The Making Of All Things

     Wrestling with the concept of moving on, I have had to look at the reality of leaving behind the ashes of my late husband, the body of Sapa, our dog, and my uterus (That’s another story).  All were buried with good intentions, promises and tears.  In my mind, all would be turned over to the care of the next owner of this land.  That is until I realized the possibility of someone purchasing this land who had no intention of living here, only growing marijuana here.

     The fact that many came with those plans for the land left me with the guilt that I am reneging on my responsibilities to these once living beings, as well as the vows Y and I had made when we dedicated this corner of the word as a healing center.  We offered seminars like, “Your Footprints are Your Own” and “Talking to A Stone:”, plus Reiki classes.  We were hosts to groups from the Bay Area who came for retreats from AA and NA.  We sponsored regular Inipi and pipe ceremonies, as well as offered space for Yuwipi. 

     My prayers softened from demanding someone to live on the land much as we had lived here to someone who would live here and like the house and ecosystem.  I could leave at least with a clearer mind.  Someone has come with that intention, and I am thrilled.  Now I have had to find my best way to turn it over to her, with good heart.

     Early in our time on the land, Y planted two cedar trees.  He wanted a constant supply of this sacred leaf for smudging.  One has grown well and needed limbing last year to comply with the requirements for fire control.  I dried the branches then stripped the needles into a box.

     As I worked on this process, it came to me that this tree was nourished by the Earth and the Earth had been nourished by everything which had been buried within her.   She’s the real deal with regards to recycling and reusing.  Then I felt the sorrow she must feel from all the toxic chemicals known to have been buried into her soil and streams.  I was grateful I had been able to add the love of my dog and late husband into her being.

     They had become mulch, much like Ernie, the oak leaf, in my newest short story, Living On A Limb.  They were part of the bushes and trees and ultimately the air I was breathing and not just here, but everywhere.  They were transformed.

     And I realized I could live anywhere.  I could be touched by their essences where ever I went.  In a way, as I released my limited view of their burial sites, I set them freer, as well as myself.

You CAN Teach an Old Gal Some New Tricks

     Housekeeping is not one of my fortes, but keeping three bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, and living room staged for perspective buyers for seven months has taught me a few lessons.

     I found it almost impossible to empty the windowsills of statuary and mementos I’d received from friends and giveaways over the years.  I delayed the process until after I’d sorted through the pottery collection and sold or gave away various pieces I hadn’t used in forever.  Then the thought came to me that I hadn’t used all the candle holders displayed here and there.  I decided to store away my very favorite ones and pass out the remaining 'chatchkees' to friends who visited.  The women of my New Moon Circle received crystals and once I got into the swing of it, I enjoyed watching people discover their own treasures among all that had been mine.  Lesson:  Less is more

   That clearing of the surfaces is what led me to feel the spaciousness of my living room.  Removing all the items that had been hanging in the windows let in more light too.  The increased light and space led to another level of calmness to the point now that a bit of squirrely energy sits in my belly when too much is left on the kitchen table, the side tables or the dressers.  I even have to restack piles into better order in my office these days, rather than let papers just hang out.  Lesson:  Clean horizontal surfaces reduce stress.

   With my mind having its bright and dull patches, I discovered myself agreeing with me on permanent homes for, not just the keys, but thimbles, sewing utensils, my hair brush, purse, and bills.   I can find most things again, although shoes are rascally fellows who don’t seem to want to stay in their corner of the hall or bedroom.  I have to work harder on them.  Lesson: Use it and put it back in its place

   I’ve found my various enterprises like to hang out together.  Knitting likes its own bag as does the scrap quilt project.  Each writing assignment feels more complete when all the materials are in one folder and a three ring binder.  When a piece of paper surfaces with writing for the health center newsletter or one of the several novels or shorts stories I’m working on, I don’t shuffle it anymore.  It goes with its friends, at least by the end of the day.  Lesson:  Don’t hide it or let it slide

   I have several paper bags for those items I used to puzzle over.  Now each item has five seconds to identify itself so its destination can be judged: thrift store, packing box, transfer station, burn pile. No more saved round plastic tubs from the grocery store, either.   I’m using canning jars of all sizes as refrigerator storage.  Lesson: A Little consciousness goes a long way

   When the bags are full, they are transported out to the car for distribution.  I don’t set aside the questionable anymore or put them into a corner or let them take up residence in a drawer.  Lesson: Keep it moving out the door.

   The overall teaching is simple.  “I’m moving on” and so is all my stuff.

Decisions, Decisions, Again and Again

After months of cleaning out-buildings and the old trailer, of throwing away or recycling tools and hoarded supplies we kept just in case the end of the world fell around our ears and we had to fend for our existence, I am now tackling closets.  What I realize is that, sigh, I’ve gotten down to my stuff.  This is like the term ‘cutting to the quick’, that painful edge where skin attaches to nerves.  This is the place where I have to realize I’m never going to do all the projects I’ve planned, and it’s startling.  I’m looking at material and patterns, beads and gems and wire, leather, acrylic paints and brushes and stretched canvases.  I had so many dreams of creativity.  Now I wonder how much time is there for me to complete any of it.

            I can no longer deny the end of my life.  After losing Linda and Yuwach and many friends, death is really the end of this lifetime.  Whatever comes next is a philosophical discussion, or a spiritual one.  The real thought is to understand, when I leave this body to wherever, that’s it!!!  All my projects are halted at whatever stage of accomplishment they may be in.  So the question is simple, “What do I want to complete?”  And I can get into quite a muddle about that one.

            The novels?  I want to finish those because I want to tell those stories.

            The genealogical exploration?  Possibly, as that could be good for the family.

            So no more leather making sandals or moccasins, but, wait, maybe I might want to make a small bag or two

            And no more beadwork, except maybe some edging here and there.  And perhaps some earrings or a necklace.  But I don’t want to supply the world with aura enhancing pendants.

            I don’t need to paint the famous portrait of anyone, but if the spirit moves me to splash some acrylic colors around, I don’t want to have to go out and buy all the supplies.

            Likewise I want all the colors of material available when I get a crazy idea for a baby quilt or pillowcase or just sewing strips, which I still find soothing on my treadle machine.

            All this becomes a problem of space and does not contribute to downsizing.  My storage locker is already half full, and I haven’t even moved furniture.

            So here I am.  What to give up?  What to keep?  It was easy with Y’s stuff and all the duplicates from the motor home and my mom’s apartment.

            Now it’s real.  Just as real as end of life planning.  Just as real as the decision about, “Do I really want to move?” which seems to be more about my having cold feet all of a sudden.

            It’s all up for rethinking again, and I will probably vacillate a few more times before something finally happens.

The Selling Process

     Years ago when I was pregnant with my first child and my first husband was facing an overseas transfer, we put our mobile home up for sale.  I can remember the tension growing as weeks passed and no one made an offer on our 10 foot wide, wood-paneled home.  He would stand at the front window over the kitchen sink, looking at the road that angled through Green Acres Trailer Park asking, “Doesn’t anybody want to buy my mobile home?”

     I don’t remember being that anxious over finding a buyer when I sold my Watsonville three bedroom home perched at the back of a cul de sac.  It seemed to sell in no time, especially with the help of the neighbors who passed the word to friends.

     Selling my current home and acreage now is a mixture of confidence and anxiety.  I do believe it’s time for me to come off this mountain.  I know I no longer want to pull maintenance on the generator, clean the two-story chimney, police the long stretch of ditches, or carry a saw in the car in case a tree comes down over the road in a storm.

     Making that decision has taken what seems like an eternity as I’ve loosened the grip of all the reasons why I and my second husband relocated here and built this  house from scratch.  The reasons were logical at the time, since we both were in our 30s with vim and vigor and ideals.  The ideals remain, and I search each day for the energy and desire to continue caring for all the details of the systems designed to maintain my comfort while I live ‘off the grid’.

     I still desire of living with intention but am resolved to express it in other ways.  I’m ready to develop a life style where I continue to conserve electricity and water, recycle, reuse, and reduce waste.

     Because there have been less than a handful of interested buyers with no offers, I sometimes want to ask the same question my first husband did in 1970 in Colorado.  It’s not a lament.  I perceive my question more as an announcement every morning when I take out the food offering to the resident ravens.  Then I return to sorting through out-buildings and closets and drawers.  Someone will buy someday, when it’s time.