Notes From My Balcony

Maternal death in Afghanistan- reasons for going

2011-05-27T17:45:00.000-07:00

Afghanistan has some of the poorest indices of public health in the world. Because I am not there yet, I am posting articles from other sources, such as the one from BBC News below, that highlight some of the reasons I think it is important to be there in a public health capacity. The maternal death rate in Afghanistan is the second highest in the world. In this particular province, it is the highest. People often dismiss childbirth as effortless. How often do you hear comments that women used to go out in the fields, lift their skirts, and just drop their babies? Yes, true, but how many died doing that?
In the absence of antenatal care, roughly one women dies for every 55 infants born in Afghanistan. One in 6 children die at childbirth and one in 4 of those children who live will die before the age of 5 (index mundi). One in 11 Afghan women will die in childbirth (lifetime risk). In some places in Afghanistan, according to UNICEF, maternal mortality is as high as 6000 in 100000, meaning that one woman dies for each 17 births.

It is not my job to save the world, nor is it my intention, but shedding light on those things we can and should make better seem more important to me than anything else I might do at the moment. The hummingbirds will be here when I return.

The link to the video, which is moving, can be found here if the link below does not work: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/newsnight/8326102.stm

Page last updated at 13:58 GMT, Monday, 26 October 2009

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By Lyse Doucet
BBC News, Badakshan, northern Afghanistan

Muslima shyly tells me she is 25. It is hard to believe.

Her brown eyes stare from a freckled face partly hidden by a patterned red head scarf. She looks about 15-years-old.

Whatever age Muslima is, she has triumphed over the odds. She survived one of Afghanistan's greatest dangers - childbirth.

For many women a visit to the clinic means days of walking

Badakshan province, in north-east Afghanistan, has the worst-ever recorded rate of maternal mortality.

A smiling Muslima cradles her newborn baby girl in the folds of her long scarf as she sits up in bed in a maternal ward in the capital Faizabad.

It is the best Badakshan has to offer. When the first obstetric gynaecologist, Dr Hajira, arrived here 17 years ago, there was only one room and four beds for the entire province.

"Fifty percent of the women who come here are in a bad state," she explains. "If this hospital wasn't here, they would all die."

Thanks to international aid since the fall of the Taliban in 2001, there is a two-storey concrete block of a maternal ward.

Carried on planks

A visit to even one room on Dr Hajira's morning round tells the story of women's lives here.

Muslima, and Qamanesa in the bed next to her, look far too young to be bearing children.

Lack of paved roads makes travelling in Badakshan difficult

In the other corner, Monisa is fighting for her life. In her early 40s, she is in her 14th pregnancy. Five of her children have already died.

Later that day, her five-month old foetus is delivered, dead. But Monisa pulls through despite a weak heart.

Changing the fate of women in childbirth means changing so much of life here. There is no electricity, no running water, no paved roads.

Outside the capital, a trip to the clinic - if it exists - can mean walking for days, travelling by donkey, or if the family can scrape together enough money, by car.

Many women are carried on wooden planks or ladders supported by four men, including an anxious husband.

Lack of infrastructure

In the remote district of Shahr-e Bozorg, survival can come down to luck.

Sadiya had been in labour for 12 hours and was bleeding heavily when one of the few trained midwives, with the only ambulance in the region, happened to stop by her house in her village of Chowgany.

She was rushed to the only maternal clinic in the area providing emergency care.

"Will she make it?" I ask Simin Walid of the British charity Merlin which runs the clinic. "We hope," she replies, striding into the simple delivery room in the concrete bungalow.

Even gleaming ambulances find it hard to make haste. The gruelling, bone-jarring journey unfolds along narrow bumpy paths clinging to the mountainside or across rocky river beds.

The vistas are spectacular to behold, but forbidding. Even the Taliban did not conquer this area when they ruled Afghanistan.

Traditional midwives

When winter sets in, villages scattered across the undulating mountains are cut off.

Community midwifery training will help save women's lives

In Sadiya's village, most women deliver at home or turn to a traditional midwife like Gulnar.

"I've delivered hundreds of babies," boasts the beaming Gulnar as we sit in a shaded courtyard in a mud-walled compound.

But she regrets her illiteracy and lack of any formal training: "My hand is under a rock," she says.

And when I ask her how many mothers die in childbirth her animated smile disappears: "Many, many" is her calculation.

But these are lives ruled by God, not gynaecology.

"Some lives are short, some are long," Gulnar reflects with a stoicism shared by every Afghan we met on our journey.

It is just the way life is. But some are trying to change it.

Education and training

Dr Hajira uses a similar turn of phrase with a more resolute twist: "I prefer to live a short life that's full, than a long one," she says.

Born in Faizabad, her father, the province's first doctor, insisted she go to school even though she was the only girl in a class full of boys.

She has dedicated her life to helping save women's lives.

And a new army of midwives is slowly being trained to start bringing modern practises to this battle.

In a programme run by the Aga Khan Foundation, young women are chosen by their villages, given approval by their husbands or fathers, and come to Faizabad for an 18-month course.

Eighteen-year-old Masuma , already a mother with two children, will return to her village in Shahr-e Bozorg.

"It was a community decision and I want to be a midwife to serve my people," she says.

She and a dozen other young women in white medical coats and pale blue caps watch intently as their teacher Farzana Darakhuna demonstrates with a rubber infant how to deliver a baby safely.

Farzana sees progress: "In the past, men wouldn't think of taking their wife to a clinic. They used to think if they took her there, there might be many men, and her dignity wouldn't be protected."

In this conservative society, changing women's lives means changing men's too.

. .

Leishmaniasis and Afghanistan.

2011-05-17T16:33:00.000-07:00

yes, i am. going.

Afghanistan
13 million Afghans at risk of contracting Leishmaniasis, says WHO
Report
—
Government of Afghanistan, World Health Organization
14 October 2010 | Kabul, Afghanistan - The World Health Organization (WHO) today launched its first global report on neglected tropical diseases. In light of an ongoing Leishmaniasis outbreak in Herat, Afghanistan, WHO along with the Ministry of Public Health and the Afghan Red Crescent Society used this opportunity to raise awareness about and advocate for neglected diseases in Afghanistan, with special emphasis on Leishmaniasis, a disease that threatens the health of 13 million vulnerable Afghans, especially women and girls.

In Kabul, commonly considered as the world capital of [Cutaneous] Leishmaniasis, the number of new reported cases dramatically rose from the estimated yearly figure of 17,000 to 65,000 in 2009, mainly among women and girls.
"This number is likely to be the tip of the iceberg as cases are grossly underreported owing to poor diagnostic tools and the stigma that is attached to this disease," claimed Peter Graaff, WHO Representative to Afghanistan.
[Cutaneous] Leishmanisis is a parasitic disease transmitted through the bite of certain species of sandfly. The major symptom is skin sores which erupt weeks to months after the person has been bitten.
Leishmaniasis is both preventable and curable. Preventable through bed nets, and curable through medical treatment.
"The high cost of treatment makes it difficult to integrate anti-Leishmaniasis drugs into the Basic Package of Health Services," said Her Excellency Dr Suraya Dalil, Acting Minister of Public Health. "I urge donors to take this cause seriously, as it causes unnecessary suffering amongst a large number of Afghans."
"Addressing stigma, early diagnosis and early treatment is the way to go about tackling this disease," said Fatima Gilani, Director of the Afghan Red Crescent Society. "Protecting people from Leishmaniasis is affording them the Right to Life with dignity."
Leishmaniasis

The vector

Leishmaniasis is caused by protozoan parasites belonging to the genus Leishmania. The parasites are transmitted by the bite of a tiny – only 2–3 mm long – insect vector, thephlebotomine sandfly.

There are some 500 known phlebotomine species, but only about 30 have been found to transmit leishmaniasis. Only the female sandfly transmits the parasites. Female sandflies need blood for their eggs to develop, and become infected with the Leishmaniaparasites when they suck blood from an infected person or animal. Over a period of between 4 and 25 days, the parasites develop in the sandfly. When the infectious female sandfly then feeds on a fresh source of blood, it inoculates the person or animal with the parasite, and the transmission cycle is completed.

The disease can have a wide range of clinical symptoms, which may be cutaneous, mucocutaneous or visceral. Cutaneous leishmaniasis is the most common form. Visceral leishmaniasis is the most severe form, in which vital organs of the body are affected.. .

hummer heaven

2011-05-04T20:13:00.000-07:00

I am not unaware of the many difficult events and challenges going on in the world right now. But neither can I, nor should I, ignore the beauty and magic that reveals itself right before my eyes. . .

to everything, there is a season

2011-03-01T20:34:00.000-08:00

As winter gives way to spring, so too the changes in our lives. Things we set in motion when the first frost settled on the ground those many months ago have taken root and begun to sprout. Life does not always render itself to if-then statements as tidily as do computer programs. For computers, the if-then algorithm plays out in milliseconds. In our lives we experience, as the Buddhists would say, an interdependent arising in which everything arises from multiple causes and conditions, many of which we initiate and some seemingly at cross-purposes when they become manifest. And it is only in retrospect that we see that everything was so perfectly predictable, we could have written the script ourselves. Change is in the season.

I lost a dear friend a couple weeks ago. Actually, "dear friend" trivializes the depth and significance of the relationship (as it does all of the most significant relationships in my life. They are always more than dear, occasionally more than friends). I will write a tribute to him when the time is right. He deserves no less. .

For those too young to remember the song, you are even younger still to know its source:

Ecclesiastes 3

1To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:2A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
3A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
5A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
7A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
8A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace

is it any wonder?

2011-01-25T16:42:00.000-08:00

A young man who is making better use of my idle chainsaw these days hiked up Mt. Ballard from Bisbee. From the top he looked down on my place and took these photos. This is pretty much what I'm all about....

holiday musings

2010-12-21T18:25:00.000-08:00

Last night, for the first time in over 600 years, a full lunar eclipse fell on the winter solstice. There's gotta be a little magic in that. I slept on my roof, as I did for the Geminids meteor shower, because my roof is the best show in town. If I had neighbors, they would refer to me as the strange lady who sleeps on her roof. Tucked in my sleeping bag with my rat-gnawed knit cap on my head, I fell asleep early and woke as the moon entered the umbra. I remained awake until the eclipse achieved totality and, as the moon drifted back into the light of the sun, I drifted off again as well. But there was a moment, when the light was hidden from the moon, there was an otherworldly second or two when I thought the mystery was within my reach.

This morning I encountered the boarder who is living in my gen-shed. I am not alone. For those who have not seen one, this is a charming little ring-tailed cat. He is not afraid of me. We are in the process, I believe, of taming each other.

Finally, may we all find the grace and wisdom to realize what abundance we have in our lives this holiday season. As I ran this morning, I reflected on all those whom I have lost over the years, many well before their time. I took in the beautiful blue Bisbee sky, the red of the surrounding hills, I took it all in and held it that much more precious because they no longer can.

. .

solar stuff

2010-12-10T16:03:00.000-08:00

My sister expressed some concerns, after learning that I compost my own manure, that I had fallen into some Ted Kaczynski-esque state of being, ready to mount my own initiative against the machine. And when I mentioned it in my Microbiology class, one of my students asked if that was something I opened with on a first date. Cute. So, let me explain- I live in the desert. I live off-grid. I have a septic tank about 300 feet down from the house at a 100 foot drop (roughly). My only water is that which I collect off my roof (~9000 gallon capacity). You do the math. Do you really think I am going to use gallons of water to flush all that distance, when I could grow something instead?? A supportive ex-Peace Corps colleague of mine, when he read my blog, wrote and told me he has a friend that digs a hole, craps in it for 6 months, plants a tree, and moves on. Sheer genius.

Solar Water Collectors

So, anyway, you can see above that my hair is not matted beyond what would be within normal range, my fingernails are stubby short, and I am relatively clean. When I go off the deep end, my descent will be more spectacular. More importantly, however, is that next to me, you can see my solar water collectors. The water is sent to my small "mechanical room" below. Terry has this set up such that I have a 10 gallon electric hot water tank attached to my 80 gallon water tank that receives the water from the rooftop collectors using a heat-exchange mechanism. If I want hot water, I heat up the small tank for a few minutes so I am not running 10 gallons of water just to get some hot stuff. No waste. Then the hot/warm water from the large tank enters the small tank as I use the preheated water. The water is pumped to the roof collector from the big tank when the temperature differential is about 10 degrees F. The hot water also circulates under my concrete slab in the lower floor to give me warmth in the winter. Even when the solar collector has read 24F on a very cold night, my water temperature in the 80 gallon tank does not dip below 70.

Sanyo HIT 210W Panels

On the small, south facing balcony roof, we have placed 4 Sanyo 210W HIT panels. They just fit. This provides all my electricity and, at this point, provides ample. The cables run down to the small shed on the back of the house that stores the batteries, controller, etc. I have enough power storage potential that, to add on, I would simply need to add 4 batteries. I still hesitate to use electricity, rarely keeping more than one light on at a time, even though Terry tells me it's free and comes from the sun. I get that, but it's like using your turn signals, if it doesn't become habit, someone will rear end you some day. So I'm the one on the empty road, late at night, with no other cars around, using her turn signal to go right..

.

Joel's Day 2010

2010-11-14T00:01:00.000-08:00

It’s just a few days away, this day that seems to mark the end of one year and the beginning of the next for me. This is the day on which I take stock, on which I measure what I have taken and what I have given, what I have dreamed and what I have realized, what I have run from and what I have faced, hoping for a balance.

The randomness and suddenness of Joel’s death allowed me to understand, intimately, that this is the day we get. Just this day. And we may not even get all of it. So, if I spend this day perseverating about what will happen tomorrow, next week, or next month; if I obsess about whether I’m thin enough, attractive enough, smart enough, hip enough, healthy enough, wealthy enough; if I dwell on all those things I can’t control that may or may not happen, then I have missed the point. It’s not that I don’t go there, I just don’t stay there.
And it’s not that I don’t have bad moments. Seven years have gone by. Early on, while it was still fresh, Joel’s death was an easy yardstick by which to measure all the trivial and unimportant events that seemed to flow by me. Even Africa in the time of HIV/AIDS, as painful as it was, was no match. Now, seven years later, I sometimes get caught up in myself. Some days I am just raw ego and heart, with scant protection from the forces around me. So, my ego gets a little bruised from time to time and my heart, well…

So, every year, between October 31, when I saw him last, and November 18, when he drew his last breath, I reflect on the 365 “this days” I have just had and what I have done with them. My life was made much more extraordinary by his death. He gave me that. In return, I do not take this day for granted. I want my life to somehow reflect the magnitude of the loss of him. I fall short, but I have definitely approached some degree of scale.

These 365 “this days” that are just ending have been marked by the evolution of this little house that is somehow more than that. Until I had Joel, I was out there, spinning- unbound but uncertain. Having a child tethered me to the planet. A child grounds you, independent of place and time. Joel’s death broke the bond and I spun out again. Six years later, I landed in this desert, in this canyon, in this place of aid, refuge, and safe harbor. It captured me and will hold a part of me here until this day ends. I may spin off again, but the tether is strong and will continue to bring me home.

Odd, I never wanted children. I lack the emotional maturity to sustain even a relationship. How much more so the stability to raise a child? Yet, from the moment he was delivered to me and placed on my exhausted belly after a challenging labor, to the day I spread some of his ashes in the Sahara Desert, he was the most magnificent thing I ever did. Likewise, I have never had the desire to own a home, to be owned by a home. I believe I am, at my very core, feral, untamed, and undomesticable, albeit a little less skittish as I get older. And yet this may be the penultimate extraordinary experience, second only to my life with Joel. I am not quite sure how I was so blessed to have both an incredible child and an astonishing space of my own, and it is possible that this one will come at some cost as well. But on this, the only day I get for sure, I am humbled and grateful.

godspeed joel. you are ever missed.

And to the boys from Baker Street, who made the transition from adolescence to adulthood in our rented little cottage in Petaluma, whose sleeping bodies I stepped over on my way to work in the morning (Xbox controllers still lying by your sides), who became men when I needed you most, I never, not for one moment, forget what you did for me. You made me better and braver than I would ever have been alone. On this and every day I get, I am grateful to you. .

perspective

2010-11-08T16:51:00.000-08:00

My space.

Some day I will have a real bed, a magical bed. Light will dance around it.

My space.

At first it seems quiet. Now I know when I hear the call of an unfamiliar bird who has moved into the neighborhood.

My space

Abrigo Canyon

a·bri·go
m.

(protección) shelter, protection, cover
figurative (ayuda) aid, protection
maritime, nautical harbor, haven

. .

a new chemistry

2010-10-15T10:45:00.000-07:00

We stained the outside stucco on Saturday, September 18, with a mixture of ferrous sulfate (common fertilizer Bonide 920 Iron Sulfate) and coffee- a recipe I had been experimenting with for months. The logistical challenges of spraying what is essentially a watery substance on the house were not trivial. And who could have predicted that the rains would start on Monday morning and not end until late Thursday? Because the reaction is a chemical one and not really a stain, the result took a couple weeks to become manifest and we were unhappy with the toll taken by the rains and our inability to fully control the process. Nonetheless, parts of the house were exactly as I had envisioned and I believed the rest to be redeemable. I asked Terry to give me a month and, if he still wasn’t happy with the result (afterall, he has built this little gem), we would paint. For me, the concept of the color emerging from the house over time, the idea that the house decides what it will be, is very appealing. So, I have been working on the areas I can access, hand-sponging the stain, much like washing the face of a child you love, with a sense of wonder and awe. An intimacy exists between me and this house, me and this land. The first photo is the house the day of the stain. Note that the mixture goes on green and takes about a week to develop. This is the house a week after a “retouch”.

Some doubted the wisdom of a fertilizer and coffee stain for the house.

How much more so, then, a metal ceiling for the downstairs? While I agree that a rusty ceiling is not to everyone’s taste, this has turned out to be perfectly aligned with my vision.

We purchased 4’X8’ sheets of flat corten (A606) metal from Corten Roofing out of Phoenix.

This metal is made using a special formula that includes copper and nickel which allows rusting to take place quickly, forming a dense layer of beautiful burgundy rust that prevents further rusting underneath. Luke Olfield, from Mile High Enterprises in Bisbee, who did my beautiful corten balcony roof, took this on.

Luke had the metal panels laminated to plywood so the ceiling wouldn’t warp, and trimmed the whole thing with C channel. I accelerated the rusting process using a simple formula of vinegar, hydrogen peroxide, and salt. I experienced a few glitches along the way (do not spray a rusting ceiling with water!).

Corten ceiling trimmed with neutralized C channel

The C channel did not rust as nicely as the corten, so I painted with with a rust neutralizer that turns the rust black.

This too has turned out well.

More about the solar soon................ .

me and my bucket

2010-10-01T13:55:00.000-07:00

I like to tell the teenagers in our program a story I learned in early recovery about a guy who walks into a room with a bucket of shit, sits down, puts his bucket down beside him, sniffs, and says, “god, it stinks here.” He then gets up, picks up his bucket, moves to a new seat, sits, sniffs, and says, “god, it stinks here, too”. The idea being that you will keep encountering your own crap unless you leave it behind.

Imagine, then, these many years later, when my bucket has become something that signifies “home”. When I moved up to this place in July of 09, a local Bisbee-ite who was also interested in off-grid, eco living, introduced me to the book Humanure by Joseph Jenkins.

The book revolutionized my life and my thoughts on composting. Since that time, I have been composting my own manure, living with my bucket in a tiny trailer. A few months ago, the café at the local laundrymat started saving their organic foods wastes and coffee grinds to add to my growing compost pile.

In all honesty, although I am pretty rugged, I never imagined collecting and using my own waste. But when Terry asked me if I wanted him to install the septic line (the tank already having been installed by the land’s previous owner), I immediately and resolutely answered, “no, absolutely not”. And although I moved into the house the day after we stained, it did not feel like home until I could move my bucket in. At some point, I may invest in one of those pricey, technological wonders called “composting toilets”, but until then, my bucket stays with me.. .

progress

2010-07-11T07:26:00.000-07:00

I have been remiss in posting and keeping people up-to-date on my little "green" house. We have turned the corner and are ready to start wrapping up the essentials, e.g. installation of PV panels, solar hot water, the rainwater catchment system, etc. I have decided to go with an iron sulfate stain to the outside stucco which should give me a reddish brown color that will go beautifully with the corten roof. For those who don't know what corten is, corten is a formula of metal that, based on its composition, which includes nickel and copper, rusts very quickly to create a top layer of beautiful burgundy rust. At that point, the rusting stops and the roof is protected. The balcony roof has been up a couple weeks and the rust is already started to progress.

After equivocating for a bit about the outside paint, I decided to go with a simple ferrous sulfate coat (commonly used as fertilizer and relatively cheap). The iron sulfate will react with the lime in the stucco to give the color. I like the idea of a house whose color is created by a chemical reaction. The house has a life of its own. And well it should.

Frank will be making my metal balcony and fixing up my staircase to the roof. The staircase to heaven, well, that will be under someone else's purview. But this will be pretty close. Frank made the beautiful metal posts that hold up the balcony and balcony roof- a simple, minimalist, and elegant look that compliments the angularity of this unusual little house. Frank doesn't like to refer to himself as an artist, but I have seen the work he does and I might beg to differ. I have given him free rein, within the overriding rubric of "simple but beautiful", so it will be fun to see what he comes up with. Frank and Peyton run the High Desert Market in Bisbee and serve up some of the best quiche in southern Arizona (among other delicacies).

As soon as the essentials are done, I will move in. I can do the floors and the insides as time and money permit.

The monsoons are starting and the air is electric.

. .

my daily drive

2010-03-13T07:20:00.000-08:00

Every morning I drive 40 miles to work. With views like these, is it any wonder I don't mind? When I came here as a teenager, I thought I had come to the ends of the earth. I thought I had arrived in hell. But something in the desert, or something about the desert took root in me. Much like the desert trees have to dig deep to find the water table, the desert found a place at my very center and has since called me back, time and time again. So here I am. So many years later. Every day I become more drawn to the mystical and magical that characterizes this place, ignoring my scientific training in favor of believing that the mountain just down the road really does have a soul. And if it were not so strikingly beautiful just to drive down my rocky road to meet the highway and head to work, I might never come down at all..

notes from my balcony

2010-02-14T18:15:00.000-08:00

pretty much says it all. .

2010-01-30T09:56:00.000-08:00

December 29, 2009.

It began with a stack of rastra block on a poured concrete floor...

January 7, 2010

January 29, 2010

Ashes to Ashes

2009-11-21T08:15:00.000-08:00

And so, my dear young son, with these ashes, all that remains of you, I bind you here. I bind you beneath this tiny house in this magical canyon, and in its very foundation. I have enough ashes remaining to fix you within these walls, as your friends did at Baker Street when they brought you home that night in a little brass box, and I will lock you into my floor and you will be a part of this forever with me. It seems heretical to tether you thus, you who epitomized freedom and adventure. However, it is just a small part of you I have saved to share this spot with me. The bulk of you was divided among your friends, who have taken you all over the world, and a small portion traveled with me on my journeys into the depths of Africa, through the souks of Morocco, to the residence of the Dalai Lama in northern India, and to the warm beaches of Kerala. And you will continue to travel with me when I take up the road again. So your ashes also shift with the sands of the mighty Sahara Desert, blowing across the dunes for all eternity, you are mixed in the oceans of South America, to pound the rocks and ride the gentle waves, and you travel in the very blood of your peers who, in their youthful exuberance, tattooed you into their tender skin to keep you close. Perhaps your spirit was just too expansive to be contained in a normal human body and you found a way to break free before your time, certainly before mine. I miss you, my dear young son. Six years and 2 days after you left us, my heart still clenches at the loss of you and the air is forced from my lungs. But my days are also full of the laughter you left me and the thrill of each new adventure. When my days are done I want nothing more than to be scattered in the air to join you, and we will laugh our ashes off as we drift across the planet...

Joel's Day

2009-11-18T09:34:00.000-08:00

On this, Joel's day, JT said it best in his blog post:

I first met Joel at the Phoenix Theater when he was probably just 13 or 14. The first conversation I remember having with Joel was about quantum physics. I’m not sure if he had finished his Calculus courses by then but he was one of the few people I’ve know that was smart enough at such a young age to understand high level math, science, history, and philosophy. My friend Tom (30 years older than Joel – and pretty smart himself) had to study before their weekly breakfasts in order to keep up with him. Joel was a master conversationalist and a master debater.
We were all surprised when Joel informed us that he was joining the military. Why would such a smart, loving, and rebellious guy want to join the army? Because what Joel was about, more than anything, was adventure.
I never got to go on any of the infamous walks with Joel but I have heard story after story of his random wanderings throughout Petaluma (and even sometimes to other towns) where magical adventure would seem to spring up out of nowhere wherever he went. If you wanted excitement and a good time Joel was someone you wanted to be around.
Joel’s house – the infamous Baker St. house – was grand central station for the brightest and most creative of his generation in Petaluma. Though I never visited the Baker St. house in its heyday I still hear it lovingly referred to with the greatest of reverence. It was the necessary incubator for so many of those young people who I now respect so greatly as adults.
Every year, on the eve of this day, there is a candle light vigil held outside of that house.
It wasn’t that long after Joel’s basic training that we got word that he had died suddenly on his bunk – his heart had failed in the same way that his fathers heart had, suddenly and without warning.
I got the word after a weekend we had spent in Tahoe celebrating my birthday. We had had the greatest of times (I won over $300 at blackjack) and Tom decided to spare us the news until we had left Tahoe.
—
Death rips through communities like a tornado. I’ve seen it many times. Joel’s death was no different. His memorial at the Phoenix was packed full of people (the Phoenix holds about 900) and the love and the grief in the air was palpable. It still is. 6 years later Joel is remembered no less for the impact that he had on so many people – especially those that were closest to him.
But with death also comes rebirth and out of Joel’s death came our relationship to his mother Alyson. I could spend a whole post on Alyson but it will suffice it to say that she is one of the most incredible people I have ever met. The relationship that Joel’s friends have developed with Alyson after his death have helped to sooth the wounds of loss on both sides.
—
In my worldview when people close to me die they become the gods of my pantheon. Each representing a different principle of life that is important to me. Each representing a spirit that I can call on and commune with whenever I need to. Joel is my wandering Taoist. He is who I look to for heart and for the capacity to be curious. He is who I look to, at times, for direction in my own aimless wanderings.
I will never forget how often I would have to run and hide from Joel’s monstrous hugs – when he would see me and yell ‘Jaayyyy Teeeeee, come give me a hug!’ and if he caught me, would smother me in his arms and say something ridiculous.
I would have loved to hear the stories about his military adventures in whatever part of the world that would have been graced by his presence.
Big love on you Joel and all that are grieving for you.
This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 18th, 2009 at 10:23 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site. . And here is the rest of it.

and so it begins....

2009-10-26T19:04:00.000-07:00

Terry is back from California (with a friend, Phil). Grady is back from Oregon. And so it's time.. We all met Saturday in the canyon and started to stake out how the little house will be set. Seeing the outline laid out in string made me realize how small it is, my tiny abode. But it will be big enough for me, big enough for all the space I need. The site is not level and Terry will have to work some wizardry to make it all happen, but this is where I want it and so this is where he wants to build it. I will be getting the rest of Joel's ashes from my sister's garage in Missouri to mix in with the foundation, that grave anniversary imminent, and so maybe we will both finally find a place to rest. I have been utterly overwhelmed with work and my online courses and I see no respite in the near future. But Terry is going to put a skylight over my head in the small motor home where I am sleeping, and seeing the stars at night will balance the urgency that dominates my day. .

2009-09-26T18:57:00.000-07:00

A friend asked me yesterday if I didn't feel afraid up here in the canyon all by myself. I never felt safer. And, with the exception of my years with Joel, I never felt more blessed. There isn't a sunset that doesn't deserve its own symphony, a sunrise that doesn't warrant its own poem. My new job, working with troubled and delinquent adolescents, has taken up much of my life lately, and I am rarely home in time to see the sun make its final pass over the Huachuca mountains. But my life, even before Joel, has been characterized by the presence of young people looking for something, looking for a place to belong. I don't pretend to have any answers for them, and the gifts they have left me as they enter adulthood have far surpassed any service I could provide. But I have had the privilege of standing on the side of the road that they travel and am grateful to be able to point the way. We are misfits, they and I, not quite fitting into a world that seems foreign. And what I have learned along the way, and what I have shared with them, is not the necessity of fitting in- why would I want them to? What I can share is a way to navigate in a world in which they might never fit and, not only be ok with it but, rather, to know that they are special and that their path is different. We all need to find a way to be in the world that doesn't conflict with the mainstream but that allows us to hold on to those things that make us unique. In adolescence that's a tall order. And so I spend my days with them and come home to this magical place where I finally fit so absolutely. .

Chicks with Chainsaws

2009-08-26T20:39:00.000-07:00

I have been up on my property for about a week now and hate to leave it. Much of my time has been spent running around taking care of logistical issues, e.g. applying for building permits, registering vehicles, getting a physical for my job, etc. The high points have been identifying and buying those things that will make it possible to live up here. I bought an old (83) Toyota 21’ motorhome to live in while the house is being built. There was an old trailer already on the property; however, it was uninhabitable (except by mice- a half inch layer of mice feces all over everything sorta brought home the understanding that I would never live there). I initially offered the trailer to Concrete Dick (yes, really, he works in concrete and will be doing some work on my house, I suspect), but subsequently decided to keep it, gut it, and use it for storage of tools, supplies, etc., while we build.

Although the motor home was a step up, it was a short step. The roof leaks through cracked old skylights and my first week up on the property was one of the rainiest all season. I have since learned about sealing leaks on fiberglass trailers and have singlehandedly replaced one of the skylights. I am waiting to replace the other one until I am sure my first job was successful. The days have been too hot to work inside the tiny motorhome (about 6.5’ wide) but, as soon as I am sure I have sealed the last leak, I will start to pull down the rotting ceiling and put up fresh paneling. I don’t want to spend too much time and money on the motorhome; however, it will be my sole residence for several months, so I want it to be tolerable. Besides, working on the motorhome gives me an opportunity to practice with some of my other new acquisitions:

I have, with some help from knowledgeable friends and acquaintances, purchased essential tools- I am now the proud owner of a set of RIGID cordless tools that includes a couple drills (I have 3 now- for what, well, I’m not sure yet), a circular saw, a reciprocating saw (sawzall), and something else. The most serious tool I bought yesterday- my Stihl chain saw, and I gotta tell you, the chain saw makes all the other tools look and feel like girly tools. I pulled the cover off the blade, knelt on the body while it was on the ground, pulled the cord, and felt the power surge up my leg. I put the chainsaw to work immediately, cutting down an invasive, spiny plant that is not indigenous to the area and is smothering the life out of other plants here. I am clearing a site where I can build a composting bin. More on that to follow…

The two trailers are about 20’ apart and I will be affixing a tarp between to two with a drain to catch water to fill a 500 gallon tank. I joined a small gym so that I could shower after my morning run (especially once I start work next week), so the rainwater catchment should be sufficient for whatever other needs arise. Until I am confident I am collecting clean water, my drinking water will come from Safeway.

To add the finishing touches, I have purchased plants that attract hummingbirds. I am drawing them to the area with feeders because the plants are still small with only a few flowers. But the hummers are catching on and have been feeding at the feeders and at the flowers after just one day. I have lots of the little guys and have decided they are more like insects than birds. In a few months, this will be hummer heaven.

Tonight is the first clear night without rain since I have been up here. It’s nice not to hear the dripping from my ceiling onto the floor for a change. It’s maybe a quarter moon, working its way to full, and impossibly peaceful out here. The desert has greened up significantly with the recent rainfall and there is much work ahead of me….

It started with an idea

2009-07-17T18:58:00.000-07:00

The idea was that I could create my own place and I could create something that wouldn't be too expensive but could still be magical.

I started with Google Sketchup 7. I played around with designs until I came up with something like this:

To be placed somewhere just like this:

Grady and Terry, my extraordinary contractor-friends, who are building

this with me, said the pentagonal portion of the roof was going to be complicated, problematic, and expensive.

Terry suggested a flat (with some lift for rainwater catchment), walk-on roof with a 3 foot parapet around it. Immediately I flashed to yoga practice, meditation, and just plain

sleeping/stargazing on this terrific flat roof, and I acquiesced immediately.

Grady and I got to work drawing up floor plans and designing the house.

Grady is functional and cost-conscious, and I am whimsical and quirky, so we had some debates and made mutual compromises:

Turning Left

2009-07-13T21:01:00.001-07:00

Some of the best advice I ever got came to me was when I was 22 and early in my recovery from, despite the young age, a pretty serious history of alcoholism and alcohol abuse. I was sitting in a meeting, sick and terrified, and heard the speaker say, “when you keep running into a wall, it’s time to turn left”. Turn left. Sheer genius.

So, after a long spring and summer when, despite what I feel are some rather significant skills and talents and a strong desire to continue to try to ease the suffering of marginalized people in disadvantaged countries, I have been utterly unsuccessful in securing employment in the Global or Public Health arena. Every failed application, every absence of the phone ringing, has fallen on me like a pounding rejection. And, to boot, I have even had to deal with outright rejection on a personal level. So, the other morning I woke up and decided to turn left.

Several weeks ago I purchased what I consider a beautiful piece of property (~19 acres) in the high desert of southeastern Arizona. Now the desert is not to everyone’s taste, but once it gets under your skin, once you sense the mystical and the extraordinary in the mountains and the skies there, it will draw you back time and time again until you surrender to it. I had hoped to get a job and have a small house built while I was overseas; however, fate was uncooperative. Consequently, I have decided to move into the small, temporary trailer up on my property in the beautiful desert canyon under the starriest skies you can imagine in the developed world, and participate in the design and construction of my small (800 sq. ft.), completely off-grid, humble yet oh-so-magical home.

As I have said before, I don’t generally keep up my blog when there is only me to write about. I am not that interesting and the point was to provide a window into other places and events that most people will never have an opportunity to see. However, there seems to be tremendous appeal these days in the prospect of living off-grid. Consequently, I thought I would post about our progress in the hopes that someone “out there” might find the information interesting and even, perhaps, useful.

I should arrive at my home site during the second week in August. Until then, I will continue to draw up the floor plans with the assistance of my good friend, Grady. The trick will be to keep the costs down while still creating some “magic” in the design. Once the floor plans are finished, I will make a little model. I will post all of this for anyone who might be interested. I downloaded Google Sketchup7, which is a 3D user-friendly drafting and architectural design program and started there. This is all new to me so, if I can do this (with a little help from my friends) I suspect any of you can.

Floor plans to come…….

a long drought

2009-01-30T03:59:00.000-08:00

I have developed a taste for mutton and horsemeat.

My contention has long been that my life has been made more interesting by the people in it. I have written of small heroes in the battle against AIDS in Africa, the goliathian NGOs that consumed all the resources, about the magic of the girls in the orphanage where I lived in Swaziland, and the many lives that slipped away, almost unnoticed. I have shared marvelous adventures traveling through Dogon country where the tiny Tellum used to live in cliffs so high they must have flown to get to their dwellings, and about the taxi driver in Morocco who drove me out into the Sahara, me believing my life was in peril. I have described the souks in Marrakesh where the tradesmen poured tea for us in dark alleys, the Erg Chebbi dune in southern Morocco where I left my son's ashes, the temples and pyramids of Egypt, and the cave monsteries in India, a long life puja with the Dalai Lama, and the women in Kerala bathing in the ocean in their colorful saris. Nothing has been more interesting than the people whose paths crossed mine, nothing has been more powerful than those who lingered for a while.

I have written little in the past year. My life has consisted of Word documents and Excel spreadsheets, of meetings and strategic planning. In and of myself, I am not all that interesting. I am starved for meaningful human contact, I am starved for meaning.

Lately, I get the sense that life is about to get more interesting.

Stay tuned.

Joel's Day

2008-11-18T04:55:00.000-08:00

And so it is upon me again. It doesn’t creep up on me, nor does it crash into me, but I wake up and it is the day that everything changed. I never know what to do to commemorate, so generally I do nothing. Nothing I could do would match its enormity. The loss required something big. And so I changed my life- I went to Africa to face AIDS, I came to Mongolia to confront the bitter cold, it would seem. Every day on this journey now is a testament that one day, one moment, one heartbeat, one life, one death changes everything. I would gladly trade my own life. Perhaps I did. My sacrifices are still too small, my inconveniences minor by comparison. But I am not done. .

This is Why

2008-09-08T20:33:00.000-07:00

“This is why”. A small comment at the end of a long post, my last post. A tiny, inconsequential thing. It started as a whispered shiver just above my toes and traveled like growing icicles up my legs, circling my spine, weighing down my arms, and traveling over my brain like microscopic, cascading, frozen dominoes, neurons shutting down with each miniature collapse. Almost 2 months of not posting, of not finding anything interesting enough to post about, and “this is why” gets me. “This is why”. It resonates, but in a cold, indifferent way. “This is why”. Anyone who knows me will be sure that, now, finally, I have gone off the deep end. What am I talking about? And yet, and yet, there’s something inside of “this is why” that is so expansive and heavy, something just out of my reach... “This is why”. It calls me, it’s right there and not there. Does anybody get this? Obviously, if you do, you don’t have the words either, it’s a knowing, and yet not knowing anything. It slipped in on a knife’s edge and I want it to stay and replicate, a seed so foreign and so familiar, leaving the sliver of a hope that I will know something someday. Metaphysical crap? Maybe. Sure. But it got inside me.

Notes From My Balcony

Maternal death in Afghanistan- reasons for going

Leishmaniasis and Afghanistan.

yes, i am. going. Afghanistan

13 million Afghans at risk of contracting Leishmaniasis, says WHO

The vector

hummer heaven

to everything, there is a season

is it any wonder?

holiday musings

solar stuff

Joel's Day 2010

perspective

a new chemistry

me and my bucket

progress

my daily drive

notes from my balcony

Ashes to Ashes

Joel's Day

and so it begins....

Chicks with Chainsaws

It started with an idea

Turning Left

a long drought

Joel's Day

This is Why

yes, i am. going.

Afghanistan