The Sweet Smell of Simple.

There is no washer or dryer in my three-room cabin here in Elgin, Arizona where I am staying to work on my writing this month, and that is no hardship. I didn't bring many clothes because I knew I'd have little need for outfit changes here on the ranch. I did pick up a pair of black yoga pants at the Walmart in Sierra Vista the day I arrived, and I have actually laundered those in the kitchen's porcelain sink, and hung them, and some wet bath towels, to dry on the green nylon clothesline, strung between two aluminum posts out back. I love the smell of nature's perfume---mountains, forests, fields---in the fibers after clothes have been drying on the line all day. This practice reminds me that I don't have a clothesline back at my condominium in Rhode Island, and the neighbors would probably pitch a fit if I aired anything from my fire escape overlooking our parking lot. I do have a stacked electric washer/dryer unit tucked in a utility closet in the master bathroom that I rarely use because I'm not a clotheshorse back home either. I am a simple girl, at home in jeans, tee-shirts, and work-out clothes. I expect to make the transition from designer apartment mortgagor to van dweller with relative ease!

I'm not sure when I fell out of love, favor, and touch with fashion and material possessions. I have a sense that I simply turned my attention a few degrees left of center and fell in love instead with the natural world around me. The birds and beasts I encounter daily don't care what I am wearing when I open the door to greet them in the morning. When I was still drinking alcohol, I used to take my bottle of Merlot into my home office, shut the door, and order, indiscriminately, whole pages from the latest Talbots catalog. I know now, nearly a decade later, that I was suffering from a soul sickness that no bottle, no new outfit, could remedy. I needed, and blessedly discovered, a spiritual solution. That solution allows me, today, to show up here on the page, out there in the real world, and alone with myself, with an inside that matches my outside---simple, open, and eager to engage with you and others.

Closet

Suppose the end came suddenly.

No physical exam, diagnostics, therapies, alternatives.

No time to get affairs ordered.

You leave for work one morning, labels visible, or implied,

Not planning, or expecting, your stars to collide with that runaway tire.

And instead of, “Honey, what’s for dinner?”

It’s all over the evening news.

You know these run-ins with destiny happen, but not to you.

Hell, you hail from a long line of centenarians.

You have all the time in the world

To find your sacred self.

So you keep stuffing more stuff between you and you.

Those high definition boxed sets mesmerize you for nights on end.

You call it entertainment, but it’s just another device to keep you from examining the life you let others create for you.  

The distractions (the retro cocktails, the friends you hide behind, the immaterials) work until they don’t anymore.

The day is coming, or maybe it will be an evening,

And when it does,

Whose job will it be to empty

Your closets?

Familiar

You all
Know each other
Out here.
I am the stranger. The new
Comer.
I take up residence.
The cement, wood, walls, roof
Insinuate I am safe from
Elements, poisons, weather, but
I am raw. Open. Exposed. Unprotected.
This is your land. Your home.
I am a visitor here.
You will tolerate my noise,
My early morning footsteps on sacred ground.
My tapping, as if I have something important to say.
Truth is, you say it all
Without saying anything at all.

You don't know distraction.
You graze. Heads bowed. Single focused.
You dip, dive, carefree on currents.
I'm up. I'm down.
I eat when I'm not hungry.
You know things.
Teach me.
More.

Shedding

Joseph Campbell, the famous teacher of mythology, wrote, "We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us." For me, the last year has been a year of releasing, a time of letting go of attachments to people, places, and things. Two solo cross country trips and several shorter ones have taught me valuable lessons about the essential components for a rich, creative, expansive life and spiritual journey. Some psychologists refer to the work on self as a peeling of an onion. I prefer to think of it as the casting off, the shedding, of skin. The snake, or serpent, is highly revered as a spiritual totem, and I can't think of a more fitting icon for the transformational work I have done over the last twelve months. I have witnessed and participated in a world once invisible, unavailable to me, and now that I have witnessed it, I can never return to my old way of thinking and being in the world. One of my teachers, Carolyn Myss, says, "We are reluctant to live outside tribal rules because we are afraid of getting kicked out of the tribe." I took the chance, and what I discovered was that my tribe grew. It expanded. There are others out here, who, like me, have also shed their skins, who are unwilling and unable to go back to their old self-limiting beliefs. Within the next several months, it is my deepest desire to sell off my real estate, all nonessential possessions, and lead a nomadic life that will bring me closer to my creator and to all of you, who, too, have either bravely risked thinking outside the box, or who are contemplating such changes. Namaste.

Dance.

Part of plugging myself back into my old life, now that I've returned from my two-month, cross country trip, has been to attend those events where my tribe routinely gathers. Today that place was a lovely picnic spot overlooking the East Bay in Rhode Island. I stopped at the Eastside Market, picked up a few dozen pieces of sushi to take along, and away I went. Alone. It never occurred to me to seek out another to go to the picnic with. However, while I was navigating the crowd, making small talk, answering questions about my trip, I overheard some women talking about being happy to have another to go with because left to their own devices, they never would have attended alone. I understand the need to show up with a friend in tow, someone to break the ice with, but take it from someone who has walked into plenty of rooms full of strangers alone in the last few months---it's a worthy pursuit. Cast aside your fear. Hold your head up and walk bravely into that gathering. Smile. Find a friendly person or group of people and walk up and put your hand out. Say your name. Listen when others give you theirs. Ask questions. Recognize that it's human nature to feel awkward, maybe even a little intimidated, but lots of folks feel that way initially. You are not alone.

I was listening to my favorite songwriter/musician, Jackson Browne, earlier. In For a Dancer, Browne sings, "Just do the steps that you've been shown, by everyone you've ever known, until the dance becomes your very own, no matter how close to yours another's step have grown. In the end there is one dance you'll do alone." Let's all stop hiding behind our partners, friends, family, and move bravely into the world. I can't get to know you if you're sitting home afraid to come out and play. Quite frankly, if I waited for a mate or a fellow traveler to experience life with, I'd be missing out on a whole lot of cool people, places, and things. I don't know about you, but life is way too short to sit this dance out. When I hear the music, the chorus, I am going to dance, with or without a partner in tow.

Life is short.

Returning from my two-month summer book tour, I put a visit to my 21-year-old son at the top of the list. Matthew is living and learning to be a grown-up in New Haven, Connecticut, and the last time I saw him was in late June. The connection I have with my son is one of tender understanding. His struggle, his life views, his spirit, all touch me in powerful ways. He is the youngest. He bore the brunt of our family's dark years. As we hugged and parted yesterday, and he turned to walk back to his apartment, my eyes filled up with tears as they always do. I longed for a simpler time. I ached for a return to the carefree days of his early years, the laughter, the promise. I lingered in my car a few minutes until I could safely reset my thinking, and actually drive. Truth is, I am grateful that my son is alive, he is safe, he is learning to live a clean, honest life. I am grateful that I can pick up the phone and call him, text him, tell him I love him. Some people I know can no longer do that because their children have died. Still, a pervasive longing took hold of my heart as I made the 30-minute trip to my 90-year-old mother's home in Southington, Connecticut. I love my mom. We have made our peace. I no longer allow her to push my buttons. I am wise enough to know she won't be on this earthly plane forever. But my initial response to going to visit her was the usual one, "Okay, I'll stay an hour or so, and head home." But something occurred to me (and this was God's grace)---my mother loves me, longs for connection with me, the same way I hunger for it with and from my son. I called my mom from New Haven to tell her I was on my way. My mom suggested I spend the night. When I said, "Actually, mom, I was planning on it, and hoped that would be okay," I could almost hear and feel her joy over the line.

This thing called life is cyclical. What goes around comes around. What I crave from others, they crave from me. Time. Connection. Love. Understanding. I owe people my presence, my wholehearted attention. Today, I vow to linger longer with those I love.

Namaste.
Carol

Coming Home

Summer is winding down, and in a couple of days, I will drive the final few hundred coastal miles up Interstate 95, towards the East Greenwich, Rhode Island exit. I will aim my Ford Transit wagon (with the well-worn green peace sign on the hood) towards the familiar Hill and Harbor district, the vibrant downtown with my favorite coffee shop at one end, and my home on the third floor of the historic brick Masonic building. I will park in my spot with the number 3 stencil, and begin unloading empty boxes, camping gear, office supplies, and one suitcase. Phase one of my Linger Longer book tour will be over.  I will come home. I will breath a sigh of relief. I will eagerly resume and pour myself into my old life. Truth be told, nothing I have done in the past two months, over 13,000 domestic miles scares me more than coming home.

I'm not bringing me home. I look the same. I talk and laugh the same. But if you look into my eyes, you will not find the old me. Don't be surprised if what you see instead is every cloud, star, wave, sun and moonbeam that held me tenderly. They filled me. They caused my heart to swell. My capacity for love expanded in ways I never knew possible or available. My ego took a backseat, and humility was forged, pure and simple, as I relied on the kindnesses of strangers to answer questions, maintain my vehicle, welcome me into their homes, buy my work, and share history lessons I never would have gotten in a book.

In the first few days and weeks, I will seek out and receive soft landings. I will bend down and wait for my sweet son to kiss me atop the head (our special greeting). I will pull into my mom's driveway and linger over a cup of coffee and some toast. I will hold my precious granddaughter and inhale her sweet smells. I will hug all three of my children tightly and hope they can feel the depth of my love and understand my longing. I will meet old friends for coffee and meals and we will laugh heartedly again. I will rejoin my early morning fellowship in Providence and let them welcome me back into their fold.

I will come home. I must. My only nephew will tie the knot in September. We will christen the baby in early October. I must appeal the Town of East Greenwich's sanction against participating in Airbnb's sharing economy, and take my condo association to task.

But like pages torn from a book, I'm not sure mine can ever be reassembled, made whole again in the same old way. Intuitively, I suspect that those chapters, that book, must be set aside now. I pray for the courage, knowledge, and sustenance to begin the next new volume.

Namaste.

Carol