Where in the World...

 A friend checked in the other month:  "where are you, what are you doing?" I've stopped blogging and posting to Facebook and that's how most people keep track of me.  So I thought about it.  Why am I not communicating, why am I not connecting?  I glanced through some of my draft blogs (the whiny/sad/exhausted/introspective ones that I did not want to share), and I thought....hmmm.  But, for the sake of people who are wondering.....

I stopped blogging in spring of 2020, and previously had not done much in 2019.  I'm not sure what made me stop.  I had plenty of time and most people were documenting the hell out of Life in the Time of Covid.  But, I didn't want to think about The Former Guy's daily assault on democracy, and I didn't want to think about how circumscribed my life was.  I told people that my 3 years of being a nomad had prepared me for this, and that is sort of true.  While I traveled, my connections were mainly virtual, and my activities solitary.  But, of course, my activities were not pursued in solitude while I was petsitting.  I visited museums, attended performances, checked out towns and countrysides, shopped for food, chatted with neighbors.  Although most of my time was spent reading and knitting and writing, I did get out.  I had something to write home about.

2020 was something else.  I had no housemate and no pets to keep me company.  I visited M once a week when I picked up my veggie share.   Once I was vaccinated in 2021, I played some duets and trios, masked and sitting under the trees, but for a year my music was totally solitary.  I learned some fiddle tunes and attempted some of the Bach unaccompanied sonatas and partitas.  I practised my mini-piano.  And of course I did other things.  I folded 1000 cranes in solidarity with my nephew who was undergoing chemo.  I tried to write, walk, and draw.  I learned a bit of Norwegian on Duolingo.  I did weekly virtual yoga with my Portland friends.  I re-did The Artist's Way and started doing daily Morning Pages while I sipped my coffee.  I also did Tai Chi Chih while I made the coffee and did the dishes.  I posted a daily pic to Blipfoto. I set up a clay studio in the garage and made a LOT of pots.  (They all got fired in the autumn, when Coyote Clay reopened.)  I knitted and listened to books and podcasts.  Mom called me every day.  I lost 50 pounds.  And these routines sufficed and continue to suffice in 2021.  But they are nothing to write home about.

Eventually, things opened up a bit.  In August, 2020, I drove to TX to bring back my housemate and her pets.  In September, 2020, M died from a recurrence of cancer.  I still can't write about it.  In October, 2020, I went to Portland because my aunt had been calling me several times a week; she was not dealing well with isolation.  She had technical problems with her computer and phone and emotional problems that led to medical problems.  So, I car-camped across the West and ended up at B's house in SE Portland.  She had just lost her husband and welcomed me into her guest room for as long as I needed it.  I kept postponing my departure:  I was helping my aunt, driving her to appointments, keeping her company, clearing up technical issues.  I walked with S several days a week and saw several other friends and family, totally masked. I was reveling in B's company; it had been too long. I celebrated my aunt's birthday, Solstice, Christmas, New Year's.  I made wreaths.  I sewed a coffee cozy.  I made jewelry.  I watched spring return.

In March, I returned to NM, via a road trip with V through CA wine countries and various wild-flower spots.  I arrived home in a freak snow storm.  And here I am now.  I've been pet-sitting for pay (a mere $25/day) at the co-op and in Santa Fe, but that's the only scheduled and gainful employment I have had.  In the fall I went back to Portland to catsit for friends, and then to IL to join a sister for a roadtrip through TN to VA, where I met my nephew's fiancee.  Last month I returned to IL for a trip to Branson MO;  it was the sort-of annual Spider Reunion, but C had to bail.  On these trips I saw some family, including two of my grandnieces.

It's all good, but somehow it's not enough. And the horrible politics that I tried to escape in 2017 are still there.  It's been such a relief to have Biden in office:  no more daily news bulletins about crazy and vicious behaviors.  But, on my recent travels, I became sharply aware that the civil war is still in place:  TRUMP WON  and Fuck Biden signs were scattered throughout the Heartland.  I don't know if we'll ever recover, and it makes me sad and anxious.  And  I miss the regular travel and the distraction it provides, although I hate flying in the time of COVID.  I miss having gainful employment, although I don't want to be under someone's scrutiny and I don't want to be living under someone's schedule.  I miss being productive, although I cannot define what I mean by productivity.  None of what I'm feeling now is new, nor is the supportive feedback I'm getting.  And that's why I'm not writing about it.  It's small and boring.

My friend suggests that I look into reframing my inner monolog, which, again, is not new advice.  But how?  I want to run and hide again, instead.  But that won't happen while the pandemic rages and the borders remain closed.  So for now, I'm here in NM.  I take pix, I read, I craft, I make music.  Surely that's enough.  I'll write again when I have something to say.

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.

The Five Senses

As I sit at the brightly colored batik table cloth,
the scents of sweet, pungent spices permeate the air;
I can almost feel them, prickly and penetrating.
(The cinnamon predominates.)

And I can almost feel the gentle plucking of the lute,
today's choice in the daily experiment,
finding a new compoer, A to Z
(Today's is Luys de Narva'ez.)

The mug I made from speckled buff cradles the warm brown of the coffee.
I savor the sip of acrid richness;
it craves a complementary sweetness.
(Is the bread pudding ready?)

Tasting touching, seeing, smelling, hearing:
all present and accounted for, not one missing.
But I float in a sensory deprivation chamber.
(If a tree falls in the wood and no one is there....?)

Not so long ago I sat at a friend's table.
We clinked glasses, we shared smiles.
I can almost feel our voices, rising and falling softly.
(I am comforted.)

Invasion of personal space

The hummingbird showed up at the feeder today.  I'm so relieved.  There was only one day of snow, but it was a long day of solid wind and fall.  The snow piled on the roof and fell with a thump that sometimes shook the house.  I bundled in my sweater, enjoying the soft snowy light, but wondered where the birds were sheltering, how the little hummers with their high metabolism could manage.  I still wonder, but it seems they are fine.  There is comfort in that.  Maybe I cannot travel during this pandemic, but they can.  And they are visiting me in my solitary confinement.  It's nice.

They are not the only travelers.  I hear the constant whoosh and hum of I-40, down below my hilltop home.  Who is out there on a Saturday?  Why are they not sheltering in place?  It's not all trucks by any means.  Clearly, people are out and about.  Not me, though.  I find myself flinching from the very idea of it, rather the way I flinch when I turn the corner to my PO Box and see a person fewer than 6' away.  I have become a recluse, and other people are a source of fear and discomfort, an invasion. 

The crowded and crazy world has been leading me up to this point.  A year ago, I sat in the top row of the Saddle Dome in Calgary, Alberta.  I felt both acrophobic and claustrophobic.  I thought about random shooters and the long crowded hike back down the beer-sticky cement stairs.  Then I thought, no, I'm in Canada, I don't need to worry about gun violence in public places.  I breathed carefully and watched the Flames fall to the Avalanche.  At the end of the game, I followed the crowds into the rain and walked slowly back to the hotel, sympathizing with the low-spirited silence of my fellow walkers, such a contrast to the pre-game exuberance walking in.  The wet streets reflected white and yellow headlights and bright red tail-lights and neon blue streetlights.  People passed me, without a glance.  As I turned away from the crowds, my nighttime caution kicked in, and I watched doorways and approaching pedestrians for signs of danger, walking briskly and attentively in the way the self-defense people taught me:  don't look like a victim, don't look hesitant.  If your spidey sense tingles, cross the street. 

I remember another spring in Portland, 30+ years ago.   A workmate and I were walking down 10th street after a quick Safeway run on my lunch break.  We were talking animatedly when an unkempt man accosted us, asking for money.  I looked at him and said, "Sir, you are invading my personal space."  I was irritated, because he had panhandled us on the way in and I thought that once was enough for one day.  The trees were budding, the sky was blue, the street was clear of litter and this person was an affront to my pleasant day.

Now personal space has a whole new meaning, and the invasion of it is more than an affront:  it is an assault.  But it's an invisible assault, not overt like the guns in the mass shootings or the muggings on the empty streets in the bad neighborhoods.  One doesn't know how to defend from it.  My mom calls me after her food is delivered, panicking because the delivery people aren't wearing masks or gloves or standing 6 ft away.  "They are breathing on my food!"  I tell her that even if she did her own shopping, she could not guarantee that no one has touched or breathed on her food, and she would have even more people standing too close.  "Just wash the items and wash your hands," I say.  You can't live in fear, I think.  The world has always been dangerous.

Meanwhile, I watch the birds, envying their freedom, and flinch away from people at the post office. 

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.

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?

 

 

 

Ghost Ranch book pitch

The Treasures of Ghost Ranch

Ghost Ranch,  now an educational retreat center in the isolated Piedre Lumbre badlands of northern New Mexico, is famous for two things:  a dinosaur and an artist.  The burgundy red hills with grey stripes are fascinating to paleontologists because the 200-million-year-old streambeds hold a treasure trove of Triassic dinosaur bones.  Since the 1930's they have excavated the "blueprint" bipedal carnivorous dinosaur Coelophysis, VanCleavea, and the 20-ft long crocodilian phytosaur (perhaps the source of the local legend of Vivaran, the huge carnivorous snake.)  Those same hills would ensnare the 20th century artist Georgia O'Keeffe:  after one visit in 1934, she knew this was her creative home, and she lived and painted here for the next 50 years.  She would paint Pedernal, the flat ridged mountain 10 miles visible to the southeast, 28 times, saying that "God said if I painted it enough I could have it."

But the story of Ghost Ranch is so much more.  From cattle rustling in the 1880s to movie making in the 1980s and beyond, from a close connection to the scientists at Los Alamos, to visits from Charles Lindbergh (who shot aerial photographs for local archeologists), from conservation efforts to an impromptu piano recital from Leopold Stokowski, the remote sanctuary of Ghost Ranch, with its wild geology, has enchanted and summoned people from all walks of life.  For 30 years a dude ranch for the elite Easterners, this magical place is now home to artists, poets, scientists, environmentalists, hikers from the Continental Divide Trail, campers, and people who want to escape the stresses of modern living.  Is the treasure of Ghost Ranch it's dinosaur skeletons, the olla of gold buried and lost by the cattle rustling Archuleta brothers, the hundreds of paintings by Georgia O'Keeffe, or the shining mica of its mesas, shimmering in the moonlight? And will those treasures survive the politics and poor management of the 21st century?