Astro/Carto chart

As per usual, an innocent query turns into a bit of sibling rivalry and apocryphal story-telling.

I start the ball rolling:
Any of you ever know what time I was born? Mom thinks after noon, M thought around midnight, either side. My copy of the certificate doesn’t have a time, but I have a visual memory of a previous one that has 12:42 as the time...but a.m? p.m.? And is it an accurate memory? Inquiring minds (an astrologer friend) want to know!

Oldest sister replies:
I was going to suggest birth certificate. I think M is correct dad woke L up to tell him he had two new little sisters and he said girls! disgustedly and went back to sleep.

Brother replies: I actually knew this at one time. Seems to me Dad told us in the morning that the event had happened - i.e. it had probably happened during the early morning, but that would imply Dad was in St. Peter when Mom delivered and you were born in the Twin Cities. It would make more
sense that Dad was with Mom and someone else was watching us - I do have this probably false memory of Dad being with us. I am almost certain you were (appropriately) born in the Twin Cities. And I believe the two of you were 6 minutes apart.
Mom really should know, it was kind of an important event - she was there.

Me again:
You would think Mom would know, but she has forgotten many details of my childhood. I think you guys wore her out.
I do know that they didn’t record the names until late June. I wish I hadn't lost my previous copy of the certificate. The new one is very laconic. M is going to look for her copy when she returns to Monmouth. But yes, 6 minutes difference, born in St Paul.

Brother:
Yes, you came home with your name labels - "H- baby #1" and H-
baby #2". Maybe a presage of Thing 1 and Thing 2.
E only punched Dad so I don't see how we could have worn Mom out.


E finally checks in, in defense of Mom's memory:
I remember being upset with Mom when I was a teenager and she couldn't tell me which childhood illnesses I had had. Fast forward 40 years. I was trying to remember which vaccinations and illnesses J had--I was uncertain. I only had one to remember; she had 6. I immediately forgave her.

Me:
Exactly! That’s why I was hoping you guys could augment/correct her memories. But since you can’t remember your own son’s deets....



My twin also writes about memory loss:
I vaguely remember some question of what day we might be born on, so I'm thinking it was after midnight, but I'm not sure where that memory is from and if I just made it up.


Somehow Mom gets in on the thread and comes through with some details:
I do remember this much. I was staying in a hotel in St Paul and was supposed to go into the hospital to be induced on the 28th. I got up in the morning and called a cab to take me to the hospital. The driver was very nervous, asking if I were getting close and I reassured him. When I got to the delivery room shortly after, I presume about noon, they discovered I was already in labor. I had been in labor for some time, but didn't have the muscle tone to deliver. They gave me induction pills and before long M arrived. They said, Mrs. H you have twins and the second is a breach so we're going to put you under.



I am satisfied, but can't help waving another flag at my dueling older siblings:
Perfect! Clearly I was nothing but trouble from the get-go, and as I suspected, there are many apocryphal twin stories out there. Thanks for the memories, Mom! Was Dad there?

My twin capitulates gracefully: 
Thanks K! I had forgotten about you being breach delivered. But I did remember we were born six minutes apart. And I thought I was born first, because I always claimed to be older than you. Don't know where I got the midnight scenario from. I never heard about the rest of the story-- the cabdriver, etc.




My bro takes up the challenge:
Not to interject in front of Mom, but if L's story and my memory are
correct, Dad was with us. Of course I am not sure how L would have
known what my tone was when Dad gave me the news. I don't believe she
was right at the scene.

L defends:
I did not hear dad tell you. Dad simply reported that's what occurred.
 
My brother ripostes:
I have trouble believing Dad had that to say about my tone.



L delivers the coup de grace:
I didn't hear it directly so cannot verify its truth. Am just reporting what dad said and we can't ask him. He was rather amused by it.

The point of all this sibling discussion was to find the accurate time of birth for my astrologer friend C, who was pledged to give me a reading.  Since my recent catastrophic trip (broken ankle, lost/stolen wallet, bronchitis), I had been pondering my choices and my nomadic lifestyle, and she is an intuitive astrologer who has known me for some time (she was the backup caregiver when I was living with E.)  She also could use the work, so it was a win-win.  We settled on a birth time of 12:48 p.m. and video-conferenced a few days later.


She thinks that my writing will be the exciting part of the upcoming year.  However, the influence of Capricorn is a strong grounding one, which is not conducive to the nomadic life.  The overall story is that I should be looking for a stable place, a domestic sort of thing.  The ankle break also indicates that.  However, since I'm booked to travel for at least another 6 months, I'll have to get my stability from having a pied-a-terre with P in Tijeras, and from traveling in a way that settles me into a community and home environment.  Trusted Housesitters will be my stability, I guess.

Still, in order to provide me some guidance for future homes or travel locales, C checked on some Astro-Carto lines, picking the largest cities nearby.  The Jupiter lines lead to my happy place, where I'm confident and relaxed (but need to watch out for culinary temptations.)  The closest cities are Anchorage, WInnipeg, and Dallas.  I immediately tossed Dallas out of the mix (no Texas heat, bugs, or politics for this chick), but found a house-sit in Winnipeg during the folk festival this coming July.  L (Mom's partner) is from that area, and he says it's quite nice.  I'm less sure:  while it has an international population, it's also basically Canada's Midwest.   And no ocean?  No mountains?  Anchorage would be better, geologically speaking, but I have yet to find a housesit there.

My home area of Santa Fe and Albuquerque has the influence of Mars (so does El Paso, but...Texas.)  Mars' influence is exciting, but difficult, and would be a testing ground for independence and romantic relationships.  I think I've already had this experience.  Next!

West of Phoenix, Venus holds sway.  C describes this as a place for the creative and uncomplicated life.  While this attracts, I would apparently feel lost without a partner.  And....Arizona.  Next!

Mercury is in charge, east of Minneapolis/St. Paul.  Apparently, it would be a positive place to explore my roots, my psyche, my plans.  That makes sense:  it's my birthplace and home of much of my family, past and present.  However, it's also cold.  Then again, that seems to be a theme for the places C has found for me, and I do like the colder climes.  I wouldn't say no, although it's not really calling to me at this point. 

East of Green Bay, Wisconson, is where I confront my polarities, my relationships with my parents, and my past.  The Sun, Moon, Chiron, and Uranus converge here, and it's a great place for passionate relationships and procreation.  Ummm...Next!

If I give rein to Neptune's complexity and power, I'll probably end up changing my goals.  If I want to be reclusive and spiritual and work with gurus, creative illusions, or entertainment, I could move to San Diego or..... Boise?  I don't see myself as spiritual or mystic, although I wish I did have that sort of passion.  It would be nice to think there is an underlying power, but I'm skeptical (and too interested in comfort and community.)  And neither place appeals, although there are other towns in the area, of course:  these are just the largest communities near the lines.

It appears that the Pacific Northwest is not the place for me:  while fostering creativity and filled with family and friends-who-are-family, it holds negative energies.  I had come to that conclusion already and asked her astrological opinion out of curiosity, so I'm not overly chagrined.  However, I do wish she had found some places outside the US for me to consider.  I don't see the upcoming civil war as conducive to finding my happy place.  But the only international place she suggested was Budapest, and it has never called to me. And, while I love Norway, it doesn't fit in any line.  Besides, my correspondents from last year seem to think I was miserable for my 3 months there.  Just because the snow came up past my chin, I had to shovel the deck and roof and keep the wood fire burning, and I had to walk a mile one way to the store....

Actually, I do like to hunker down in the winter, and I do like the northern climes, but, thinking it over, I was a bit lonely, even though I had the downstairs neighbor/friend, the Gjovik symphony, and P's visit.  So, in the final analysis, I do need to find a lifestyle and home that provide a community of like-minded individuals as well as comfort and beauty. 

I know it's out there.

Preparing to be a nomad

We put 5 more boxes in his storage unit in the basement of the building, and he fingered the chicken wire that separates his space from his neighbor's:  it has come loose from the staples that moor it to the flimsy wooden framework. Well, he had warned me that I shouldn't keep anything I really care about in there.  And I won't be.  He's put my art on his walls, the art that is not replaceable, and he'll be using my TV and air purifier once I finally move for good.  I figure I have about 10 boxes left to pack up and deliver:  1 of shoes, 3 of books, 2 of dishes, and the rest of clothes and odds and ends. Belongings that I care about are going with B to her IL basement, along with Grandpa's old slant-topped blonde wood desk.  Those belongings are basically paper:  legal docs, photos, travel journals.  The violin and some music will be with me, and that's the only thing I own of value, other than the electronics:  ipad, PC, iphone, and J's camera, which technically I don't own, and which I'm still debating about bringing with me.  The idea is to travel light, after all.

As I packed up the current batch of boxes, I wondered at myself.  Why am I storing this stuff?  Most of it has been in cupboards, unpacked boxes, and closets, unused since I moved to Ranchos de Taos a year ago.  If I haven't missed it in the last year, what's the point of keeping it?  I'm guessing it's a mix of reasons.  In the last 5 years I've already weeded out things that I am missing now, and I can't bear to pare down 58 years of a life any further.  It appears that I'm nesting now that I no longer have a nest, now that my life as a nomad is 5 weeks minus one day away.  My last day of paid work is May 11, and I'll leave Taos that night, to leave my car in ABQ with G while I go north for the sister trip.  Then back to pick up the car and drive west for my summer in CA and the start of my....adventure?  escape? self-indulgence?  Depending on the day and hour, it can be any or all of these for me.

Today I glanced through a blog by a young German man who spent three years traveling:  his was a true adventure, funded by many years in a high-power job.  I wonder what he's doing now.  There doesn't seem to be much since he finished the blog in 2011 and wrote a book based on the blog in 2013.  I wonder what I'll do with my nomadic time, and where I'll end up, and what I'll do then?  It's too early to retire, really, except that it's too late to start a new career.  I can't muster enthusiasm for much of anything but what I'm doing now:  eating, reading, knitting, and packing, and, the odd job interview aside, no one seems to muster much enthusiasm for me.  Am I both too old and too young?

No, I'm just too tired.

In some ways, drawing out the packing process is a good thing.  It's emotionally exhausting to find homes for this collection of objects, some useful, some sentimental, most neither.  It's best to do it in stages. But, what I really should be doing is exploring my current home, fitting in the last visits to favorite places, checking out the places I never got around to visiting: the murals at the Plaza, Fossil Hill, Millicent Rogers Museum, DH Lawrence Ranch, trails on Taos Mountain, Pot Creek, and, of course, Ra Paulette's Caves over by Ojo.  Not to mention a last visit to Ojo Caliente itself.  I doubt I'll do any of it ,though.  In addition to the incremental boxing up of my life, I still have a job, and I'm still taking classes.  Finishing those commitments is a self-respect-worthy thing.  Not only should I do it, I want to do it.

Still, I get tired just thinking about what I haven't done.  The weight of opportunities missed and days wasted is crushing at times.  But of course, there's more than that, and, looking over at G, I realize that my time has not been misspent.  I've had his growing friendship for 4 years, as well as the friendship of many other people, and I am now picking myself up and exploring options for my third act.  Five years ago at this time I was preparing for the move to ABQ, and the move happened on my birthday weekend.  I spent the ensuing five years recovering from the various losses, losses that were physical, emotional, and fiscal. This year, on my 58th birthday, I'll be playing with dogs, and enjoying Sonoma County.

There's not much to complain about.

A Relationship with Myself

I just re-read one of my private blogs, the blogs where I talk critically of people whom I love, where I question relationships, where I whine even more unbearably than I do in the public blogs.  I call my public posts my therapy blog, but these private posts are my uber therapy blogs.  And who wants to visit another person's therapy?

But, there is a point to making my musings public.  People want to know how I'm doing, and what I'm thinking, and it's a quick way to keep people posted on the more intimate thoughts, without the immediacy of the letter.  If they take the time to find the blog and read it, that's their choice.  They can ignore this blog altogether:  another choice.  It's harder to ignore a letter, so the choice there is less free.

All of this is a preface to saying that I want to revisit some of the ideas in those earlier, private posts.  They are about relationships.  I summarized the relationships of the last 5 years and questioned the validity of my current romantic pursuit.  Mainly, I was noting that I am not the primary relationship for anyone, or, more pertinently, no one is a primary relationship for me.  There is always something that doesn't quite work.  In D's case, I was too sensitive.  In T's case, I wasn't kinky.  In S's case, I was too needy.  In G's case....I just am not the one.  But that puts the onus on me, saying that my personality is at fault.  It goes both ways.  In D's case, he was too angry.  In T's case, he was secretive and confrontation averse.  In S's case, he was afraid to let me into his introvert bubble.  In G's case, he can't talk deeply with me and doesn't seem to enjoy my stories.  I realize I'm leaving out M, because that relationship seems to work as a secondary relationship.  It's always been long-distance, and he's truly poly, so the secondary relationships get a lot of commitment from him.  He doesn't use the lack of primacy as a tactic to keep me at arm's length.

Now that I am embarked on a 2-year journey away from everyone, I wonder about the urge that has led me into these failed and flawed relationships.  I was happily single for many years, and I still am very happy with my own company.  Post D, I probably needed to prove that I was desirable to someone other than him. T thought I was looking for another husband, which is completely a function of his own worldview.  I wanted to feel loved, but I didn't want to be in love or work on the difficult marital bond.  I would not be averse to finding a soulmate, but I don't see it happening, and I don't want to be without male companionship and intimacy while I wait for the long shot.

Still, that doesn't explain the wistfulness I feel at finding that G is in love.  It's confusing, actually.  It's what I want and wanted for him. We do not have that sort of relationship, so jealousy shouldn't come into play.  We were both glad the other "chose to be in my life," but it was clear that I, while an important friend, was not The One for G.  And it was equally clear that he, although a loyal, helpful and beloved friend, was not a soulmate for me.  I guess I mainly am sad to not be of real importance to him.  And even that isn't quite right.  I would have been uncomplicatedly happy if he and P had resumed their intimacy, and I had no jealousy of his commitment to her.  I felt that he would still care for me.  Why don't I feel that way now?  Is it because it's a new relationship that has displaced me?  Or because I'm not sure that she is a better option than me?  They are adorable together, and he is adorable in his obsession with her, so what is the problem?

I'm not worried about his commitment to being my backup on my adventure:  he has said that he has no problem with keeping my stuff and being my pied a terre in Albuquerque, and I believe him.  Besides, I do have other options if that changes.  And he is not like S and T, who were hurtful in their rejection of me.  He never pretended that our relationship was anything but a friendship with benefits, and I never wanted it to be anything more. While I'm comfortable with his companionship and I enjoy his quirky and inquiring mind, I don't feel completely connected to him, and I don't like his home.  I don't want to move in on him, and it would be the ultimate in selfishness to resent that he doesn't want me either.

Also, part of the reason for this nomadic existence is to reclaim my relationship with myself.  I want to be happy with who I am and what I do, in that order.  I need to be lovable to myself.  All of this obsession with traditional relationships is waste emotion.  While I remain concerned about G's new choice, the wistfulness is an emotion I need to move past. As Octavia Butler would say, "So be it.  See to it!"

It was messiier than that

It was a glorious fall day.  I was in the Ghost Ranch Library, working on donations, when my phone rang.  The call was from my ex-sister-in-law.  I last saw her in August 2017, when my sister and I drove up to Oregon from my house-sits in California in order to say a graveside farewell to Aunt J.  (Some ceremonies take longer to arrange than others, especially when everyone is farflung.) After the ceremony, I dropped my sister at the airport and drove out to Mulino to stay with R and L in their new (to me) home.  Cousins, daughters, and granddaughters came out for a potluck, but D and my stepson K chose otherwise.  I was sorry about that, as K and I are on reasonably good terms and I do love him, but I was relieved to have the uncomfortable meeting with D postponed for some other visit. He had suggested a getaway, and that just was never going to be in the cards.

Now that I was back in the States, I did plan to visit Portland, and I was happy to hear L's voice.  I took the phone out to patio, where the reception was better.  The heart-shaped golden cottonwood leaves were blowing about, and the sky was a deep blue.  It was a gorgeous day.  We talked a bit and then L told me why she had called.  D took his life on Oct 1.  He had apparently been struggling for the last year.  He was her only sibling, and their parents passed some time ago, so she's the last of that nuclear family.

We talked about that, and about K, and to my surprise, I found myself weeping.  Mainly I was grieving for his pain and despair, and for his family.  I left D almost 6 years ago, so my personal sorrow was buried deep,  compounded by some guilt.  Could I have saved him?  He never did well living alone.  But then again, I did not do well living with him.  And in the long run, this was his lifelong battle.  I was only a small part of the army of friends and family that fought beside him and ultimately could only stand aside and watch him flailing and losing in single combat.  It was heartbreaking then, and it's heartbreaking now.

October passed. My college friends were scheduled to visit that weekend and were a loving distraction and sounding board.  The Ghost Ranch management continued to be dysfunctional and provide both drama and angst for most of the staff.  I volunteered at the Balloon fiesta and played in an APO concert.  I played trios with nearby friends.  I hiked through the golden autumnal weather.  And I provided pix, words, and memories for L as she and K and M planned the memorial and attended grief counseling.

Memories of his affiliations and accomplishments:

I know that he belonged to the Oregon Alternative Educators’ Association (can’t recall exact name.) He helped produce E’s play, Home to Walata. His coffee klatsch did something with Panera, can’t recall what.  KA would know.  He did overnights at a few homeless shelters.  KL could speak to his involvement with the day shelter at UU.  Lots of UU involvement:  singing in Chalice Choir, teaching in the Learning Community, Men’s Group, donating to the building fund. He marched in NAMI parades and Parkinson’s walks.  He was a loyal and supportive friend, which is a huge accomplishment in my book. GR included him in the thank you credits of his woodworking book.

The list of activities and involvement is long, but could be summed up by a spiritual and social activist sensibility.

In a word, a good and complicated man.

 

Adjectives, good and bad:

Loving, lovable, frustrating, creative (especially in the kitchen), needy, fun-loving, caring, giving, ethical, intelligent, socially conscious, angry, depressed, fiscally incompetent, sports loving, jazz aficionado, TV-addict, fatherly, impatient, well-dressed, opinionated, abrasive, devoted (to family, friends, and causes), selfish, never boring.

I miss the good times and am grateful for the many gifts of spirit and connection, especially with his family (my family.)

 

My sisters came to visit from Oct 31 to Nov 7 and during that time frame I learned that E, now 103, was in hospice.  I went out the next week for a farewell visit at her Berkeley care facility.  While there, the dates were set for D's memorial and wake:  Dec 8/9.  I cancelled the next several weeks with Ghost Ranch and arranged a trip to Portland.  In the midst of that, Ghost Ranch decided to make me move out during Thanksgiving week, despite the fact that no one was going to be in the farmhouse, and I wanted, as a professional, to come back in January and wind up my projects.  But that's a story for another post.

So, I came to Portland, to drink the wine that L and G had been storing for me during my 18 nomadic months, to visit friends, and to say goodbye to D.  I thought I was okay until the night before my flight out, when I started weeping again.  I came out to the living room and told P:  "I'm never going to see D again."  Suddenly, I was no longer grieving for him and his family.  I was grieving for myself.

For the most part, my friends and family understood, but they also reminded me that there were good reasons I gave up on the marriage and good reasons I had a restraining order for the first year after I left him.  For the memorial service, I sang Fragile at the end of the prelude, the song he sang to me at our wedding.  "On and on, the rains will fall, like tears from a star, like tears from a star.  On and on, the star will say, how fragile we are, how fragile we are."  True of our marriage, true of his life.

It was a beautiful service.  Most of my personal friends and family did not attend, but those who did benefited by hearing the loving words and memories.  There were good reasons I loved him. Friends talked of Big Red, Robbie, Big Unc, the boy and man with a joyous lack of boundaries, the man who held his friends and family close in love and laughter until the last year, when he shut them all out.  He stopped initiating gatherings, stopped cooking, stopped returning calls and emails, stopped accessing the joy that surrounded him.  His mental illness took him.  But, while acknowledging that battle, the service and reception celebrated the lovable D. 

Still, I could not get through the final hymn, thinking how the peace it epitomized had failed him.  I give thanks to the waves upholding me Hail the great winds urging me on Greet the infinite sea before me Sing the sky my sailor's song I was born upon the fathoms Never harbor or port have I known The wide universe is the ocean I travel And the Earth is my blue boat home 

That night I stayed with R and L, helping with preparations for the wake. I learned how D's last year had spiralled downward.   Although R and L were his lifeline and he stayed with them every weekend, he spent his time holed up in the TV room.  He ignored the weekly messages from one of his oldest friends, a friend who spoke at our wedding and spoke equally movingly at the service.  The last time L saw D, she told him he needed to resume therapy and he later asked her to drive him to a therapy session. When she arrived for the drive, he was not there.  I asked R, who found D.  And that's when I discovered how D chose to end it.  It wasn't drugs, his choice in several previous attempts.  As L told her cousins, "It was messier than that."  And irrevocable.  I don't need to wonder if anyone could have saved him.  But the image of that final act is indelible, and as I watch him crying in my imagination, I cry too.  

I wish I could have saved him.  I wish he could have saved himself.

 

We walked together
And with friends. I walked endings
Alone, then and now.

RIP Dave. I will always love you.

 

 

On our honeymoon

 

Do we have to go home now?

 

 

 

Life as a RoomBa

It's my 57th birthday, and I'm sitting at the Rio Grande Nature Center, watching the turtles and hummingbirds and ducks and geese.  The turtles are not just on the log this time, but are humpbacked in the green algae, motionless and subtle. I feel that I should be outside, but this is such a great view, with the water and the cottonwoods and the dusty green of the intrusive Russian olive. I used to come here with E, and I've walked over here from Montgomery along the Rio Grande backwater path, but I've never just sat here and watched, alone. 

If you sit long enough, you'll see the clouds moving, slowly (for once the winds are still), and then you'll hear the trees talking.

It's a nice way to spend a birthday, but I don't think I'm going to be very contemplative.  Too many distractions, too many people wandering in. I can smell the scent of bergamot from the massage oil.  A few hour ago, I was at Betty's Day Spa, nearby, getting a birthday massage from an adorable young man.  The desk staff apologized that they could not offer me the Memorial Day Weekend Specials (well, I did wait until the last moment), and asked, tentatively, if I would mind a male "therapist." No, I didn't mind.  It was short, but good hard pressure and I felt very relaxed, and pain free afterwards. That's a good thing.

Now I'm trying to figure out the "slow travel" concept that M has been espousing.  I think back to last Monday.  I was in Arroyo Secco, eating Taos Cow ice cream and watching the water and the mountain.  I had just delivered the Dia book to the nearby school, and I had the rest of the day to myself.  I thought, I'll sit here and experience this well-loved place.  M says that slow travel is about using the senses, letting the experience unfold.  So, I listened to the sounds of people talking and cars passing.  I noted the smells of water and earth and exhaust and cinnamon, the taste of the ice cream.  I  thought, I will immerse myself, as M suggests.

There's nothing better
Than eating Taos Cow ice cream
By the arroyo.

 A young man with dirty fingernails, wearing a coverall, walked on the other side of the stream and sat under a curled-over clump of grass and brush.  The curled foliage created a perfect circle, and I'd already taken a picture of it, when I first sat down.  Now he sat in the hole and said, "You can take the picture if you want, as long as I'm not looking at you."  I'd had no intention of intruding on him with my camera phone, but I took a few more pictures of him, sitting in the hole:  it seemed expected. Then he said, "You know, people complain about guns, but there's more harm done with cameras and cell phones than any gun."  I thought, oh brother, a Noble Savage.

He walked across the stream and joined me at my picnic table, carefully not sitting directly across from me.  A stilted conversation began, mainly him talking and me watching him and nodding now and then. He said he worked in Oklahoma, and that he had been working on a construction site up north....Colorado?  Oklahoma?  New Mexico?  Not sure where, he was being cagey.  Then he said he made people nervous, because he did such good work and expected the same of others.  Hidden behind the large brown tinted sunglasses, his eyes seemed to be looking straight past me, and he spoke his abrupt sentences, none leading to the other.  He had the social graces of an autistic loner: clearly he wanted to talk to someone, but just as clearly he didn't know how.

I sat there, with my long grey-white hair blowing the the breeze.  I slowly finished my Tao Cow ice cream, savoring the taste and texture.  I wondered what he saw:  a grandmother? A retiree?  Someone without connections?  People my age don't usually travel alone and they don't usually strike up conversations with random young men.  But then, there are people my age who do just that, M for example.

When I left I offered him the $1 day-old pastry that I had purchased on impulse.  "I would like you to take this off my hands. I bought it on a whim, and find that I don't want it." He said, "Gladly," and "I don't have anything to offer in return."  I said,  "Your company was enough," and walked to my car.  As I backed out, I watched him unwrapping the butter croissant.  I don't know if he was hungry or not, but since he'd said he had to scrounge in the car seats for coffee money, I guessed he might be.

I think there are a lot more random people in the world than one would expect.  I don't usually see them, because I'm not often in those in-between interstices like parking lots and rest areas.  When I travel, I'm with fellow travelers who have a destination, a goal, money, home.   I don't travel with nomads, although I have been watching L and G's nomadic adventure with interest and a little envy.

Now, as I sit at the Nature Center, I feel like I may be turning into a nomad.  I don't feel grounded, and I don't have patterns in place. Or rather, the patterns don't seem to support me.  They aren't comfortable.  I have to think about them.  When I wake up thinking I want to sleep a little more, my brain won't let me:  it starts planning the morning, the day, the week.  But it's not a happy plan, it's a compulsive one. "What are you going to do today," G asked this morning, and I didn't know.  I knew I wanted to do something contemplative, something solitary, but what?  In past years I went to Ghost Ranch and walked the labyrinth and climbed Castle Rock.  I had people with me, or I didn't, but I was some place where I could think, where there was no sound other than birds and wind.

Here, I am not in that solitude. People come in and out of the room, talking to their children about the creatures on the other side of the glass:  "Oh look, see the turtle's head sticking out?" "Look at all the hummingbirds.  How fast their wings go!"  "Oooh, ducklings!" When they aren't talking, the clicking of this keyboard is deafening in the silence.  I'm writing as I think and it's very very fast and staccato.  It feels intrusive, and I wonder, what is the point? I'm not watching the screen, but am watching the clouds and the birds and the sunlight glinting on the water. It does not feel contemplative, though.  It doesn't feel like I'm absorbing anything.  I'm just taking up space, breathing up the oxygen, adding the the carbon footprint, munching on mint M&Ms and cashews.  There is nothing healthy about this.  I am not "slow traveling," I am not in the moment, and I am definitely not figuring things out.

I was going to write about right the qi gong healing experience from earlier in the week, but I find I don't have anything to say.  Foreign energies.  check.  Dead soul who had been with me for 11 or 12 years?  Weird.  The need to have some sort of meditative practice that will build up my aura or energy shield so that the foreign energies cannot impact me like a body blow.  Same practise, different explanation.

Actually it makes sense that I should be lacking in the energetic aura:  a lack of energy is what I complain of most often, and a lack of focus comes next.  If I am dealing with all this parasitic energy, no wonder I am distracted and exhausted all the time.  But, is that really what's happening?

Another turtle has come out to the log, algae streaming from his shell.  He pokes out a green tipped head.  So Prehistoric looking.

*******************************************************************************
It's the next day, and I have been thinking for the past 24 hours about where I am, and why I am here, and what I want to do with myself.  I feel static and stale.  I want to just go somewhere, but why and where?  The nomad life is beckoning, but at the same time I think, what about my commitments?  What about earning a living?  I can't just take up and go, I have people depending on me.  These are not new thoughts.  This is a squirrel cage.....I want my own space. I miss having my hammock in Portland, and my dog and cat joining me as I read.  I miss having friends to call and visit and go on walks with.  I miss the life I created back then.  I don't have a life here.   Or rather, I do have a life here.  I just don't have the energy or companionship that I had there.  How do I get them back?

I am on the verge of tears as I type, and I don't know why.  What do I want?

I thought I wanted to walk every day and take pictures and write haiku and then come home and refine them all.  But when I get home and look at all that is written and photographed in the world, I realize that I have nothing to offer, nothing to share.  My work is just as small and boring as the mind that produces it.  I don't know what I want to do, but this is not it.

As I sit on G's bed, keyboard and iPad propped in front of me, I watch the round automatic vacuumer bouncing around from wall to wall. How does it know that it's covering all the territory? How does it decide where to go next? It doesn't seem to be a matter of hitting walls and angling away from them.  It comes into the room, and wanders around, then it leaves again.  Eventually it will decide it's done, and dock itself back in the living room.

I feel a little like the RoomBa, bouncing around my territory until I get tired of it and go home to sleep.

Toi toi toi Operaman

From my Facebook post for October 30, 2017:

A fabulous evening with the Barber and my charming host in the over-the-top and delightful Coliseum. Wonderful music, sprightly physical comedy, great company. Thanks, Stephen!

I'd spent most of the day at my cousin's house, pottering and tutoring, but got to the Charing Cross tube station in time to stop by the National Portrait Gallery (one of my favorite places in London) before meeting Stephen at the bistro by the English National Opera house.  The bistro was a brightly lit narrow room, with a long bar along the left-hand wall and small tables for two lined along a banquette to the right.  I snaked through the crowded aisle between these two points and found my companion for the evening, a tall smiling aquiline-nosed man in his late 70’s, dapper and genial.  We ordered a hummus plate and good champagne and commenced with the catching up.  His bubbling, now somewhat creaking, tenor voice talked of his fiancée, his recent years in Ipswich, the opera we were about to watch (The Barber of Seville), his relationship with the English music world, and news of old friends from Portland (where we met so many years ago.)  I talked of my recent 6 months as a nomad and my upcoming book plans.  It had been many years since our respective moves away from Portland, years which included the death of his mother and the death of my marriage.  But, his warmth and interest in the world around him made those years inconsequential:  we talked delightedly. 

Afterwards we walked down Piss Alley, a dark narrow cobbled affair with door niches at intervals. It was a connector between two major thoroughfares and a place for drunks and drug deals. Our destination was the stage door for the ENO, where he dropped off a bottle of champagne for the tenor, to whom we were indebted for our tickets.  Then back up the alley to the ENO’s Coliseum, a rococo structure, inside and out.  Here’s Stephen’s take on it:

It so happened that an old friend, KH was in town and this provided a perfect opportunity to get together. K is a violinist and although she has played as an orchestral musician in the Overture to the Barber, had never seen it and knew next-to-nothing about it. From the moment we went into the auditorium K was oo-ing and aaaah-ing over its splendor of the venue. We had excellent seats in the stalls and settled in for some fun. From the opening notes of the overture, K was smiling. Over the course of the next 3 hours and 10 minutes, I would glance at her from time to time and that smile never left her face! Not once did I catch her without that happy grin. And that made two of jus ‘cos I was doing a lot of smiling myself.

Afterwards, we shared a taxi to Waterloo Station where he caught a train back to Ipswich and I caught the Tube to Leyton.  It was the last time I would see him.

We met over 20 years ago when he visited my friends H and E, current caretakers for my cat Simone.   He was living in Marin County at that point, with an ex-wife and pre-teen daughter nearby. I never got his trajectory clear.  He was an English choir boy whose father flew planes in WWII.  I think he sang under the baton of Benjamin Britten. At any rate, he was involved with the Aldeburgh Festival and was invited to sing in the 50^th anniversary of The Building of the House:  he was one of 2 people who sang in the original performance for the Queen.  He was a Cambridge scholar. He was a fabulous cook. He was a solicitor, complete with wig, in Hong Kong. He hung around with Steve Miller and the band. But I knew him as H and E’s  LeBoyfriend, a charming and funny and erudite man who loved all things opera and was a kind and delightful friend.  Eventually he moved to Portland.  He worked for the Portland Opera a bit and wrote the opera’s blog under the moniker of OperaMan, even after he left the Opera itself in 2007.  At one point, when I first contemplated living with D, he became my housemate/catsitter for the duration of that experiment (the conclusion of which should have warned me but didn’t.)  We were witnesses and signatories to the marriage certificate when H and E joined the throng of gay couples getting married at the Keller Auditorium that giddy and joyous March 3, 2004.  (The Multnomah County ruling was overturned, and it would be 10 years before such marriages would legally stick in Oregon.) I was his guest at many an opera dress rehearsal at the same venue; as OperaMan he was comped for most of the operas.  The following email exchange is representative of this time:

To me:

See you at Jake's!

H and I will be the couple sitting doing today's NYT crossword and drinking many gallons of beer (she's a real toper when she puts her mind to it as you can imagine - sometimes she will even have a second pint!)

Love,

S.

To Stephen:

I'll be the person in the short tight black dress with the bright cover-up that is failing to cover-up sufficiently.

In 2009, Stephen initiated one of the grandest gestures in a life filled with kind gestures. The story involves Twitter and a Washington DC music teacher named Priscilla Barrow.  Stephen entered the Twitter-based OperaPlot contest (the idea was to summarize an opera plot within the 140 character-limit of a Twitter post.) He won the Grand Prize, 2 tickets to the Washington National Opera’s production of Turandot followed by attendance at the social event of the year, the Opera Ball.  Stephen decided to give the tickets away.  H suggested he choose a music teacher in DC.  At the end of the story, which involved such luminaries as Placido Domingo and Aretha Franklin, Priscilla was the belle of the ball, bedecked in jewels and beautifully wearing a dress donated by the Opera.  Stephen delightedly stage-managed from afar. The link to Stephen’s inimitable blog entry about it seems to have disappeared, but here are links to two other stories:

Shortly thereafter, Stephen moved back to England to care for the Aged Parent and delight his Facebook friends with her trenchant comments and his loving stories and political commentary.  His girlfriend was a frequent visitor, and I watched their long-distance love affair from afar, rejoicing in the happiness which glowed from the pictures he posted.  (My favorite was from their visit to Ascot.)  I visited England several times during his final years there, but I never met her and only saw him on that fabulous evening in 2017. 

A year into my nomadic lifestyle, I logged the following journal entry from Norway:

April 14, 2018

There is one cloud to my content, however. My friend Stephen Llewellyn, who took me to the English National Opera last year, fell and broke his neck. He's alive, but obviously in a serious condition. His fiancée posted the news on FB, and I just read about it. Reportedly, he is in good spirits and wiggling his toes, but Jesus. He's had enough health crap, with various cancer episodes.
 

The next 2 years would be full of setbacks and jumps forward.  But the love story continued, and his plans moved onward. In January of this year he was set to move into a house in Ipswich, to be joined later by his fiancée, who is currently working in the States as a visiting professor of music.  Sadly, he developed septicemia and by March he was in hospital. He died on May 8, of complications from COVID 19.  He was a smart, principled, kind, talented, and generous friend, and the world is much poorer without him in it.  I asked H if he died alone and she said that, because of COVID, his only contact with loved ones was a tablet, given to him by one of his many friends.  However, she wrote, knowing Stephen, by the end of his stay the staff were all dear friends.

I guess that is a reasonable epitaph for any life.