Doorways to Wonder

I'm opening new doorways for myself this week. I've always considered myself a spiritual person, although I certainly didn't fit into Christianity or Unitarianism or even Wicca.  But it's there! I have a strong spirit and it is growing ever stronger.

Carrie Newcomer,  a Quaker, is a voice that I find compelling.  In the past, the voices I found compelling were people like Holly Near and Cris Williamson, both for their music and their politics. Carrie strikes a more spiritual chord, although her politics are certainly admirable.  Charles de Lint is another voice who speaks to me right now. I've loved his books for years, but in starting to read some of his stories again, recently, I am feeling a kinship with his writing style and voice that I wasn't quite as aware of as before.

The burgeoning spring is always a time of awakening and yearning to explore outside the confines of my everyday world.  That piece about Wanderlust that I wrote in Idaho says it about as well as I could now. I was always drawn to a life where I could sleep rough, and live with only what I carried with me. The fact that I was never strong enough to do things like backpacking didn't halt the daydreams.  Now I dream about traversing the British Isles with a horse and vardo, traveling the lanes and beaches and moors with only my horse, my cat and my dog for company.  Emma Massingale is so much fun to watch because she does some of that!

That dream of journeying has been with me since childhood. I loved books about being in the woods or traveling on horseback, even though, in the 1960's, all the protagonists were men, and often of a different era, as well.  On long car trips across the prairies, when there really wasn't much to see, I spent hours watching the side of the highway, planning where I would guide my horse along the trails.  Hopefully, when I get on the road in my vardo, I won't be next to an Interstate!

I have pursued both worldly journeys and those of the mind and spirit. Music takes me to my most inner heart and to the tops of the Alps and the Rockies, across the Great Plains and through the desert Sahara. Books have taken me to the South Pole and to Alaska, with Ann Bancroft and others. I've explored the world of the Navaho desert southwest with Tony Hillerman and even with Chakotay! 

Collecting photographs of distant places has enabled me to recognize the cultures of the world as I do jigsaw puzzles that present me with a new place, a unique way of being, at least to my American eyes.  Whether temples in Asia or from Russian Orthodoxy, the photos enable me to travel without leaving my desk.

I remember the little girl I lived next door to one summer. About seven, she was severely impacted by Cerebral Palsy. She couldn't talk, and got around in an electric wheelchair.  She tried to follow the other children, and her younger sister, a sturdy 5-year-old, frequently had to pull the wheelchair out of some ditch it had accidentally been rammed into.  When I left that summer, I wrote each of the 3 little girls in the area a letter, so that the one little girl wouldn't stand out too much. I told her to learn to read as books could take her to places her body would never enable her to go.  I wonder if I kept a copy of that letter?   

We all have ditches we ram our chairs into, and not all of us have a sturdy sister to rescue us.  Those little girls would be in their mid-thirties now.

My other memory of those kids was the five-year-old, who was quite the firecracker.  She spent all summer calling me "Aspirin", in spite of the best efforts of her mother to correct her.  Along about August, she figured out the name and her sense of humor got the better of her -- she started calling me "Tylonal" instead!

I'm always drawn to photos of pathways, woodland roads rutted by ancient wheels, doorways that lead to a mystical world, etc.  Journeys....

Wanderlust

(legacy post - originally written Spring, 1987)

When the days start getting noticeably longer in early February, my feet start itching. Today, when the sky is clear, clear blue, and the sun is almost warm, I start thinking, "The sleeping bag's in the trunk. The seats go down - I can sleep in the car (It's not like I haven't done it before)." Myrddin, the gold setter, would hear me and come running through the woods if I whistled from the road. I could do it - I could take off and just keep going. 

We could go to the ocean, where the salt-water, sea-bird, rotten-mussel-and-seaweed smells never stop. Or to the mountains, where red cliffs and aspen trunks come orange in the morning, gold after rain, and purple as dusk deepens to dawn. To the desert, to the Alps, to meet the penguins at the Pole. 

Subie, the Subaru, just hit the 200,00-mile mark (on the way to work - if she weren't so quietly proud of herself, I'd wonder if such an accomplishment even counts when our current travels are only to and from the data entry keyboard at Seafirst!). 

Myrddin's toes twitch in his dreams, and I am happiest when my destination is anywhere that promises open air, long strides, and the bump of a water bottle on my hip. 

An awfully lot of Subie's miles came from weekend jaunts to the state park, but she and I have bigger dreams. This morning, my dreams have mainly been of the ocean. I feel like I could spend years traveling beaches, barefoot in the surf, a rucksack easy on my back, drinking water charmed from the garden taps of Malibu beach houses belonging to movie stars. 

The days are always golden, with that particular haze that softens coastlines and daydreams; the Irish Setter spends his days running after seabirds, and there's even a wisp of color bounding along the cliff line, keeping us in sight. A coyote stole Kittypurr J. (for 'Jambelly') Fuzzbutton last summer, but as long as we're traveling in daydreams, I guess he can come along. After all, that coyote would never have gotten him if Kittypurr hadn't been living kitty dreams of stalking starlit savannas after hyenas howling at the moon. 

I spent last summer exploring the Seattle area, adding to the memories of a summer ten years ago, when fresh out of college, a theatre troupe friend and I spent hours in the Gasworks Park, watching boats go by. We explored University Avenue in the summer rain, sang 'Michael from Mountains' to the prisms in the puddles, and, in spite of my homesickness for Colorado, I fell in love with Seattle. 

Paul and I did not have a car, so we never made it to the ocean, and I didn't last summer, either, although I learned about ocean smells from Puget Sound. Having grown up in Colorado, I have only a few memories of the ocean. I didn't even know that my soul missed water until I learned to miss the lakes during the long Minnesota Februarys when everything wet either freezes solid during weeks of negative 30 degree windchills or dries out and withers to dust from the steam heat of clanging radiators. 

When I was ten, and then again the summer I was thirteen, my family traveled by trailer caravan to Mexico. I remember Mazatlan in the sixties before the beach was a chain of large hotels and fancy tourist resorts. We stayed in a peacefully seedy trailer court right on the shore. In my memory, that beach is a series of sunlit tones - dusty palm trees, the yellow-golds of sand, and that blue-green water. 

I spent hours standing just where the waves broke, letting the water catch me and tumble me, legs and arms limp, to the white foam at the shoreline. And we swam on the rocky coast at Guaymas, where the surf was much harsher, and there was an added thrill of danger in body-surfing the breakers. Mother told me just a few days ago that she almost got caught in an undertow there. I had only the thrill to remember. 

Another summer, we trailered from Colorado to the Redwood forest and along the Oregon coast, which gave a tinge of reality to my hippie-era dreams of Highway 101. In the Redwood forests, the huge trees were a deep shade of wet green that doesn't happen in a Colorado pine forest, and we ran up and down the paths to the beach, bright summer sweatshirts against gray mist and dull water. A huge driftwood log added only white to the spectrum of fog. 

Our Colorado lungs gloried in the sea-level oxygen -- perhaps we ran to keep warm in the cold fog. I remember the strands of earthbound cloud as friendly, though. I chased streamers of it along the needle-laden path that twisted through a stand of great trees that so shaded the ground, the usual dense California undergrowth was missing. I ran through wet tree trunks, following the trail, then losing it, then following it again in the mist. 

I think that we have to go to the ocean this summer, Myrddin and I. Subie may be left behind for the sleeping comfort and cookstove of the camper van (whose only name is an occasional "that damned lemon"), and we'll light a candle in the sand for Kittypurr, who, catlike, preferred the forest to the beach, but loved to travel, anyway. I have bills to pay, but surely I can manage a short trip to the ocean. Until our sailing ship comes in, Subie, Myrddin, and I will do most of our surf walking in our dreams. 

 © Aspen Mountjoy, 1987

sometimes...

I shuffled through yellow leaves today.  The cottonwoods are losing their broad, serrated yellow leaves, and the paths smell of autumn.

I found edible blackberries today, a month after they started ripening.  I thought they were done, but now, at the right season of summer's end, there are still a few, sweet berries hiding in the places where few people go.  Comparatively - this *is* the city.  

Yesterday, it was 93 degrees at 5 pm.  Today, i wore a coat.  It was about 70F.  The sky, bright with sun yesterday, was clouded, hazy and smelled of wildfire smoke.  We went to the field instead of the dog park.  On a Saturday night, no one is playing rugby, and I wanted to be able to breathe.  The dust in the dog park is horrible and needs the rains to settle.  I'm not sure I can wait.

My summer started two weeks ago when Dottie and I first went kayaking.  It's been a cold summer, and I didn't want to risk her tipping the kayak until the lake was warm. In past summers, I've started swimming in May and took my last, stolen, lovely swim on a sunny day in October.  Somehow the water is less cold if the sun is out.  This summer, I am less brave, and have only gone swimming once.

I'm not strong any more.  I make no progress, and swim in place, the kayak attached to me by a dog leash, while my Not-Lab stands on the boat and watches me glory in the wet.  She thinks I'm nuts, but I do provide kibble and an occasional piece of grilled salmon skin.  She waits.

I no longer write poetry. I do not call myself a writer now. But sometimes, when the leaves smell that woodsy, sweet dry smell, and the memory of the lake is still fresh on my skin; sometimes, when I haven't worn more than shorts and a tank top in days, because the heat is making memories for the rainy months; sometimes, I still put words together to please myself.  Can one be a poet without being a writer?  Perhaps.  Sometimes. 

I'm Homeless, not Dangerous!

This was written as a response to a conversation on a local social media site. 

I also have been homeless, living in my car.  Several times.  Several times, I was also employed, the most recent time as a computer tech.  (Still didn't cover rents in Seattle).  I am not a drug addict; I get drunk on the cheese fondue, for cripes' sake. My mental illness is an anxiety disorder; well controlled now that I have a roof over my head.  I am completely harmless and often spent my spare time at the library listening to Broadway show tunes.  

If you-all want to *help* homeless folks, please start treating them like you would any other person you meet.  I met many homeless folks while I was living in my truck.  The worst thing any of them ever did to me was run a noisy generator near my car because they apparently didn't like my parking there. The guys sharing a wine bottle or playing chess might catcall or make insulting comments, but when they found out I lived in my truck, they were usually caring, intelligent, and kind.  

Folks with homes and money did much worse to me on a regular basis, including abusing my cat to get back at me for parking an empty car in a middle class neighborhood during the day (in an area that couldn't have interfered with anyone's parking needs).

I know of one group of homeless guys who watched out for a woman who stood on the street corner and ranted; she was probably schizophrenic.  "We watch out for her," one guy told me. "There's a guy with a shop who doesn't care if she sleeps in his doorway. The church let her live in a house they have, but she's usually too paranoid to use it. She has it if she wants to be inside."

As long as we continue to criminalize not having a place to live, as long as we assume that everyone who doesn't have a home is dangerous, as long as we react in unwarranted fear, we are making it much harder for us all to survive what's around the next corner.  Assuming you will never end up in your car, or worse, is completely unrealistic in this economy.  

I suggest you *ask* people if they want help, and ask *what* kind of help they want. Shelters are not nice places, and many folks prefer their car or even the streets. 

Donate regularly to an agency that helps people out.  Buy the "Real Change" (and then read it; it's a great newspaper). Offer to buy a panhandler a sandwich or a soft drink of their choice. Bum a cigarette and *talk* to them.  Listen to their story instead of assuming you know who they are.  Offer them that paperback book you were going to jettison. Give them a quart of oil, a gift card to Jiffy Lube, or a gas can and 5 gallons of gas if you aren't comfortable giving cash.

Also, please keep in mind that the average wait for an apartment via various low-income housing agencies is at least two years - and that is if one is disabled. It can take much longer in some situations.  

Maybe just smile and wave and say hello, like you would any other neighbor.  If we're wise, we realize we are all in this together.

Finding My Inner Jock

I've never been a jock. Far from it. I was the last kid chosen in elementary school games. I never once won a Field Day ribbon. I've always been uncoordinated and I hated every minute of every PE class I ever had to take. 

But today, I think I got a glimmer of my inner jock. I have not only found a form of exercise that I come back to several times a week, I am seeing significant increases in my strength and stamina. Since this comes in the same year that my back has given me one problem after another, severely limiting mobility and exercise, it is doubly thrilling to me.

Last spring, a local non-profit organization gave me a scholarship to take a beginning sailing class, something I've always wanted to do. As it happened, I was dealing with significant pain during the 6-session class, and also had quite a bit of anxiety about tipping the boat over, a worry I'm still struggling with. I wasn't quite ready to give up at the end of the class, but with no sailing partners in sight, I was never able to go back to it.

Not long after the class ended, a cortisone shot relieved the neck pain I was feeling. The sailing venue also keeps paddle boards and kayaks around for their more casual customers. A friend was taking an advanced kayaking class at the same beach, and I had enjoyed kayaking in the past. I made a deal with my friend to meet her there on her class day, so I'd have motivation to show up. 

The weather was hot, the lake was there, and thanks to their generous policies for disabled folks, I paid $25 for a season pass. Within days, I was motivating myself, and had taken to sitting on a paddle board with my feet in the water to cool off. It was hot out, Seattle-style – 85°F! I started out paddling up the lake to a beach roughly 1/2 mile away, and was quite thrilled to make it there and back the first time I tried.

At the time, I couldn't carry a kayak by myself, couldn't stand up after paddling without the help of the paddle and significant struggle, and that trip up to the beach and back was quite enough for one evening. I was hooked, though, and I kept going back.

My neck quit acting up after the shot and some PT. Then my hip started making it so painful to walk that my mile-long dog walks changed from several times a week to non-existent. Stevie and I had to make do with a few short walks daily. PT helped my hip to some extent, and we are walking to the dog beach once or twice a week now. Now my lower back is unhappy.

However, my physical therapist and I realized that the kayaking was helping my back and my general well being immensely, so I kept it up, happy to have something physical to do that didn't result in more muscle spasms or pinched nerves. Slowly, I started carrying first the light-weight paddle boards back to the rack, and sometimes lugging the kayak one way, even though it was a struggle. I discovered that jumping off the paddle board into deep water both helped whatever parts hurt (the buoyancy of water is a great gift!) and also avoided the issue of trying to stand up after kayaking. I couldn't begin to right a turtled sailboat or climb back into one during the class, but I started practicing climbing back on the flat paddle boards, a much easier proposition.

I've had a great summer, with the highlight being the trips to the lake to paddle whatever craft I chose that day. A couple of weeks ago, I saw myself in the mirror sans tee-shirt and realized that for the first time in years, I had arm muscles. Big arm muscles! The first inklings of jock-ability crept in!

My paddles got longer, because going to that nearby beach and back wasn't enough any more. What used to be an hour-long trip now takes me about 35 minutes. One calm day, I even made it across the lake. A week later, I paddled to the beach and back in 17 knot gusts. Bragging about that impressed even my highly experienced, energizer-bunny kayaking friend!

My confidence in my ability to do things I wouldn't have tried at the beginning of the summer has increased. I haven't yet climbed back into the kayak by myself, but I think I could with the help of a paddle float. Having confidence about a physical skill is such a rush!

Today, I carried the kayak to the water and realized that it was fairly easy to do, not a major struggle. I paddled to the beach, and thought I might take it easy, because my arms felt a little sore. By the time I was ready to start back, the wind had picked up, and I felt ready to do my usual longer paddle. I realized I was paddling at a pretty good clip, and that it had become an aerobic exercise. When I got back to the put-in, for the first time, I stood up without using the paddle as a crutch! And although it was hard, I carried the kayak back to the rack and put it away.

I had to beg an ice cream from the dockmaster (I didn't have my usual $1, so I'll pay her later), but boy, oh boy, am I psyched. I think I might be a little bit of a jock after all. Now all I have to do is figure out how to keep paddling through the winter!

Woman and Dog

Several months ago, one of the fixtures of the early am dog park crowd lost her 4 year old German Shepherd (GSD) very suddenly to cancer. Barleycorn* was a puppy mill dog, so disturbed that all she could do was pace in circles. Inga is 70ish, walks slowly with a cane and probably has emphysema.  She has been rescuing and training GSDs for 50 years.

She trained Barleycorn to be her service dog and one would never have
known the dog's history from the way she blossomed and took care of
Inga.

When Barleycorn died, Inga, a strong, proud and stubborn woman, stopped coming to the dog park and, last I heard, broke off contact with most of her dog park friends.

Today, I stopped by the park late morning, and recognized Inga's car,
thanks to the "Well-behaved women seldom make history" bumper
sticker. (Did I mention I like and respect this woman?)

She was just coming up the walk, reaching for every breath and accompanied by Daniel, a black and tan, 5 month old GSD pup. He gave me a shy kiss, but made it clear that Inga is his charge and his person.

Daniel has big feet to fill, following after Barleycorn, but he is doing
his very best. The cycle of woman and dog being very good for each
other begins again.

*names changed for privacy

A tinge of rose, a tinge of hope

2013 dawned clear and cold, sunny and rosy, frosty and chill. We went to the park by the lake and walked along the shore. Scraping the car went easily, and the defroster was just starting to clear the windshield when we pulled into the parking lot.

Sun lit the bits of fog floating above the steamy lake. The light was pink, and a sailboat etched in the haze was a solitary figure floating on reflective liquid silver. I wished for my camera, but will have to make the words paint the pictures this morning.

The Cascades were sharp silhouettes against the blue. Although they are white with snow this time of year, they were dark shadows this morning, jagged and distant.

The pink light of sunrise played off the mist and the cold. A single paddle-boarder (dressed Seattle-style in hat, coat, shorts and flip-flops) appeared out of the cloud, a distant figure prompting me to comment that only a guy would be dumb enough to be out there in this freeze.

But Seattle is Seattle, and January 1 is January 1. The recent addition of a line of Porta-potties herald the event of the day, the noon-time Polar Bear swim, with a new “Polar Bear Club” right beforehand, “a special time just before the "Polar Bears" for younger folks or people needing a little more room.”

A young man and a rosy-cheeked woman threw a stick for their Aussie, the remnants of an early breakfast on a nearby picnic table. The Mallards gathered near the shore, the water shiny and reflective, a tinge of fuchsia above the silver. A fat squirrel, probably triple his summer weight, streaks across the frosty grass towards the line of trees still showing green, Camellias, a tall Madrona, and the red-barked cedars.

Finding it within his awkward silhouette to soar, a merganser lazed through the mist, and 2013 dawned clear and cold. Obama won major concessions last night – he seems tougher and more resolute, if that is possible – in this second term. The future seems more rosy than a year ago, a tinge of hope above the gray.