misplaced mama

(Magical Hallow’s Eve to all!  Today and tomorrow are my favorite 2 days of the year.  I am happily enjoying them with My Sparkly Unicorn and my Winter Fairy Princess.  I am a hawk.  I look forward to posting the present, but as of yet, no time to write.  So here is more of the very recent past.  We’re almost caught up.  And as soon as I am in a home, I will be back on track.) 

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We pull into Arcata, CA.  Victorians and craftsman homes decorate the hilly streets of this redwood meets coast community, where Humboldt State University and about 30,000 absolute bohemians nestle in this oasis of green.

We enter downtown where we have reservations as Arcata hotel, a historic lodging on the city square, and we get caught up in the homecoming parade.  I can plainly see the difference in the high school kids here versus where I cam from (and probably from where most people live), from the cheerleaders to the volleyball team to the football players; these kids had a live wire of eccentricity.  They have a chilled out quality; maybe I can see a fierce sense of uniqueness and independence, nobody looking alike or following shopping mall trends.  Perhaps it has rubbed off from their parents, or maybe just living in a place where quality of life means outdoors and the activism; from environmental to social.  The air is a bit mysterious all the same and it could be I am just looking through a fog of herbal haze, once again; Arcata is like city-center of a marijuana growing rural community. There is not denying or ignoring it.  Agriculture is the life here and the main crop is what some call Sensi.

As we park the truck, we see a few men in their 40’s sitting on the curb, in plain day, pulling bong hits. They are dressed in casual, high-end earthy yet professional clothes.  It looks as if they are on their lunch break.  This type of thing occurs throughout our 24 hour period here I am told by my Arcata sources.  It’s almost unbelievable.  Apparently you have to be caught with more than 50 plants for any legal action to take place.  And smoking in public does not seem to bother anyone, including the police who casually stroll the town square, smiling, giving us directions to the coolest outdoor playground ever (they had real climbing walls for kids).  I know this public display of highness would really bother some people, especially ones who really think marijuana is more detrimental than consuming alcohol or prescription drugs (other forms of self-medication).  They wouldn’t want their kids to see it or have to explain what that ‘smell’ was. But we have no cares about that.  I spent the last three years with my kids watching unconscious city development, land raping, building strip malls of box stores and useless suburban track housing.  What’s worse?  Explaining to them what kind of “herbs’  people were smoking or living in a place where throwing cigarette butts or fast food wrappers out their car windows as red lights is the norm?  And although I don’t partake in their street corner joint passing, there is a freedom to being part of it as an observer, peeking into lifestyles so vastly and openly different from what I just lived.  To watch this rebellion at work, to know it exists, thrills me.  Overall, it’s not about what they are doing but the essence of people doing what they believe in; what feels right to them.  It’s a wonderful to express how diverse we all are and be exepted.  I hold no judgments on how anybody lives.  Rather I am exillerated by the differences we all hold on to (or let go of).

We wander around in the rain all day, eating local pizza (whole wheat and organic, mine smothered in basil and spinach and sun dried tomatoes) and drinking local brew both of which were fantastic. I stop in the local herb store and buy some bath salts mixed with herbs. There are a ton of ‘street people’ begging on the streets here.  For a 30,000 person town, it’s almost outrageous the number of beggers.  Although they aren’t the cracked out on Meth kind, they seem to just be stoned out old hippies, and they seemed relatively harmless.  I am told by my sources they are harmless, just living the same life as vegabonds as they did 30 years ago.

 At night we dine on fresh sushi from the sushi bar in the lobby of our hotel.  B downs about 30 pounds of raw fish, 3 oyster shooters, 2 sake bombers and 3 bottles of Asahi.  Mia eats 3 pieces of yellowtail and 4 pieces of salmon sushi. The fish is so fresh, straight from the sea. The place is packed and festive, kids run around and nobody cares or tries to ‘shush’ them. It is obvious this is a community that honors the presence of their youth, undisturbed by the shouts and laugher and cries of kids.  It is so refreshing.  By 10pm at night the city center is vibrant with people; long haired, dreaded, styled and chic. All types dwell in this place.  I smiled at the mix of people who smell like the forest and sea and those who were obviously into cleansing with soap and wearing stylish couture.  All the same, they laughed together, strolled around town arm and arm and dropped dollars in the jar of the dirty barefoot dreaded kid who played the guitar at the corner.

We took the girls up to bed and I took a bath in the claw foot tub with new herbs and salts I picked up at the local apothecary that day.  B went for a walk, no doubt to try out the public displays of burning the local crops.  His mentality was when in Rome…  He came back to our room, the girls asleep and me nice and clean and cozy in bed.  He handed me one of the most delicious butter cream cupcake I had ever had.  It was covered in shaved white chocolate and sprinkles, pure velvety decadence.  He apparently stumbled into a bakery and espresso joint that stays open until 11pm. I devoured it and then passed out hard on the bed, listening to pellets of rain pound against the windows of the 200 year old building thinking I was in heaven.

The next day I went back to the herb store and felt inspired.  I used to be a daily taker of herbal infusions; making teas, salves, poultices.  Somehow along the way I stopped, but hitting this green and watery landscape has created a shift in me, I can’t help but be seduced by herbs and their magic and this land has awakened the herbalist in me.  I bought bulk Nettle and Oatstraw.  I knew both of these would help my varicosity issues if I made really strong infusions of them. Both are also extremely nourishing in general while pregnant (or not). I also bought senna leaf, fennel seeds, cinnamon bark, flax seeds, slipper elm and licorice root to make a brew for a gentle pregnancy cleanse.  Sitting in the car without my own bathroom has been hard on the colon.  Lastly I bought a big bag of yarrow to make a poultice with, that mixed with a castor oil pack should relieve some of the swelling of the veins.  Herbal lore is in my roots; it’s sensual and powerful and feel connected something greater within when I make magic with green remedies.

As we left the little city of Arcata we stopped at the co-op for some outrageously sweet beet and carrot juice, fresh squeezed and then I had to jump out of the truck and run into the cutest little second hand kids shop where I bought a few pair of Baby legs, (a small obsession I have is legwarmers for both my kids and myself) and some raincoats for less than 4 bucks.  When I told the mama-owner we were on our way to Bellingham to live she sighed, You are gonna love it there.  It’s more special than here.

Can it be true?  I look forward to the rest of my journey on the road, but I know the real adventure begins when I start a new chapter in our new city.

We’ve crossed the threshold.  Somewhere north of San Francisco the rain started to fall and it hasn’t stopped.

We camped about 10 miles north of Wileta, CA, Ganga-country, on the cusp of Humboldt County–where marijuana is The Crop, hidden deep inside these redwood forests, cultivated and harvested.  I can feel its powerful presence and I wonder what it’s like to live in a place where most people see this plant as a plant, not a drug, but a versatile and sustainable crop. I think almost every person we have seen walking around has had a massive set of dreads, a shaved head or long crazy curls.  No straightening irons in this country.  From 18 years old to 60, people were just wild by sight and in heart, which has made us look clean cut and conservative even in our stinky camping attire. The camp we slept at was managed by a couple of helpful and lovely women who may very well have overcharged us 13 dollars for the site, but we didn’t mind.  We rolled in around 10pm and I think we may have interrupted some serious intimacy between them when we knocked on their RV door, so we were happy to pay a little extra.  At least someone is getting something, B mentions.  Not easy to get it on in a camper an arms length from your little ones.  And something about Humboldt Co., the scent in the air, the mystical herb, the layer of rain and fog, makes ya wanna just get it on.  Perhaps that’s why I see litters of kids, dready little kids in tie-dyes running around everywhere. 

***

The pounding rain on the fiberglass shell of the camper kept me up all night.  Not in a bad way, instead it lulled me into rhythmic trance where I would catch moments of deep and heavy sleep, but only for moments, the rest of the time I was lucid, but not completely rational.  I’d sit up in bed, startled after sleep would allow the noise to come back in to me, my eyes would pop open and I was coherent enough not to sit up and smack my head on the ceiling of the camper, but I was still in a state where the pitter patter of the rain was not rain but had to be little creatures running across the top.  At first thousands of little fairies scattered about the top of the camper trying to catch a glimpse of the girls through the windows, giggling and sneaky, I could feel myself get pulled into their world and I would pull back.  I’d have to  blink my eyes, tight, letting them adjust to the pitch black, and realize it was just rain tapping above me.  I’d go deep, then the same cycle would happen again, over and over all night until the color of morning made its way through our curtained windows.

Somewhere in the darkness, between sorta sleep and no sleep,  I felt drops of water fall on my forehead.  A small leak perhaps in the roof, but most likely condensation  because it wasn’t consistent.  It felt good to have the rain hit me like that, in my half-awake state.  The camper gets hot, muggy almost during the night, we all seem to kick off our covers and the girls wake up stripped down to their panties/diaper by morning.  The clean cool of the rain wiped any of that warm discomfort away and I welcomed the occasional drip-drops on my face.  It was a reminder for me that I am now entering the rain forest of the West.  I have indeed crossed over. 

And with all this rain, we are getting dirty.  Filthy.  Muddy.  The dogs are knee deep in mud and their white and black coats, so clean from the sea, are now crunched with mud.  The perfection of their coat sheds the brown away within an hour, but during that time they create a mess.  Our floor is a slippery and wet, scattered with mud plops. The bottom of my pants are soaked through and dragging. The soles of my shoes caked with mud.  But we could care less. I have these rockin’ boots; black and white polka dot, sexy-ass rain boots.  It’s brilliant to feel this clean and this dirty all at once, a perfect balance to my dual nature.  I don’t care of my hair is nappy and not washed for days, as a matter of fact, I like it better like that. But I absolutely cannot stand dry dirty feet, dirty feet are the worst, and my boots and thick wool socks leave me with soft, clean feet every night.  This kind of dirty, the cool, damp, sea, rain, cloud, muddy kind…is sexy.  Dirty is good.

King Tubby’s Dread Satta Version echos and drips, melts and reverbs through the air as we drive up past Klamath, CA, through the majestic Redwood Forest.  We travel through a tunnel of age old trees, protruding with knobs and twists and eyes that seem to follow us as we look through our foggy windows.  They are covered in moss dripping with greens, fuzzy branches, soft enough to cuddle even the weariest traveler, while the laser beams of sunlight pierce beyond the any mortal visions. The road winds and ascends to a mountain pass and with a glance to the right it almost seems like my eyes are playing a trick on me.  But I am not mistaken.  Some of the largest waves I have ever seen crash only feet from our cruising truck.  I have met my match.  Ocean meets mountains.  There truly is nothing in between these land mass formations and the foam gray of the sea.

How could anyone ever think that this land is all in jest, it is here to use and manipulate, consume and tap its resources because this is just temporary, just a place before a heaven, before some kind of manifestation of a bullshit Armageddon?  The earth is not a bank; She is not an instant teller where we can subtract from her account.  We are in Her debt, there is no doubt and we owe big.  Our relationship with this land should be symbiotic but my heart cries to me that we are not.  We are takers.  I long to see us all take care of, making that shift in consciousness is my hunger, my craving.  We have gotten to a point in this particular culture, this western United Statian culture of excess, where we have so much we are bored and lazy and even if we don’t necessarily rape the land ourselves (personally), what are we doing to take care of ? I don’t pull my pants down and shit a perverbial crap on the Earth, but what do I do to take care of, deeply and actively?  I climb down my Ladder of Green and realize not a whole hell of a lot. Alice Walker once said something about how the Earth does not pick and choose those who love her and those who don’t. She doesn’t care.  No.  She’ll cleanse us of all in the long run.   I think that if and when we start to take care of each other, as humans on a deep heart level, then without even thinking about it, we will take care of our ripe and lush home.  Or vice versa.  Maybe even at the same time, all at once.  I do have hope.  My eyes have been seeing things a bit fuzzy these days.  That can only mean a good change is right around the bend.

***

I chose to get married in the forest.  There is something so protective and surreal about it, enclosed and captivated, I almost feel other-worldly, utterly untouchable when I step down into springy earth.  And now to have the ocean crash against the edge of the rocky land while I get lost in the forest realm, almost like it captures me and won’t let me go. Sometimes I think I can get stolen forever in this dark and cave-like womb of green and brown.  Dragonflies the size of birds wiz by me.  Time becomes non-linear.

The girls wear little leather pouches around their necks, bought at some tourist spot or 2 bucks.  Inside each of the hold a special stone the found on the banks of the Klamath River, the place were we slept last night.  The finger their bags, happily and a bit anxiously.  I don’t think they are yet sure what is up ahead for them on the road.  As Sula said to me the other day, “What IS Washington?”

Next stop: Oregon, just a bit up the road.  Three nights there; 2 camping the coast and 1 in Portland. California, as usual, has been good to us.  Watching the coast evolve from The Beach to The Shore to The Cliffs, what a diverse and amazing state.  If you have never driven up the Left Coast, do it. Do it.  Do it.  I love to travel and will cross the oceans and explore land around the globe, but there is nothing quite like following the merging of where the ocean meets the land and mountains.  I mean, I look to the left now and I realize that the next piece of land is probably like China.  I am on the edge of the earth and the next stop is China.  It makes me tingle all over.

(no wifi at all in the past 10 days.  but we have arrived in bellingham!  more on that after some posts from the journey…)

When you drive into the area around the coast called Big Sur, you practically wet your pants.  You begin to truly exists on the edge of the world, taking hairpin turns on roads with 1000 foot drop offs, never once really looking where you are going.  You are to busy being memerized by the view of our placid ocean and our wild rocks and the ever- passionate relationship they have together. 

We slept under this bridge, part of the US 1.  Seems crazy but it was awesome.  We were literally steps from the sands, at Limekiln State Park.     

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The diversity of this camp spot/park is unreal.  From rocky shore to deep and mossy redwood, to ranging falls and sweet little streams.  Yellow banana slugs and furry black spiders.

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We played on the shore and in the forest for 2 days straight, in and out went the sun and the sprinkles of rain, but the temperature stayed mild and friendly.  Mia ran with the fairies, no fear, coming close to drop offs into the river.  She freaks me out with her ability to let go of any body boundaries and fly through these woods with no worries of what comes afer each step.  Sula on the other hand stayed close by, cautioius yet interested.  

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At one point, B says, ‘jump on that stump and undress.  let’s get a photo of you."  Granted, it wasn’t the busiest place on earth but there were definitely other campers around.  So an impromptu photo of my naked top half happened on top of at least an 800 year old redwood stump.  Because we were in a rush, no focusing occured, but I still like it.  

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 We let Mia snap for a bit…

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Limkiln is truly an awesome way to experience Big Sur Magic, one of the only legal beachside camping.  It used to be a free-love hippy compound back in the 1960’s and you can feel the unhindered love of the land.  Fer sure.

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With a picnic lunch of brie, bagette, fresh fruit and salami (from a kick ass deli in Shell Beach which pregnancy mind has erased the name) we stopped in Morro Bay to snack and find Moonstone Beach.  I think we found Moonstone Beach, but apparently the moonstones were a hot commodity and they’ve all been snatched up.

Enter Morro Bay.

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Steps down to Moonstone Beach. 

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Mia found this "sea noddle" and dragged it around for 15 minutes like it was a pet, running with it and leaping over it.  

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Sula just kicked it in the sand, talking to herself and to who knows else, totally enthralled with fingering the sand and laying back in it, letting the sun warm her brown face.  Everyday she grows into this girl, further from my baby and closer to a person I am just so thankful to spend time with.  Curious.  Patient.  Strong.  Playful.

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I am getting big.  I feel huge.  Massive.  Baby rolls and turns and flips in me on schedule right before the sun rises and again while I lie in bed trying to go to sleep.  All day, baby chills out and sleeps, or maybe just listens for it’s families laughs and squeals and stories; quiet and enthralled with us.  My skin stretches; tightening and changing colors. My ass jiggles and my thighs now touch.  But let me just say that there is nothing like being pregnant spending everyday letting the salty air clean my soul. Although I haven’t officially showered with soap in 4 days, I feel cleaner than I have felt in years.  My hair is getting some bounce back, wavy and springing up and down. The dried ends seem to have repaired and my cracked feet have been pumiced by sand.  So different is the sand here from the desert town I just left, there it is old and fine, dust-like.  In Zion is was thick, like powder, perfect for making face-masks with.  In southern Cali its your typical beach sand, but here, as we head on up, it becomes more like small, bit size stones, and when examined closely, the hold every color of the rainbow in their granules.

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 These trees grow all over the coast.  They are whimsical and silly, yet so serious and zen.  A fairy meets satori.

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Mile 1060.  M.I.A. blaring on the stereo (must check her out of you like to dance).  The pacific ocean slaps the sand to my left.  Rugged mountains explode to my right.  Heaven.  Right here.  Nowhere else.  Nobody can convince me there is a better place anywhere, anytime than this moment on earth.

We just got done camping at Rufugio State Beach, somewhere close to Santa Barbara (note: amazing campground, request Spot 63 for maximum wave sounds at night).  We pulled in last night, fixed the stroller, and then pushed the girls down the 3 mile path from Ruferio to El Capitan which is 3 miles of pure bliss cliffs dropping down to pristine and undeveloped coast.  We climbed down at one point, when the cliffs turned to just rock and we were sure we wouldn’t die on the climb, and took some photos before the sunset (and my camera battery died).

Mia is a child who is hard to sustain any kind of focus.  Granted, she is just four years old and what four year old has focus.  But I can see the difference between her and Sula.  Sula will sit for periods of time and just be, play, listen, follow along.  It’s easier for Sula.  It takes Mia great work to just sit still and focus, she is too occupied with seeing from the eyes on the back of her head. But here, where land meets water, Mia is captivated.  She has no wants or whines or needs.  She only has her wool hat, which she uses as a bundle and collects rocks and shells.  She has only her stick of driftwood which she carves shapes and forms and letters in the sand.  She has only her bare feet and the squeal of her voice as the foamy ocean hits her skin.  Her face is lifted, her eyes shine.  The sadness I saw in her eyes the month before we left was real.  She felt the stress of transition.  And now, she is unleashed.  Her power is grand and her imagination limitless.  She runs and leaps and lives in a world I love to watch.

For the past 2 mornings we rose from bed a stones throw from the ocean.  It’s impossible for me to carry any stress or weight when the first thing I see is the sand and the vastness of water that seems endless and infinite.  To imagine that some people get to see this everyday upon waking.  I only hope all the people who wake with windows looking out at this view wake up in light, happiness, gratitude.  They are lucky folks.

Since my life the last few months seemed to be one bump of exhaustion after another, it’s so hard to believe that I am actually driving this trip.  The girls so content in the backseat.  So happy to have a little 7x8 foot camper to call home.  We are all completely thriving.  Even the little facts that we still have not secured a rental home (we’ve been trying) or a midwife (not trying to hard because I gotta see her face to face) have not gotten me to stress in the least bit.  It’s like we somehow mastered the Law of Time and Harmonics and everything is just falling into place.  I don’t want to speak too soon, but the timing with closing the house and leaving has left us with a trail of the most perfect weather.  Ranging from 90 degrees in Zion, to beautiful 65-80 degree days at the beach in southern California, I can’t complain.

I woke up this morning and jumped in the ocean instead of taking a shower at the camp.  It wasn’t warm (brrrrrrr), but the baby demanded that I do it and I’m glad I did.  The cool and salty water cleansed me, deeper than skin.  My dry and brittle desert hair, pumped up fill of minerals and curls are now forming.  My desert skin was exfoliated by soft sand and sea.  The sun was warm as I ran out and I sat there and let it dry me off, digging my toes and fingers down deep into the palpable earth.  These will be the last rays of southern cali sun that this growing body will feel for a while.  Like a Rite of Passage, I let go of the Sun God, give honor while my body  sit underneath this light.  I am about to enter into a sphere of mist and fog, when the sun appears, but like the rainstorm in the desert, it comes as a rare and valuable gift.  I think I am ready for this shift.  As a matter of fact, I know I am.  I have gathered more than 20 different soup recipes that call specifically for chilly and rainy days near the northern sea.

We drive for about 3 hours until we land in Big Sur.  I haven’t been there since 1998 when B and I wandered the rocky beaches, pretending we were hiking on the moon.  It’s not such a far fetch.

Los Angeles.  The Brazilian Girls played on the pod as we cruised the 5 Freeway through our old hilly ‘hood.  I remember the first time I saw them play at Spaceland.  When they came on stage and she began singing Pussy, Pussy, Pussy, Marajuana, in that seductive yet impish voice, I knew I could not live without their music (check them out if you like Brazilian-jazz-reggae-soul).  I guess that song sums up my years living in the city of lost angels.  B and I reminiscent about the first time we first ever laid eyes on eachother in B.B.’s apartment she was our herbal service provider/magical people coordinator.  We never even exchanged names that scortching hot Hollywood day, but I could tell you what he was wearing and he could tell you what I had on.  We just happened to be there at the same time and had a brief conversation, which in it’s shortness somehow led to the oppressive state of marriage and how it promoted the ownership of another person and how we would never get married.  We laughed, 10 years later.  Were we fools then or now?   As we cruised this familiar ground, we chatted about how the next time we ‘met’ I was naked at the beach and he was carrying a bag of fish and a spear out of the water and we fell in love.  And of course as we passed through Hollywood, how could we forget our ‘first date’ when I showed up in my Ford Focus wagon to take him to a laid back pub to play some pool and as he climbed into my car I said, oh by the way, I just took a hit of mescaline.  He said at the moment he knew I was totally insane.  How I kept him close I’ll never know.  And as we passed by our last apartment there, we pulled Mia close and told her he story, for the tenth time, about how she was born right inside that window, on our bed.  We have such history here and somehow it will always be our home in some way love/hate way.  We came to L.A. as wild babies, longing for meaning and epiphanies and spiritual growth.  Hoping to expode in creativity and find love. And some where through all the valleys and hills, this city brought us together and we grew up, and in and out and all over.

The next day we had a gathering at a beach in Point Magu with a bunch of L.A. family. We set up shop about 100 feet from the ocean and sat around the fire until much too late.  They drank rum and beer and until they swayed and I ate toasted marshmallows until I almost puked.  My family in L.A. is always good for grounding around a fire. We’ll never stop dreaming while we watch the flames dance.  From early 1997 the fire and beach has been the setting where our friendships grew into family status. Each one of them were pillars of support for us on this journey.  Most of them are nomads as well. They get this need for us to fly in their gut. I see only glimpses of them here and there, like stars in the sky, they are bits of blinding light that follow me everywhere, especially when I need to close my eyes and look within my heart to see.  We made a promise to each other no matter where we wander, to carry the seed we all share so deep; love.  It’s hard to even describe who these people are and only when you hug their flesh can the intensity be understood. To be with them all before we headed up the coast to our new home, meant the world to us. 

(just starting the campfire circle)

I think we know that all there is to do in this love is to love hard, love hard every singe moment we are alive. This is what Amy tells me within an hour of her arrival. These are words that stick to my ribs like a marinated meat.

(amy and me)

**

 (very best friends)

Mia and Ivy got to run loose on the beach all day and all night and all of the next morning. Those 2 are like the wind, airy and spacey and looking for a good time.  Sula was a bit bent out of shape to share her sister so intensely with another.  Althought she loves her some Ivy, we often heard, no Ivy, you cannot have that stick.  That’s Sula’s stick.  No Ivy, you cannot have that hat, that’s Sula’s hat.  No Ivy, you cannot have Mia, she MY sister. 

We are so blessed to have Ivy and her family in our lives, though it’s bittersweet not to have them as neighbors. But perhaps the girls love eachother so and play forever without even a whine or a fight because they don’t see eachother every day.  Ivy’s mama has been my  bestgirlsince I was 11.  I see so much of us in our daughters, carrying on our love and dire need to explore and be free.  Leigh Ann and I are always at ease, no need to talk or figure things out.  We just walk side by side and take in the views together.  Being doing that for over 20 years. Right now i get to take in the view of her and her baby boy, Thor, soaking in some newer life love.

(loving thor)

The weather was gray and misty, not cold, but not warm either.  It was not the desert and that’s all I needed.  Thus begins our travels up the coast, the US 1 the whole way up.  I can barely stand the excitment.  So far everything is going perfect.  Even the piss bucket isn’t bothering me or the collection of sand in the bunk bed of the camper, or the fact that every night we wind up with with 4 bodies in our bunk when the rule was mama and dada in their bed, Mia and Sula in their own bed.  The dogs couldn’t be happier, cleaner and smell better. Is this what vacation is like?  Shit, I guess I need to take more of them. I finally feeling like me again…new and improved.

(heidi and dr. jim)

(amy and super-hero berto)

(part of campaign sign for libertarian dude).

Next stop: Refugio State Beach and then Big Sur. 

Entering Zion.

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The imprints and the spirals and the graph-like squares that adorn the sides of the tight canyon are as miraculous as a human fingerprint, even more so at that large scale.  At moments I see waves and curves that bring me somewhere to the likes of the Caribbean ocean, or a sea of milk chocolate being churned.  The sky is so blue that it makes the orange almost a Technicolor Day-Glo.  And the yellow aspens are as vibrant as lemons.  The light is so clear, so clear. My favorite astrologer Rob Bresney (freewillastrology.com) told me that in the coming weeks I will be communing with nature in ways I have never done before.  I contemplated that for a while.  How could I?  Now the question does not apply.  Again, to be this clear and free, it’s not for me to commune, but to listen.  Nature herself is doing all the rest.

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Wow.  I am just blown away.  I have been in a city for way too long.

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Zion. Named by the first Mormon settlers and translates to a safe and sacred place, a haven or protection.  I’m not always so keen with the Mormons but they picked a perfect name for this land.  Safe like temple, a cave for all of us who need to feel utterly and completely loved. 

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As we walk these canyons I can’t help but feel I am being watched over, looked at, witnessed.  Examined even.  There is this unstoppable urge to explore not only this exterior landscape, but I feel like I am being directed to something less tangible, to go in the interior landscape, inside this Earth, inside myself.  There is no way we are separate and it’s easy to do so.  I easily take the dive.

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Each twist and turn as we elevate and climb, I am overcome with burnt sienna explosions extending out of the brightest color of grass green foliage which includes a variety of plant-life from desert brush to coastal lush. When looking straight ahead and hearing the rush of river water, I could be at a bunch of different places around southern California, or southern Idaho, or even some spots in the greener parts of AZ, but just a quick glance upward and you are taken to another planet.  The formations of these rocks, some of the tallest sandstone cliffs in the entire world…well I have never seen anything like it and I ma not sure I have the vocabulary at this time to describe it. Cathedrals of rainbows, shadows, scoops of dark and light joining in harmony to create echoes for the eyes, never ceasing to stop.  Water seeps out of several faces of the sandstone, soft and porous enough to collect the moisture from snow and rainfall, yet not needy enough to capture it forever. It seeps out, leaking like a filled container, streaming out and forming rivers and waterfalls, emerald pools and mini streams, sandy beaches to roll out and nap on.

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They can trace about 12,000 years back of human history here.  The first people where known as the Virgin Anazazi later to be known as the Puebloans.  The Puebloans, without a trace, disappeared from the area (there is some talk that they suddenly migrated south for unknown reasons as later on the Paiutes claimed to have direct lineage to these Original People of Zion).  But let’s just say they disappeared…somewhat like the Classic Mayan and many other Original Americans.  I used to feel a sick draining of my heart when I think about it; like their life and survival structure collapsed somehow, or was destroyed by some other culture.  But now I feel a bit differently.  I think these people were so close to the rhythm of their ‘external’ living, that they began to erase any duality between their inner and out worlds.  And so they merged as one.

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While driving to Zion I read some personal accounts of “alien” abductions. Snippets of people talking about what their experience was like, most felt as if they were being raped for their emotional capabilities, being poked, prodded and observed.  Each person I read sensed an emotion-less existence from these beings and their longing was to “feel” like we do.  (Interestingly enough, each person also smelled a scent of cinnamon on the skin from these ‘beings’).  These accounts did not sit well with me.  Feeling like indeed there are different life forms which can contact us, but not wanting to believe they come to steal from our mystical DNA, I got freaked.  I was instilled with fear from an unknown source from what I assume is outside myself. And then alternately I read Jung, and his philosophy that “archetypes are primordial psychic pattern of collective unconscious that is at the same time a dynamic agency with intentionality.”   The archetypes loom over a human awaiting their moment to “constellate” in the individual and the collective psyche.  So “aliens’ are just another archetype within the psyche.  They are just another part of me; a part of me which feels unsafe and invaded.

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Thinking about this and then reading Jung:  “not only does the psyche exist, but it is existence itself.”  And then he says, “It is almost an absurd prejudice to suppose that existence can only be physical….We might as well say, on the contrary, that physical existence is a mere interference…” Jung believed that consciousness lived within  in the greater circle of unconsciousness.  And in this great circle there were living creatures of all types, an abundance  beyond anything we can fathom.   All of them part of our unconscious selves.

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And sitting in this grand place, by a rushing river, I wonder.  This is just a part of my psyche, this place, so grand and perfect, pristine and undoubtedly safe and I am not only observing this, I am this observation and it is me. And I wonder, if the Puebloans came to a point of understanding, a complete wholeness, a circle between their environment and themselves; realizing that there needs to be no duality.  Perhaps they did not “leave” this land,  they just finally understood they could become complete within it. 

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I notice more and more the strong structure of faces in each of these rocks.  No doubt is it safe and that I am being watched.  Those are my eyes looking down on me.  I hope to grasp a deeper understanding that this beauty I look at is nothing more than the beauty I am made of, the beauty that I make.

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I understand this obtuse and bizarre.  There is no clear way for me to speak of this yet.  Reading back I sound like I am trippin’ on DMT.  But I promised myself that this travel journal needs to be unedited.  In time, perhaps I can be more concise, clear, interesting.  But for now, this is what comes out of me, and I must accept it.

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We are figuring out the camper thing. I packed too much for the space.  But thus far the stove, oven, fridge and sink all work. Pissing in the composting toilet (aka, a glorified bucket) ain’t much fun, but luckily Zion has public restrooms not far away from our camper.  The piss bucket is good for those late night bladder bursting, since Zion is not a secluded campground, I can’t just squat outside…which I must rather do. Mia casts a fishing pole like a pro, across the river and back for over an hour today.  We watched these incredible jumping spiders while we filled buckets of sand and water and stone, dumped them out and filled them again.  Time just oozed by.  There has been nothing to do, nothing to clean, nothing to fix or prepare for.  We can just sit back and enjoy. 

I’m leaving the desert now. My husband and the girls wave goodbye to the desert growth and the ragged stone mountains and ninety degree temperatures in October. The Upsetters (King Tubby in a Fine Style) play on the Ipod and the sound is smooth and bittersweet. I am munching on the chocolate chip cookies Leigh made us all for the road.

I remember when I first entered the desert almost three and a half years ago. There was this great inner door that got swung wide open. As soon as we crossed over into the vastness, I felt my spirit unlock. Space. Grand, empty space. A blank slate. But on the other hand there was a left-over presence of ancient sea, remnants of salt water still lingered in the air. And I said to myself, to start over. With the little girl slung to my hip, a lover with now short hair, and me in jeans with no tears and the purple die stripped from my hair, we will start over. And thus began a journey of such awakening. Entering a place with two things on our minds: money and security. And now I am leaving today with little of either of those two things and that is okay, because money burns and security can be suffocating. Instead I leave with such love and gratitude and a deep awareness that I have been schooled intensely while living here. I truly leave a better person. Happier, lighter, more authentic, and humbled by the light I have been given by this open desert spirit; she is bronze-skinned, naked except for some suede knee-high boots. She is raw and honest. She has been my goddess guide of the desert, and because of wounds and struggle and painful waiting, she was able to enter in me. The only way she enters is to finally be open and willing to struggle. To be it. To allow other people into it. To befriended the darkness with love.

I leave with the heart prints beautiful people. I will admit, I never thought I could develop such serendipitous friendships as I have here, but I was so very, very wrong. I depart with some of the most profound and healing friendships in my psyche, streaming through my DNA for ever. I was talking to Bill about the kind of person I am. Too gregarious to be an introvert, yet too multi-layered to really let anybody completely in. But I met a few people here who I want to jump in me, to know all of me, to be with me internally and externally forever. These are the people I sit on the porch swing with, age 89, drinking Lynchburg lemonades, and smoking pot from a blown glass bowl. We talk about books and art and grandkids, and how well we are still shitting, and what’s up with sex as old crones. And until that day, we continue to play and explore together, holding red tents and gathering. Watching. Loving. Give thanks to this desert home.

I do not say goodbye well. And so I say Aloha. You all know who you are. ________________________________________________________________________

Damian Jr. Gong Marley blasts on the stereo. I want to pull over and make love to Bill in the worst way right here outside on the side of the road as we cross from desert to juniper, the sky in layers of orange and coral pink and blue. But the girls are still awake. Their faces are covered with chocolate. They sing along in their own version of patois. Everything right now seems perfect and blessed. There is a sense of freedom happening right now between all of us that I have never experienced before. Perhaps the closest I have felt before were those few moments after Sula’s birth, where there was no linear world, only us, and we were everything. That’s what it’s like now. It’s a spell, perfect for the month of October. My favorite month, where my power soars and my confidence is like a mountain. Sula has a witch-like glow to her eyes, she has become older and wiser in the past month, her bangs long and frames her face, she exudes this mystery, and I am in just awe that she came from me. Mia has lost her fears in the last stretch of drive. She has stopped crying and now she stares out the window, mama look at those mountains, those beautiful mountains. She traces her fingers over the glass, outlining the grandness of those ancient formations. We won’t make it to the Grand Canyon tonight. Instead we will sleep somewhere close to the greatest hole in the earth and begin our trek to Zion. I am told I will find true heaven on earth there.

Here is where I woke up this first night. We make oatmeal with vanilla soy milk, raisins and chopped apples fresh from a farm. We sit outside, our skin chilling and tightening, becoming rosy from the new morning sun.

"…And if I may ask a dumb question … did you decide to move for more practical reasons, like a job change, or other reasons? Just curious…"

Now this is a totally normal question.  Not outta place in the least or strangely put.  Just the curiosity of a woman who hasn’t yet met me beyond my writing.  And a good question, I might add.  I read it over and over. Had I ever answered it really?  Beyond my own personal desire to live by the water; against the mountains, inside fresh air, in a small community? No, I hadn’t.  What is the real reason I am moving? Why?

What does she mean? I asked myself that question as her words echoed through my gut and my mind tried to process an answer that seemed to come out looking like a tossed up scrabble board. 

Why? What are my practical reasons for moving? Why do I do this?  Why did I chose to put myself up to the uprooting, where every belonging that gets packed away is fingered and thought of and recorded somewhere in our souls, as an image, a symbol of this life.  This process reminding me more than ever of my mortality and my flaws; the fears and my regrets; the mistakes I have made and the love I have painstakingly given.  Even the joy seems melancholy.  For the first time ever, I pack with true consciousness.  Each symbol I see now has more meaning.  In the past it connected to me and those before me or next to me, but for the first time, they now have history and life with those who came in front of me; my children.  And I mourn for them, for this home and this space, and each of these little things; the photos, the art, the books, the toys, the fabrics, the furniture, the clothes, will never again be seen by them arranged in this home.  Soon it  will be just a memory, a flash of place; light floors and smudged windows and splashes of color we all gathered and displayed. Will now remain only a smell of the healing desert in the autumn after a very long and flaming summer?  Will their memories get weaker in time, fuzzy and jumbled and become completely abstract? Will they become a song? Something that’s been played over and over while we packed and humped boxes around?  Will time eventually turn them from memory to just another tool, like a fabric from  their intuition?  Where they then become part of non-visual map that will guide them from place to decision all on their own someday?

This is hard.  Harder than I thought.  I catch myself in tears as I walk through a hollowed out living room.  The stereo sits on the living floor, acting as our only remaining piece of furniture.  It’s surrounded by Mitzy the Cat, some plastic rings that come from Mia’s Pretty Pretty Princess game, a sock monkey, a duffle bag, a pair of crocs, the vacuum, one of my dogs, lots of dirt and my soon to be homeless plants. It is just barely my house.  If I squint I can see what used to be there just yesterday.  I curse as I open a cupboard to sprinkle salt on my flatbread with heirloom tomato sandwich and there is no salt, the shelf is bare, packed away.  I gave birth right were I sit as I type, instead of moaning the sounds of MMMMAAAAA in a tub while a baby comes out, I am now on outdoor chairs, one under my ass and one under my feet to ease the lower back that stress threw and take pressure off the varicosities that still pulse in my “down there” regions.  I am waiting to birth again, but it won’t be here. I feel oddly empty when I hear the echo of B’s heavy boots coming down the hall. I get a bit sick when I see the built-inn bookshelves my husband deigned and made with his hands; basically empty, filled with left-over scraps of life.  To keep, to toss, to share; that remains their question.

When I didn’t have kids I just threw all my shit in a box, or gave it away to friends and never thought of them again, except for a moment here or there whatever did happen to those burgundy cords? Or those black suede gloves? Or that little fairy statue that held the crystal? Where the fuck did that really cozy purple velvet duvet go, the one that was always covered in white dog hair?  I had little attachment to any of my things.  But now my things have given memory to my children.  My things are their things; a part of their life.  They are barely things anymore, they just are. It seems sad, very, very sad for some reason.  I ask myself that question, why, in a different context now.  I ask myself like I am accusing myself of doing something very wrong.  With the emotional and physical demands of moving, I wonder why I would do this to my, my lover, my babies? It is a cleansing that is needed, but a cleansing with salt-water on life-long skin abrasions, no less.

And at the same time this type of sadness and self-judgment are not permanent. It is me testing my limits, allowing myself to really feel loss and dare myself to question my choices.  I know in time, as I get closer to Zion Park for our first camping stop, the sadness will begin to peel away along with my protective skin, ideal for the desert, but now skin I must shed. Or perhaps it may just take the whole way to the ocean, the bubbly autumn sea waters, rapidly cooling as each passing night becomes dawn.  The water will wash it away; the salt scouring and scrubbing away what once was but now not needed.  I just know somewhere, not far off as all, it will fade away, blur into white zap and be gone.  Just like that.  I don’t hold this sadness too close.  Just close enough.

Why are we moving?  The only practical reasons I can think of is one particular school in Bellingham I can really feel myself sending Mia.  Mind you this happens to be a school I have never physically visited and I don’t know one child that actually attends there. I just get a very real and good feeling about it.  The fact that they let you make up your child’s own schooling schedule from pre-school until eighth grade won me over. They are not against academics at an early age; they just prefer to teach them through outdoor exploration instead of by book and by desk.  And I guess another reason might be that the work my husband does is much more understood and practiced (sustainable building and development) in that part of the country.  And I have exactly six friends there; 2 of whom I never met.

I am not sure if any of those constitutes practical.

As for the others reasons I am moving?

I am thinking; I am deeply listening to myself to hear this answer. I sit and listen and wait. And after I get passed that “I must be a horrible mother to drag my kid out of there home and force change upon them”, I soften and trust myself.  I begin to hear a whisper from somewhere inside, or perhaps it comes from the wind.  But I can hear it. And I can only come up with one conclusion.  I guess the best way to describe it would be:  Intuition.