Notes From My Balcony

recovery

2013-02-10T16:04:00.001-08:00

Afghanistan kicked my ass. For each month someone spends in a conflict zone, at the end they should be required to spend a day in quiet retreat where they have nothing more important to do than just breathe. And they should be surrounded by people whose only purpose is to remind them to breathe. Just breathe, dear. Instead, they come home to people who either don’t recognize this tense, harsh stranger who has returned or who have forgotten that this person was anything but that.

War is difficult enough. Being in a place where people want to kill you, where the people around you want to kill someone, and where small children and innocent women die, leaves one on edge 24 hours a day. Just outside of your awareness, you wait for the worst to happen, hyper vigilant even in sleep. Add to that the insanity of working within government bureaucracies that are inefficient and mean-spirited, where time and money are squandered both frenetically and mindlessly, where the purpose you came with dissolves like the Afghanistan desert sand through your fingers. And you are compelled to work with allies whose corruption is tolerated so that a larger purpose can be served, alongside a culture where the worst imaginable atrocities, especially those visited upon women, are commonplace and often celebrated.

Then you come home… some come home to face joblessness, indifference, even derision and disgust. Some return injured, crippled, or maimed. Those of us who were spared the physical injuries agonize for those who weren’t. We will do so for a lifetime. Others, like myself, come home to personal lives that are not the same. Although the relationships you left behind have remained in suspended animation for a year or so in your own mind, the people you left behind have moved on. It’s a cruel paradox of time that invites disparities in expectations. I can imagine how difficult it must be for the person who has to deliver the news that they just don’t feel the same way anymore to someone coming back from war or a humanitarian disaster. Imagine, then, being on the receiving end of that news.

For me, all this resulted in a descent into a darkness I had not experienced for a couple decades, a foray into Dante’s fifth circle of hell where “the sullen lie … withdrawn into a black sulkiness which can find no joy in God or man or the universe.” I lost interest in everything around me; sleep and hunger eluded me. Where I might have turned to running, which has held me fast for many years, a back injury I sustained in Afghanistan precluded me from engaging that trusted, reliable ally. It was the best I could do to get out of bed each morning, but get out of bed I did. I put one foot in front of the other and showed up for life, devoid of interest, joy, or hope.

As a neuroscientist, I understand in a very real way, the signs and symptoms of classical depression. I had them all. As a neuroscientist, I also know how very physiological/biochemical classical depression is. Once you’re in it, there’s little you can do without external intervention. In 3 weeks I dropped almost 30 pounds. At 5’7” and 100 lbs, I looked ghoulish. I did force myself to eat and was fortunate for the people who noticed and cared enough to force me to eat as well. I went through the motions, hoping something would take hold. This is not sadness; this is not grief; this is a complete shutdown of the psyche, a downward spiral from which there is no escape. I know that medication is effective for getting people to the point where they can move again and start the road to recovery, but I was unwilling to take that step.

Fortunately, an unexpected event turned everything around in an instant. I had a propane leak in the small tank close to my bed and I woke the other morning to propane asphyxiation. I was violently ill, vomiting ceaselessly, unable to catch my breath. But in that brief period, the shock to my system was apparently sufficient to release the neurochemicals needed to reset my baseline, perhaps analogous to ECT or exposure therapy. From that moment on, I was fine. Just like that, I was a completely different person, embarrassed by my insanity over the past 2 months, but no longer insane. Just like that. I went hiking yesterday, looking for fossils (abundantly rich in my limestone-laden backyard) and started thinking about the future and hiking New Zealand. I rode down from my canyon this morning, my soul open and devouring my surroundings, intoxicated by the beauty of it all. The hurt and anger buried deep inside has, to a great extent, been supplanted by a poignant sense of regret and has taken a back seat to joy and a renewed sense of purpose. The perseverating self-loathing is gone. I have been released. The disappointment remains, but is no more than that, and rises to join a deeper understanding of the unfortunate events that gave rise to my situation.

A Buddhist tenet says that all things are interdependent arising. So it was with this.

I am grateful for the people who noticed, cared, and stayed just out of sight but ever ready to step in if needed.

This is me, moving on.

What I have written here is deeply personal and revealing. But, as I said in my previous post, “I would not be the first person to come back from 14 months in a war zone to some cruel and bitter disappointment.” Although I do not advocate propane leaks as treatment for depression, it sometimes helps to know one is not alone and others have gotten through this. Feel free to share. And be generous with love, patience, and understanding for anyone coming back from a conflict zone or a humanitarian disaster.. .

homecoming

2013-01-13T07:44:00.002-08:00

I would not be the first person to come back from 14 months in a war zone to some cruel and bitter disappointment. It happens so often; it's almost cliché. You come back already disillusioned and discouraged, and then…. But my little house in the canyon was waiting for me- patiently, faithfully- a few glitches, but nothing that could not be remedied.

It has been colder and grayer than I recall and, while I know there’s no truth in it, the coldness in my heart has been reflected in my surroundings and it seems I have drawn it to me and wrapped myself in it. Perhaps the spring thaw is just on the horizon.

On the morning of new year’s eve, I woke to the thick and welcome silence of snow. After 14 months of helicopters, generators, and controlled detonations, in a camp of 3500 other people, that morning I woke to perfect stillness.

We have started work again on this sweet little house. We are moving a wall in so I can have a window seat to sit on and watch the birds feed.

Yesterday we installed the wood stove and I finally have heat. I will be putting my chainsaw to good use.

postscript:

Cappadocia, Turkey

2012-04-11T09:12:00.000-07:00

Oddly, an old blog of mine was sent out a couple days ago, making me think I should attempt to keep a little better in touch. I have been in Turkey for a short R&R, arriving in Istanbul just in time for the Easter break crowds. Istanbul has a great deal to off; however, after standing in long lines for the better part of three days and pushing my way through crushing crowds to get back to my less-than-desirable hostel room, I hopped the overnight bus to Cappadocia, finding a lovely hostel in a tiny town called Goreme that looks a lot like Bisbee would look if it were carved out of rock. Words and photos (video below) do not do this place justice. I only have 3 days here, and it is not enough. One needs at least a week or so to hike around and visit the little towns that pepper the area, marveling at all the cave homes, some of which are still inhabited. I would love to stay a month in a little cave home here. I took a hike through Ihlara Canyon, also dotted with cave dwellings and churches, that was very reminiscent of Pays Dogon in the Bandiagaras Cliffs in Mali, as well as the Anasazi cliff dwellings in the southwestern US. I hope the video link works. I will post another of Istanbul before I leave to return to Afghanistan.

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

requiem for bill

2011-02-20T06:50:00.000-08:00

I wrote this tribute almost exactly two years ago, on 2/20/11. I held it for editing and it slipped away from me. I am resurrecting it now because it reminds me of why I do service. Remembering is part of my recovery from serving in Afghanistan. Remembering is a part of reconnecting with myself- who I was, who I became.

The best stories can't be told.
And the ones that can will become the stuff of legend.

Amidst the historical and all-encompassing uprisings in the Middle East, the passing of a remarkable man yesterday went unnoticed.

When Bill found me many years ago, I was just 21 years old. My worn out underwear was safety-pinned together and the hem of my skirt was held up by scotch tape. I had ulcerative colitis from having consumed, in a few short years, copious quantities of scotch, when I could afford it, and Ripple, when I could not. Dirty, diseased, and afraid, I had spent almost every night of the previous three years vomiting up the night's activities and praying to die. My small apartment had not been cleaned for a year and the dishes filling the sink had become rusty and molded. To this day, I am not quite sure of the mechanics of cheap porcelain dishes rusting...

Bill taught me the value of service, dragging me to AA meetings all over L.A. and West Hollywood, insisting that I, and a cadre of misfits whom he sponsored, earn our stripes by setting up the chairs before each meeting and taking them down afterward, sweeping the floors, making the coffee, and, worst of all nightmares, greeting people as they came in the door. I felt unworthy to do the first few tasks and unable to do the last. I had to go up to the podium at Gramercy Place to accept my 30-day sobriety chip, praying that no one noticed that, in my terror, I had peed my pants.

Some come into AA and "get it" right away. They clean up, find god, and become circuit speakers. And then there were "Bill's Babies"- the mavericks, the recidivists, and the miscreants. His first acolyte, Tommy O., used to climb up onto the roof and howl at the moon. And this was sober. People just glanced sideways at Bill and the rest of us at that time, shaking their heads in sad agreement that we didn't stand a chance.

I spent the time between meetings (as my good friend Dave recently reminded me) painting my fingernails, a task that took painstaking effort and filled enough hours to get me to the next meeting. My hands shaking so badly, I would start at the knuckle just above the nail and work my way down. Finished with the painting, I would carefully, with unsteady hands, take a Q-tip dipped in polish remover and remove all the excess from the knuckle to the nail bed. I haven't worn nail polish since then. Along those same lines, Bill would send a couple of his sponsees to one of the busy intersections on Wilshire Boulevard to count cars, knowing they needed a task to sustain them to the next meeting and were incapable of much else. But they have their own stories to tell.

Bill explained the concept of service to me. He told me that there would come a time when everything and everyone would fail me, the people, the program, even god (with whom Bill had issues and of whom Bill had doubts, although he was one of the most spiritual men I would ever meet) would fail me, and the only thing that would save my life is saving someone else's (because, in the end, the only life we really ever save is our own). He warned me that, if service did not become second nature, I would not be able to fall back on it when the time came.

Service is the genius of the AA program. All we have as recovering drunks, our greatest contribution to the newcomers, is our experience, strength, and hope. And so we sit in meetings and talk about ourselves in the hopes that someone just coming in will identify with our histories and find enough in common to conquer his or her own fears and come back to another meeting. The danger in this approach is the tendency to become myopic and self-absorbed, as we go on and on ad nauseum about how difficult our sobriety is, how screwed up our relationships are, how cruel our bosses are, how little the world understands about us, and so on. So the founders gave us service, the opportunity to rise above our tragic little lives by reaching out to help another drunk, which can be extrapolated to simply helping anyone who has it a little worse than we do. And someone always does.

And, in watching Bill's devotion to his fellow drunks, I got it. Bill could be harsh and irreverent, and people did not seek him out until desperate, fearful of his often brutal directness. He could be tough; but he was rarely wrong. He told me once that everyone is screaming for justice when we all should be begging for mercy. Bill had a fondness for women and the ponies but, independent of those occasional excesses (although even those were often intertwined in his message somehow), everything he did was calculated to be instructive. On one occasion, he insisted his group of grown, gruff, cynical disciples go with him to see the movie, Bad News Bears. I wish I had been there to see the look on their faces as they shared the ticket line with noisy, eager 9 and 10 year olds. There was a message in there, you see. Things that seemed so simple always took on a deeper and more profound significance with Bill.

I watched and learned. And service I did. Service, in its different forms, sustained me through the death of my alcoholic father in my early sobriety, just at the point when I began, through my own alcoholism and recovery, to understand and forgive. Service sustained me through the collapse of my very brief marriage and the subsequent death of my ex-husband, who loved me with a depth of which I was incapable, and who gave me a quirky, bright, and magnificent child.

As a single parent, fearful but no longer pissing my pants, I started college at the age of 31. I never went earlier because I never thought I was bright enough. I lost track of Bill during that time; he had relocated to New York and I moved forward in my life. I graduated college summa cum laude and was accepted at almost every graduate program I applied to. After graduate school, I turned down an opportunity to do a postdoctoral fellowship at Harvard because I felt my son, who had been dragged around from place to place to serve my needs, deserved a chance to finish his adolescence in a small, lovely community in the Bay Area. And they were the best of times. I was consumed with my fascinating academic research and my house was always filled with a core group of bright, unconventional, and charming adolescent boys with whom Joel could finally experience a sense of true belonging. I had lost touch with Bill and, as a single parent and academic researcher, service work would have been a luxury I simply could not afford in those years. But I never, not for one minute, forgot who I was, where I started, and who gave me that chance.

About 5 years into our time in northern California, I met a guy in the gym who said he got sober quite some years earlier in Santa Monica. I asked him if he had heard of Bill. His lip curled into an unpleasant snarl as he replied, "that's the bastard who made a move on my wife (by then ex-wife)." I said, "yeah, that would be Bill. Do you have his contact info?" I never got a response. Everyone loves a tragic and flawed hero (except ex-husbands, perhaps), because the hope is fostered that, as damaged as we are, we too can aspire to greatness. Bill, roguishly handsome and equally charismatic, had several wives over the years, and at least twice that many girlfriends (again, the best stories can't be told); however, Sheri, the pretty young redhead who looked like a ballerina, had to have been the most significant of his loves. At one time or another, it seemed everyone in LA AA had lived with Bill and Sheri for a period of time in their recovery. Even me. And he lost her, tragically, to relapse and, eventually, to a fatal overdose. And Bill carried on, helping more drunks get sober.

And one day, that time came for me- the day Bill was talking about- when it all collapses around your feet. On November 18, 2003, as I was negotiating a faculty position in Arizona, my magnificent son, who had gone off to serve in the Army Reserves, suffered a sudden and fatal heart attack. My darkest hour had arrived and sitting in a corner eating Valium had been taken off the table those many years ago. My only option was to go right through the center of it. My son's friends stepped up and put together a memorial service, knowing I did not have the emotional strength or will to do so myself. My colleagues at work, and from academic institutes around the country who knew me, served as a source of support, with emails, cards, and flowers. And, when color started to come back to my world and my legs were no longer shaky, I knew exactly what to do. I stood up, brushed myself off, looked at life square on, and said, bring it on. I knew I had taken the worst that life would ever deal me, and I had persevered. And in gratitude, remembering my roots, knowing how and why I persevered, I kicked into gear. I turned down the faculty position, joined the Peace Corps, and went to Africa to do HIV outreach and education. I was sent to the country with the highest HIV prevalence in the world- 38.6% of the adult population was HIV positive. And when we landed on the ground, treatment was a pipe dream.

Three years watching Africa die puts everyones' difficulties in perspective. My loss was nothing compared to years of suffering followed by the agonizing, senseless deaths that Africa experiences. Joel's death was quick, and probably relatively painless. In Africa I sat with mothers as they watched their 18 and 20 year olds die from AIDS-related cancers, pneumonia, and TB, without the benefit of medication to ease their pain.

In 2007, I returned to California and went in search of Bill. I wanted to share my story and to thank him for giving me the tools I needed to survive, tools I have passed on to anyone who is struggling and is seeking succor. Stay sober, do service. I posted notes on the Bulletin Boards of AA meetings with my phone number, hoping someone would call with information about him. And they did. We had a wonderful reunion before I was off again- this time to Mongolia for a year to help set up HIV programming for commercial sex workers and at-risk youth. I saw Bill again this August, as he was recovering in the hospital from removal of a large pancreatic tumor, as well as the removal of his spleen and part of his colon. I received the rare and highly coveted "attagirl". Finally, I saw Bill again this week, privileged to be included with a his two adoring neices, a couple long-time AA colleagues, and his fiercely loyal and devoted friend Mark, as we sat with him on his final journey. Mark, who credits his 22 years of sobriety to Bill, was with him in those last few minutes yesterday, as the rest of us gave them the room, and I can only imagine the difficult journey he took with Bill in those last moments. Returning to the room, I kissed Bill's lifeless cheek and whispered "thank you" in his unhearing ear. Within an hour I was in my old pickup truck, making the long drive back to Arizona.

I woke up this morning, unable to lift myself from my air mattress bed, in this little house in this magic place where I have finally set down roots. But, as I wrote to one of my dearest friends here, "The cries of hungry birds have coaxed me from the safety of my sheets, where i had hoped to remain until a better picture of the world presented itself. The sun is slowly emerging from behind dark clouds, reminding me that light follows dark as much as life follows death. I could have stayed in bed forever, comforter over my head, your [gift] under my pillow. But, once again, i find myself in a position where i have to take a deep breath, puff up my frightened little chest, face life with a bravery i don't really possess, and silently shout out into the void, 'bring it on.'"

As with my son's death, I don't know why the earth doesn't implode to fill such a tremendous vacuum. But, as long as it doesn't, I will be out there doing service for whatever time is left to me and spreading the gospel of Bill.

godspeed, bill.

give me your poor
your maladjusted
your sick and your beat
and your sad and your busted
give me your has-beens
give me your twisted
your loners your losers
give me your black-listed.
lyrics by Dory Previn from Mary C. Brown and the Hollywood Sign
. .

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.