Watercolor and red thread; 22″x30″. Click image for larger view.
Monthly Archives: September 2010
The Bodega Fire
Yesterday afternoon, on the way home from Sebastopol, I was stuck in a long train of traffic behind a pickup with a fifth wheel. Not uncommon on the weekends, when the tourist hordes are out in force on my roads. But this time my anxiety was compounded by the smoke I could see in the distance. With every curve in the road, it seemed to be in a different direction. But as we got closer, it was obvious that the smoke was indeed coming from the Bodega area. And it was getting worse.
When I got into town, the smoke was pouring over the hill near the cemetery. Traffic was being turned back. I stopped, as I’d planned, to get lunch at the Bodega Land Trust BLT fundraiser. I learned that the fire was near the turnoff from Route 1, and/or near the trout ranch, and that it had jumped Route 1.
I got my BLT to go, even though no one in town seemed particularly concerned. The light was weird and polarized as I drove up the hill towards home. Laika came out from under P’s porch, looked at the car carefully, and when she was sure it was me, macaroni-danced her way over, nearly leaping in the front seat with me when I opened the door.
The smoke was building and the air was full of planes and helicopters. The fire was about a mile or mile-and-a-half from our place. I took my BLT out to my garden sitting area and settled in to watch the show…not without some level of base instinctual fear, but certain that we were safe for the time being.
Here’s a short video:
It was interesting to watch the aerial fire fight. Those guys are crazy; thank god we have them. The planes spread a bright pink-read substance, and the helicopters seemed to be carrying bags of water to release on the sight. I later learned that they’d been dipping into the ponds at the trout ranch. (Fish fry? Ok, I know, that’s terrible.) I also learned that a local firefighter was seriously injured. He is well-liked around town and by folks on the ranch, and is in everyone’s prayers.
This morning, the goats were quite skittish during milking time. Usually they just walk into the holding pen, but this morning they balked. Then, once I had most of them in, they stampeded out. On the milk line, they fussed at their grain but didn’t eat much and had no interest in hanging around the barn. Strange behavior indeed!
Of course in a situation like this, my thoughts turn to “what if”…what if there was a fire here? What would I need to do, how should I be prepared? I thought about making a “bug out bag”, but honestly the only thing I want are my animals and my computer, neither of which are packable in advance.
I confirmed one thing with Jordan: open the gates, and maybe even shoo the goats out. Honestly, I’m not sure how much that would matter; the whole ranch is fenced in except for the end of the driveway. And here’s the thing: we live near the top of a ridge, looking downhill to the southwest. If there’s a fire, it’s going to be heading up our driveway and road. In other words, we’re fucked. Our best strategy may be to get over the fence to the neighbor’s house, and hope we can get down their driveway on the other side on foot. Or go stand in the pond and wait it out.
The experience also made me think from a permaculture standpoint; I realized the wisdom of sitting on the land for a year before making any changes. I hadn’t considered the fire danger much before. Now it seems all too present. Tonight our sunset was colored orange from the haze that hung in the air all day.
I’m grateful to the firefighters who put out the fire before it roared into the town of Bodega…or further.
There are dramatic photos here on facebook, courtesy of the local paper.
Oh, and our all-volunteer fire department is having a Polenta and Beef Stew Dinner on Saturday, October 9th. Come out and join me…you can bet that’s where I’ll be eating that day!
The JuJu Collection
On of my favorite blogs is Los Farallones, written by the staff working for Point Reyes Bird Observatory on Farallon National Wildlife Refuge, a remote rocky island almost thirty miles off our coast. Recently, they wrote about Gull JuJu:
Here on the Island, we’ve noticed that the Western Gulls have a particularly unique and fascinating taste for edible-looking things and nest decorations. When walking through gull territories, one will often notice a collection of rib bones, regurgitated bits of plastic trash and other such goodies, brought back lovingly from the mainland, some 30 miles away. Over the years, we’ve collected our favorite findings and stowed them away into the Gull JuJu Archives. By far, the most common juju items found are decrepit plastic figures. A variety of army men, Winnie-the-Poohs, Lego characters, rubber duckies and many more have found their way into gull’s bills and stomachs.
I’ve been sorting through some of the junk and debris of my own life recently, and during this process I’ve dreamed of piles that look a lot like this, washed up on the beach at the edge of consciousness. I keep working through it in my conscious life. Rigorous honesty, as they say.
Once I have my juju gathered up, sorted, labeled and cataloged, I take it to the beach with a friend. She brings blankets and scones. A juvenile Western Gull watches, eager for a piece of scone, or maybe hoping for a special bit of juju it can steal for its very own.
In the act that I have been dreading for weeks, I retch all my juju up into the sand, and we look at it piece by piece. We talk about my labeling and cross-referencing. It’s quite a collection and the themes emerge. Tattered family photos, old grade cards, broken doll parts, tampon wrappers, army men with their guns who’ve pledged to protect all this juju if only I stay silent. Stolen coins and candy. Piles of chocolate chip cookies. Little bits of colored plastic, melted into blobs by anger or worn smooth by shame. A proud little pile of junk that I guarded like secret, dangerous treasure.
My friend looks at it all without judgement. And she points out that I have one tiny army guy left, one I picked up over the weekend and hadn’t quite swallowed yet, and suggests maybe letting go of that, too. I’m not sure. Maybe he’s there to guard the next pile. But I know she’s right. I can’t let go of the juju without letting go of all the juju. I really do want that one tiny post-confession moment where I am free of all of it, before I start collecting it again, as all humans do.
We put on our shoes and get ready to leave. The gull sitting and watching is now an adult Western Gull. I smile. Usually it takes them four years to do that.
I do feel older, as I go through the rest of my day. But the remaining army guy bothers me. It’s just a little thing, it seems so inconsequential…just one tiny failure to express my feelings honestly. And maybe everyone would be better off if I didn’t. But all day long, I keep stepping on that damned thing in bare feet. It annoys me. I vow to get rid of it when I have the chance. I don’t know how to do that without adding it on to someone else’s pile. All I can do is trust in something bigger.
At night I try to sleep, but toss and turn and yes, that stupid little hard jagged piece of green plastic is there, digging into my skin, until finally I surrender. I get up, swing open the door and send that army guy off, give him to the moonlight. Empty and unguarded, I finally find sleep.
Photo of gull juju from the Los Farallones blog. Photo of juvenile Western Gull by Marlin Harms. Photo of adult Western Gull by Laura Gooch.
Red Thread: Listening for the Call
When it rains, it pours posts. This painting has been on the board for almost two months; finally got it back out and finished it today. Partly inspired by Ikkyu, “I’ve no regrets about being tangled in red thread from head to foot”. (Click on the painting to see it larger.)
Grace at the DMV
My last name has changed back as part of the divorce. I like to say that I’m taking the name of my niece and nephew, because they took such good care of me last fall, and because I hate the idea of going back to anything. Whatever the case, it now means a series of trips through bureaucracies to do the name change.
The social security office was my first stop, and relatively painless. In a few days, my new card arrived in the mail, and I was able to start the next round: the dreaded DMV. I didn’t mind having to get a new license; just last December I’d had to have my license renewed and a new photo taken. My photo was predictably horrible, my face swollen by weeks of crying and the last vestiges of alcohol. I felt lucky to replace it. That horrible version of my driver’s license had replaced the one I got when my name changed before, one of my best ID photos ever: a newlywed.
So I took the day off work, took a water bottle and plenty of things to keep myself busy, and sat in the DMV office for a couple of hours until my name was called. I approached the clerk and handed over my papers, bracing myself for bad news about something I missed or something I’d done wrong.
The clerk smiled as he took my papers, looked over my name change form and my social security card. Then he stopped, looked up at me, smiled, and said, “You’re a brand new person!”
“I guess so.” I said.
He looked through the rest of my papers, came to the court papers, made a couple notations on the computer. Then he looked up again, and said, quietly and sincerely, “I’m sorry for the reason.”
I thanked him but also innerly cursed him as the tears welled up in my eyes. I never know when it’s going to hit me again. And there’s something about this simple, heartfelt human contact that always makes me cry. I can stand just about anything other than a little tenderness.
Trying to lighten the mood and avoid having a teary photo taken, I joked with him. “Don’t you think I look better now?”
He agreed. “You’re all set now. Take these over to window 18 and they’ll get your new photo.”
 |
 |
 |
Don Juan’s Delay
We were going to give Don Juan his annual pre-breeding treatment this morning and then turn him loose in the pasture with his ladies. But it turned out there were other things to do, namely hoof and vaccinate the goats in the lower field. Those are the eight ladies that, for whatever reason, are not on the milk line currently. So that’s what we did.
Poor Juany…he’s been pacing the fence, threatening to climb over. And we really don’t want him getting into the next pasture, with our baby girls…they’re old enough to get pregnant, but if they do, they won’t be good milkers and may have complicated pregnancies. It was a big problem last year because of Leroy Brown, an accomplished escape artist.
I went into Don Juan’s pasture today and had a little chat with him.
Juany, I’ve got some bad news. I know we promised today. But it’s looking more like Monday. You know how these things go.
I know you’re disappointed. I’m very sorry. Please don’t head-butt me.
Rozena Quail? Why yes, I do know her very well. OH! Yes, I’ll be sure to tell her. I know she’s looking forward to it, too.
Thanks for the kiss, Juany. I know that kissing me is not what you were hoping for, but we’ll do our best on Monday.
Trust me, Don Juan. I am very sympathetic to your plight.
Not Rising Above It
It’s clear that a lot of my addictive nature is the avoidance of feelings. I find I really don’t understand feelings well at all. In fact, I often can’t identify my feelings with precision, at least not without serious reflection.
Turns out, I’m not alone in this. I’ve been using this list of feeling words recently, something suggested to me by a nutritional therapist a few years ago. I’m usually scrolling down for the negative feelings…funny, I don’t seem to need to reflect on the happy ones so much.
Identifying the name of the feeling helps. It’s gives me something to mentally grab onto so I can pivot around and look at the situation from another angle. OK…uncertain, frustrated, vulnerable, discouraged…now named, they are easier to deal with. My judgmental mind likes to have reasons, and “I don’t know…I’m just…ick” doesn’t appease that part of my brain the way “uncertain, frustrated, vulnerable, discouraged“ does. How would I treat a friend who was feeling those things? Naming the feelings takes away some of their power to overwhelm me, and makes compassion possible.
”Uncertain, frustrated, vulnerable, and discouraged” described my feelings earlier this week. Getting the yurt ready for the winter has been on my mind. The windows really need an overhaul, and I want to re-tarp the top. My landlord wasn’t keen on paying for a new tarp…“the one that’s on there is a 5-year tarp and it’s only been on there one year!” But her disagreement came to a swift end when our recent high winds created two large rips in the outer tarp. Now we both agree: I’ll get a new one. I’ve also been looking at the top rafters with some level of fear…how is that wood doing? Are those brackets going to continue to hold? My brother promises to come for a visit in a couple of weeks to go over things and help me make an action plan.
Then there are the pests…not just the “pests of the mind”, but the real live variety, with tails and teeth. The local birding mailing lists talk of rodent populations being high this year, with eager excitement about a possible influx of hawks. But I am less happy about trapping rats in the yurt or finding a pristine gopher tunnel exiting the ground right under a beautiful squash that I was watching daily in anticipation of harvesting it. The squash is now mostly-eaten, looking for all the world like a cute porch over the entrance to the gopher hole.
When the gophers and voles aren’t popping out of holes to munch on plants that overgrew the raised beds, I see them simply scampering over the wooden sides of the beds to get their snacks. Poor boundaries; it’s a familiar problem. I’m told that feeling the sudden anger and fear rise up in me is a sign that my boundaries have been crossed, and that is how I feel when I see the gophers making a mockery of the raised beds. Anger at their destruction, but more fear that people will notice this proof of what a terrible gardener I am. (Oh hey, hello there, Pride…)
The irony of all of this is that the very night I returned home from helping with the “Gardening Without Enemies” workshop, I walked in to find a dead vole smack in the middle of my floor, and woke that same night to the sounds of a rat rummaging through my kitchen. Clearly, I am a total sham. (Well, it’s true that I don’t think of them as enemies. But still!)
Sometimes I think I would like to write here about how I’ve really fixed things up, how my garden is producing food that I’m eating and preserving for the winter. I’d like to brag about my neat woodpile, the oranges and greens of beautiful squash, the careful soil preparation I’m doing as I think about the apple trees and other perennials I’ll plant this fall. I’d like to write about how much I’ve healed and grown up through the divorce, and how I’m now emotionally perfect and don’t care to be loved by anyone else in my pristine solitude at the top of this romantic ridge in this picturesque yurt.
The reality is so very different. I’m lazy, ambivalent, prone to flights of fantasy, way too needy, and the custodian (or prisoner?) of some pretty ugly feelings (and absolutely certain that no one would like me if they knew I had those feelings). Reality is messy and uncertain and, yes, sometimes wonderful too. My therapist doesn’t usually tell me anything, but recently told me this: ”If you want to play in this part of the world, you can’t rise above it. And if you have to rise above it, then you don’t get to play in this part of the world.“
And this is gets me to the core. The addictions are attempts to escape this truth. The constant striving to escape this part of the world, because it seems so messy with feelings. To aspire to something more tidy and orderly than this mucky life here on earth, and if I can’t do that, then just check out altogether. The goal setting, the list making, the project planning…all of these are great for getting work done in the ideas part of the world, but they are a poor approach for life itself. Life must be lived, and life will not be compartmentalized nor follow the rules I make up for myself (or from others).
I want to live life. I want to play in this part of the world. With all the other critters.
What does it mean to really have our feelings? What’s the difference between having my feelings and getting attached to them? Intellectually, I think the idea is to accept them, let them arise in my life and then, as easily, let them go. But is that really all there is to it? Is that really enough? What about expressing them? Do I need to express all of my feelings to live in a truly honest way?