well, what can i say?

I’ve been accumulating little bits of stories here and there for my blog, some which I’ve actually written and others that are just memory scraps filed under “bloggable”. It’s just hard to get it all on line, or all into words, or in a frame that reflects the mica-like layering of all the meaning. But then, of course, it’s still just mica.

I could tell you about the day I got really dehydrated, the cows that stare me down on my running route, my experience of working in an all-male kitchen revue, or my flirtation with my neighbor who’s head is the size of my torso. But, hell, I don’t know what you want to hear about, I don’t know how to choose.

I sometimes find myself wondering how it is I got here, to this funny little town in the middle of the southwest, surrounded by pine nut trees and barberries, rattlesnakes and white weasels, cliff dwellings and horse farms. I eat dinner with my housemates as if I’ve been doing it for years, and then remember that I’ve lived here only a month. I can’t tell if I’m in the right place, or if I’m just in shock.

I have a job, I suppose that’s useful. I’m a cook, at the local health food store. I make all those lovely dishes that you take to picnics or potlucks or your place of work when your body asks for something a little more nutritious than traditional fast food. I chop a lot of carrots, and even more celery, and I wait for the day that I’ve been there long enough to make new suggestions. I’m learning, though, how not to cut off my thumb after 5 hours of standing over a cutting board, and how to speak kitchen with aspiring young sous chefs. I hear a lot of French, for sure.

I’m discovering the joys of being at home. This is very new for me. For instance, it’s a Saturday night as I write this, and I’m alone, on the floor in front of the wood stove, soaking up the warmth and watching the snow fall outside. This very morning, I went for a run and then had a long, leisurely breakfast of french toast, eggs and kale with two kind houseguests, and then read a book for a few hours. I can’t tell you about the last time I did this. I so rarely ever hang out at my house.

But my experiences, I suppose, are not me. They inform me, but they don’t define me. They contribute to me, but they don’t create me. I have them, but I am not them. And I may not choose them, but I choose what they mean, and ultimately how they impact me.

And still, in the face of all this creative freedom, I find that I want some sort of consistency, a routine, a predictable outcome here and there, both in what I see and in what I feel. I want to know something about the world around me, and my relationship to it all. I want it to be certain. And I want someone to tell me that, indeed, it is the way I see it.

Perhaps that someone can just be me. What do you think?

waiting for good snow

driving into town this morning, i looked towards the la plata mountains (i always feel funny typing that....it just seems wrong to put "the" in front of another article, even though it's in another language and it's a proper noun), i noticed that the snow we got a few nights ago has receded into the crevices and shadowed contours of the peaks now, with little left anywhere else. we haven't seen any snow yet on the mesa floor,and only flakes in the sky downtown. the forecast is made up of a dozen suns, and a big ZERO in the chance of precipitation section. Everyone seems to be squirming here in Durango. For many people, the lack of snow is equivalent to the lack of fun, money, and energy. some folks even go so far as to make predictions about the number of people suffering from depression using the average daily temperature and the accumulation of snow to date as measures.

I like snow, but it hasn't been a part of my life for the past five years. i'm more impacted by the shortened days, the lack of leaves on the trees, the cold stuck in the marrow of my bones after trying to find my truck in the dark night. it's true, it's all a little more tolerable when there's snow on the ground, and there is something magical about walking across hundreds of thousands of perfectly shaped crystals, and hearing the squeaky crunch of them fitting together in compaction. but i don't get how snow, for some here, is the raison d'etre. and that everything else is just a practice of patience. for them, i hope it snows soon. for me, i just hope it snows on my birthday.

the flip-spin on things

Well, it's official. Mercury is in retrograde.

I think it started yesterday, about 2 pm mountain time, because within a matter of 3 minutes, my computer lost power, the i pod stopped playing, and my cell phone was disconnected from service (a day earlier than scheduled).

But i think mercury in retrograde isn't necessarily a bad thing. we all tend to associate it with glitches in communication, but i think its technically just communications that go differently than we expect. so, if you look at it this way, there's ample opportunity for unexpected GOOD communication to happen here, too.

Like, for instance, something switched dramatically for me last night. i felt lighter, and i saw all sorts of things i could do for myself in my evening alone. so i built a fire in the woodstove, got it really toasty in the living room, and did yoga as i watched the sun melt orange and yellow into the purple mountains. i made a tasty dinner and ate it in the glow of the fire and a few candles, listened closely to newly recorded music when my housemate returned from a late night hootenany. I realized, for the first time in a while, that i was not plagued by inner voices reminding me of my short comings. i've started to hear other things instead.

in the middle of the night, i could hear music outside my window. i opened it a crack, and the cold fall air gently cascaded across my bed. it felt good. i laid back down and listened for the music. it came in waves: a kind of soft, descending scale of notes that crescendoed and then disappeared. eventually, it would come again, sometimes in a different key. I enjoyed this music for nearly 20 minutes before i realized that it was the sound of trucks on Rte 160 nearly 6 miles away.

this morning, i heard clearly the things my spirit wanted to do today. it had nothing to do with the mechanical, list making, survival center that's been running many of my activities lately, rather, it came from a place of self-interest, curiosity, creativity, and completion. i got up and did work that i've avoided for weeks, and made phone calls without the dread that had kept them from happening earlier in my week. i started researching a topic for a local environmental radio spot. i planted bulbs in the yard. i made plans to go to the local hot springs. i took a walk down by the river and watched the various flying styles of the birds against the coral-orange cliffs. it all sounds normal, but it feels different. everything's more rich. i feel more consistently engaged than i've been in some time.

Perhaps this is what it feels like to let it move from the inside out.

Disappearing Acts

A month or two ago, I made a trip across the desert from Colorado to California. I took the scenic route on the little red roads on the map, channeling me through canyonlands and high altitude pine forests, under rich blue skies and puffy clouds. I played my music loudly, and rolled down the windows to let the wind charms inside my cab. it was blissful. i felt guided by spirits as the day moved towards evening.

Then I looked at the gas gauge.

I made it to Flagstaff, AZ before the needle dipped beneath the red zone, and my heart, once hopeful, now slowed its rhythm to relief. I got out of my truck and commenced the gas-getting ritual.

It's pretty much always the same routine: you know, take off the gas cap, put it in a reliable location, put in the nozzle, push a few buttons, pump the gas. maybe you clean the windshield (i do) or check the tire pressure. It's you and your automobile, and everything feels normal.

The pump clicked, and my tank was full. i put the nozzle back in its holster, and turned to put my gas cap on.

There was no gas cap.

I reflected on my routine: had i inadvertently made a change? I looked inside my truck: no cap. I looked on top of the pump: not there, either. I searched underneath my truck, and then in the trash, again in my truck, and then, i walked the entire perimeter of the gas station three times. No gas cap.

Somebody's got to be fucking with me.

I went into the convenience store adjacent to the gas lot. No one was there save the attendant, so, bewildered, I told her my story, with some strange hope that she'd tell me it happened there a lot, and that it wasn't about me.

She just stared at me like i was a crazy person. "Sorry," she said.

I went back to my car, and wondered if i could continue driving with my tank open. i saw visions of my truck engulfed in a fire ball, and the shadow of my crispy body still trapped behind the wheel. This was tragic.

I started to cry. "Universe!!" I yelled. "What are you trying to tell me??? Am i supposed to stay in flagstaff? Should I have never left colorado? am i taking my mobility for granted? WHAT!?@!"

I got no answer.

A full 15 minutes passed before i realized that, perhaps i could just let go of my perfect gas cap, the one that came with my truck, and perhaps I could go get another one.

a calm came over me. i drove up the road, about 200 yards, and there was a Checkers Auto Part Store. I walked in and immediately saw a wall full of gas caps. Two minutes of looking and $4.79 later, I was on the road again.

I still don't know why this happened to me, and why it all seemed so incredibly significant at the time. But I'm reminded that nothing is supposed to go the way I think it's supposed to go, and I need to be grateful for all the times that it does. I can't always expect an explanation. I just have to trust that there is a way (maybe not the way i first saw) through everything, and really, it will be okay.

The One and Only

A friend called the house the other day and asked for “Foster” and my housemate was momentarily stumped. “You haven’t trained them to call you Foster yet?” my friend asked. I realized that there was little reason for them to call me Foster. Despite the various potlucks, outings, and celebrations I’ve attended, I’ve yet to meet an Amy.

How about that?

I’m sure it’s just a matter of time, but for now, I’m the only known Amy in Durango. I’ve been asking around, even. “I haven’t met another Amy!” I declare. “Do you know any?” I’m met with head scratching, cell phone list searching, and casual conversations with neighboring folks. No one has been able to produce an Amy in Durango.

What does it all mean?

Purgatory

Dia de Los Muertos occurred last week. “the veil is thin,” everyone kept telling me. “the spirits are closer,” they asserted. I’ve been alive for 31 years now, and have experienced as many opportunities to communicate with the dead. But I’ve never been on the Colorado Plateau at this time of year. It is one of the most unchanged pieces of earth on the planet, geologically speaking. While volcanoes have burst through the earth’s crust, and fault lines have given way to mountain ranges in other places, the Colorado Plateau has remained relatively flat and inactive, save its action of rising up in elevation and turning counter clockwise in relation to the surrounding plate. At one point, the northern edge tilted up, allowing rivers to run fervently southward, and carve canyons through the unaltered layers of earth. With history exposed, this circular piece of the planet rises towards the heavens, and spins against the direction of time. the spirits have greater access to this land.

And then there’s the river.

Translated, Animas means Soul. When I arrived, I was immediately charmed by the name of the body of water flowing through Durango: the river of souls. How rich! Then I was told that the actual name was longer, and included adjectives that might change the nature of things. The souls that this river moves, the ones moving through this landscape, are lost souls.

So, perhaps unknowingly, I invited the three dead men to visit. Before I went to bed, I expressed my gratitude for being here and asked to see more clearly the way in which I could best serve myself and my new community. I closed my eyes, and found myself in a crowd of souls.

I could go into details, but it will suffice to say that I became entangled in the psychological turmoil of 3 different men as they held fast to things they had loved in their lives, or things they about which they felt incomplete. I went through every emotion involved in each man’s unique situation. I felt the loss and the longing, the unresolved conflict, the desperation and the agony. It sucked.

I woke up exhausted. My chest felt as though it had been split open, and my head was heavy with realization: I have a lot of letting go to do.

Over the past six months, I left my home, my job, and a lot of structure in general to see what the world might show me if I just gave up all my preconceived notions about people, places, security, and how things work. What it’s shown me is that, beneath my preconceived notions, I have even more preconceived notions. Many of them are concerned with how I think I should be in relation to the world, what feelings I should and shouldn’t have, and so on. I guess that, in some sense, letting go of so many external concepts has given way to the ones I hold internally. So now I get to work myself from the inside out. Sounds like a good winter practice.

I think I’ll start by playing with fire.

Test

So, I just stopped by the Durango School District Office to put in an application to be a substitute teacher. "It's easy!" my friend, elise, told me. "you just fill out a form, and then go to an orientation where they show you a video." "on what?" i asked. "General models for managing kids that want to get away with everything?" "no," she replied. "it's about how to wash your hands."

hmm. i suppose that could be important with kindergarteners.

she didn't tell me about the little Knowledge Test I'd have to take. It was more like a WASP cultural literacy test. Mind you, Durango has a large white population, but there's also a good representation of Latino and Native American folks here, too. So when test questions asked me things like, "True or False: A.D. means 'in the year of Our Lord' ", I kind of freaked out. The font of the quiz indicated that it probably hadn't been modified since perhaps 1950, which was before "The Mismeasure of Man" was written, but, nonetheless, it emphasized so much of what is wrong with schools. if a prospective teacher is evaluated on whether or not s/he is able to correctly identify the meaning of a Christian reference before getting a job, what are they teaching and expecting the kids to know?