled, saturated with all the trauma I could take.

I arrived Kaslo and my best friend Carole's and parked the trailer whereupon the breakaway cable and box started on fire. The metaphor wasn't lost on me. The amazing coda was a Facebook friend who saw my post and contacted me. He had me get under the trailer, snap pictures of the damage and send them to him. He was concerned about the electrical fire starting again. Once he studied the pictures he talked me through diagnosing, cutting and wrapping cables. Thanks largely to him, the energy has turned. I am hiking, writing and photographing again. A kitty named Hobo sits on my lap and purrs me to wellness, as my nerves and muscles relax beyond shaking spasms and dissolve into calm. Another friend stopped in Port Hill, Idaho, the border stop six miles south of Creston, and picked up my mail. It saved me a day's trip down and back and delivered my new bank card. I now have access to my money again. I still wait for my new driver's license.

I know the rainbows are at my front door. I have only to inhale the color and remember who I am. I'm not going to fault myself for giving love a try. We did the best we could in the midst of circumstances that seemed straight from hell.

Right here, right now, the most important thing I can do is to squat and rinse the new red potatoes just dug from the garden.