Quiet Friday

It's been a week since I said the final farewells to my life in Kansas City. The 4.5 day drive presented me with an enormous challenge, to quiet my mind and really listen to my own thoughts. It was during that drive that I evolved into a much quieter version of myself. What a curious notion, that someone so boisterous and flamboyant is suddenly bashful, tongue-tied, observant. I must presume it's part of the settling in process, the introduction to a self-reinvention that I've craved for years. Few people will ever know my true self and these days I'm much more guarded in what I reveal. While it's difficult to silence the old tapes that keep replaying through my head, but I now have the presence of mind to realize that the uncontrollable circumstances I keep obsessing over are 2,000 miles away and it may be time to retire the worry as it's only leads me to a bottle of Xanax.
I'm at Peet's again. The barista's have learned my name and learned to lean over the counter to hear me order. My voice is so small, my throat chokes at the idea of projection. I'm not in my element yet. Something similar happened to me when I was 18. Suddenly, after years of enjoying theme parks, I became terrified of roller coasters. Perhaps an adventurous and fearless spirit redirects its strengths from time to time. My strengths are innumerable. I've worked hard to be a person of integrity, a person of inexhaustible work ethic, honest and generous but also unruly and unconventional. I've followed my heart and its led me here to a place where I'm reintroduced to me, and I have changed.



I love Kirker's Pass more every day. Driving home last night I wanted to pull over, jump a barbwire fence and run up the sides of the soft mountains singing "The Sound of Music." But, I didn't- only because there's not much of a shoulder but something about those mountains and the gentle littering of calves and sheep keeping the terrain orderly, I love it.
My first 8-hour work day happened yesterday. I make my own hours, wear whatever I like, and participate in manual labor so strenuous that I ordered pizza delivery on the way home last night, too tired to get out of my car and walk into a restaurant. Before it arrived I heaved my exhausted body into the shower and watched as the dirt and grime of the warehouse rolled off my skin and down the drain. The first and foremost goal on the way to a tangible bookstore is to get inventory under control. This is the view from the loft in the warehouse:



One by one we unload these gaylords in front of recycle bins. If the book has no monetary value, it gets recycled. If it does, we resell it. Everything else is just a dream until the kinks in this process are smoothed out. I took another shower this morning trying to loosen up the tender muscles in my biceps and calves, but it still hurt to bend over and tie my shoes. The pain is my reward though, reminding me of the countless days at the greenhouses, carrying hundreds of buckets of tomatoes out of one hot house and into the main building for buffing and packaging. And when we expanded, leaping into the backs of semi-trailers to cart out 50 lb bags of cattle grain, bales of alfalfa, salt licks. I loved that life and I love this one- with every movement I'm earning my dream.

Home at Last: Part II

I live in a sleepy mountain town with an air similar to Denver except that yesterday I sat on back patio in a tank top and admired the luscious lemons exploding from a tree along the fence line.

Every morning I drive through Kirker's Pass, up and down a curving road that sensually grazes the sides of Mt. Diablo like a lovers fingertips across my lips. The view, oh the view. In Kirker's Pass the car tires flap against the pavement, gripping the road with nervousness. Sonny pushes to accelerate along the dangerously beautiful terrain, up the steep hills and then braking too suddenly as this drive is not yet an oblivious habit. Both sunrise and sunset are stunning distractions, so much so that I am compelled to go to work before dawn and leave mid-afternoon as to keep myself from plunging off the road and into a great abyss.

Dawn.

Dusk.
Yesterday was suppose to be a day of adult to-do's: open a local bank account, make copies of house keys, buy cleaning supplies...and while I did accomplish most of those, my soul grew restless for excitement. San Francisco proper is a 45 minute subway ride from my cozy little suburb and I'll go this weekend once I'm entirely settled in, but for now, I am consumed with solidifying myself in this commitment. In doing so, I spent a ridiculous amount of money on the softest bed in existence. Once it was delivered and set up (a 7-minute process in which the delivery driver, Hugo, prides himself), I headed to downtown Concord to explore. What I found was a smorgasbord of thrift shops filled with the treasures of the world. For those who haven't heard the tale of "Big Trash Day 2009," I'll give you a brief synopsis. Ryan, Eric & I piled into my SUV and toured Overland Park block by block collecting diamonds in the rough off the curbs of the overly-privileged. That drizzling day is one of our most fondly recollected memories and from that day I had a black clothing trunk with stamps from the 20's and 30's. This trunk had been across continents and for the past 2.75 years has cradled my clothing and sandalwood incense. When I left for California there was no way to transport the trunk. In a moment of bravery I offered it to the new neighbors across the hall. The two school teachers in their early 20's with only a futon, enormous box television and papasan chair to their names were delighted at the donation. They turned my beloved trunk into a coffee table as I stifled the sadness of losing such a cherished possession. I've never been much of a material person. Even yesterday as I unpacked, I was laughingly confused as to the importance of some of the items I'd considered important enough to travel across the country with. It's all the in memories I suppose...but I digress.
Yesterday I sought out a few pieces of furniture: lamps, a tv stand, something to store my clothes in (I hate dressers for some bizarre reason) and as I was digging through piles of miscellaneous goods at "Treasures" in downtown Concord, I found this:

I paid half of what they were asking for, but made friends with Ronnie and his mom, who only recently opened the store. I was glad to pay. This trunk is now tucked in my closet, guarding my t-shirts, reminding me that home is where you make it. Home is where your heart is. My heart is in Chicago, Miami, Kansas City and here, where I make my own way one day at a time.

Home at last: Part I

So here I am, sitting at Peet's Coffee in Concord, California, a suburb of San Francisco in which I now reside. The line in Peet's is nearly out the door and while I don't advocate for corporate coffee mongrels, this is the first espresso joint I've found. Adventures involving seeking out locally-owned businesses are on the to-do list, but for now this will work.

On Monday I left Glendale, AZ and made it as far as San Bernardino before my eyes and mental capabilities began faltering. The astounding silence of this 2,200 mile journey unveiled some of the rawest, truest thoughts I've ever noticed within my own mind. But upon arrival in San Bernardino I Priceline'd a $50 room at the Hilton, opened a bottle of vino (courtesy of my AZ godfather, Tony), soaked in the tub and promptly passed out. It was barely 7 p.m.
I woke up at 4 a.m., handled my unruly hair, which seems to curl even more senselessly in high altitudes, and headed for Concord. The 6 hour drive became a 7.5 hour drive as the interstate was already at a dead stop at 5:50 a.m. If I'd been on a Kansas interstate I would've been honking furiously, angered and impatient. But I was so excited to be in California that I turned up the radio and danced with my arms lunging in sporadic directions. The traffic jam dance party was interrupted by a sudden lump in my throat. I looked up at the sunrise and realized, I'm here, I've made it to a place I've dreamed of all my life. I made it to California. I've been crying at the strangest moments on this trip. As I'm not much of a crier in general, these moments catch me so off guard that I find myself entirely unprepared to handle them. It's not like a funeral, when you know it's going to hurt. Or a celebration for someone dear to you, where you know you will, inevitably, experience a sense of joy for them. These tears are tears of pride and gratitude. They are the tears I didn't cry when I was hurting, broken, aching, lost. A decade's worth of tears keep falling from my eyes and my heart allows it because I'm stronger than I've ever been. Sitting there under than Pasadena sign, the speedometer reading "0," I felt pride for working so hard and finally, finally, finally accomplishing a goal of my own.


Once traffic lightened up, I passed through Tejon Canyon where the hills are smooth and soft, wrinkled like a Sharpei's neck. The rapidly changing altitude pushed my tiny Kia (whom I've affectionately named Sonny) to its brink. The air in the mountains changes as rapidly as the elevation. One moment the air smells like after shave, the next, green onions; and as I passed through the gently rounded mountains I realized It's no wonder mankind thinks they're God. Look at what they forged through. Hands built these roads. Man conquered nature and yet left so much beauty in tact. I was so happy to see natural water sources along this route. There are so few in the Midwest and only 1 in Kansas which to me always meant, human beings shouldn't be here. At least, I shouldn't be here.


Hours later I was barreling down I-5 on the last leg of my trip. One moment I was admiring the orange groves and vineyards, the next disdainfully frowning at the desolate farm land that reminded me of Kansas. I could use a break from reminders of the Midwest but life won't allow me to forget all that made me who I am and that includes what it takes to sustain life. The rough hands and leather necks of farmers doesn't change no matter what part of the country you're experiencing. I smiled when I saw two men standing in a field, next to a dented, rusted pickup, their hat bills rolled down, Carhart's zipped up- just like the home I knew for 14 years.

Blessings abound

Before I left Kansas, two of the most important women in my life said to me, "Fortune favors the brave." I repeated this phrase to myself as I drove through the canyons of Arizona well past sunset last night. I discovered the bravest thing I could do in the desert was to avoid turning on my brights as I cascaded through the night. There was something utterly terrifying about lighting up the black ravines. Suddenly it occurred to me just how small I was in comparison to the endless array of rock and cacti. I arrived in Glendale, Arizona after 12 hours of calculated driving, to be greeted with dinner and stories from my father's best friend. His Jersey accent, handsome son, kind girlfriend and exuberant dogs immeidately felt like home. His orange trees blossom and bloom effortlessly and I slept peacefully in on the couch of a man I haven't seen in 20 years.



But let me start at the beginning.

Sunday was the most collective revelationary experiences of my young life. After leaving the hostel I drove to the Taos Pueblo where the New Mexico Native Americans performed a New Years ritual in which dozens of the tribes men and boys entered the center square of the adobe sanctuary, shirtless, decorated in ritualistic attire: beaded sashes, feathered headresses, animal skins tucked into their belts, carrying fir branches and gourds painted white. They sang the most beautifully harmonious song to the Gods as a small crowd of tourists huddled together in awe. The priviledge of this experience brought me to tears. In this moment I knew that I was experiencing a ritual more sacred than anything my culture and race have ever created. To think that for a thousand years before Columbus the Puebloan people were flourishing in this land filled me with both gratitude and shame. How could anything this spiritual have ever been questioned much less desimated? I could not pick out Black Hill in the group of men, as the white chinstrap face paint blended the community of faces with such unity, but I knew that had it not been for his help, I would know so much less about the Universe, and my place in it, than I do now.



My city-street beating Converse were no match for the frozen mountain air, so I headed back to my car and set my GPS for Chimayo, NM. The trip lead me down the mountains and through the Rio Grande Gorge. Blinking through the tears at the utter beauty of it all I decided that if I ever had any doubt a Creator existed, those doubts were silenced in these valleys. If you do not drive along the Rio Grande before you die, your life was entirely wasted.


An hour later I turned left onto Sanctuario Drive, lined with Native American jewelry shops, art galleries and shanty local food joints. As I drove to the end of the lane, I arrived at Sanctuario de Chimayo, the sight of holy shrine associated with an ancient crucifix discovered here. The church has been built around a single hole in the ground which contains the holy dirt where the crucifix was discovered. My knees were weak as I stepped out of the car. At first I dismissed the queasiness as a side effect of high elevation, but as I ducked my head into the church I knew I was experiencing true holiness on Earth. I knelt and prayed at the feet of a Virgin Mary statue, asking for strength and prosperity, as to be able to serve whatever purpose I am called for, but especially to be a guiding light and source of inspiration for the people in my life. I have been blessed with the gift of communication and I know now more than ever its power. The air in the shrine room of el pocito (Holy Dirt) was light and renewing. A donation box stood to my right, requesting monetary assistance in order to keep the adobe sanctuary maintained. I reached into the silver giftcard tin that Sara Steele gave me before I left and pulled out a $5 my coworker Paige. I've been saving this $5 specifically because Paige wrote "For your first drink in Cali" on the bill. I felt if I spent it on anything other than the most purposeful expense on this trip I would be cursed with centuries of bad karma. But as I scooped a handful of holy dirt into a brown paper sack, I folded the bill and tucked it into the offering box. It was an enlightening moment, knowing I was blessed to have made it this far, considering the dangers I've willingly subjected my physical and mental self to through the years.


The next 8 hours were long and trying. Bursts of thought came like lightening and I found myself reaching for my small leather-bound journal often. I pressed the book against the steering wheel, scribbling meticulously along the bumpy roads until I'd catch site of a pack of elk or the smooth rainwashed moutainous red rock and I'd stop to absorb the sites with my eyes and mind. I wished that I could apply the same mentality to life that I have to this roadtrip: "Sit back, relax, enjo the scenary- you'll get there." Some of the crumbling bedrock was like the pores of human skin under a microscope, ragged and crumbling. Other times trees breached their typical shapes and took on the appearance of a thousand different nouns. I wondered how Kerouac made it across this land without a GPS but as 400 miles became 200 and then the sun set for hours and hours, I accepted that being lost in this land would be an honor at worst. Billboards advertising escapes and weekend getaways only magnified my appreciation of this life. This life is radiant and I feel possessed by an intimiately brilliant purpose- to know myself by knowing this world.

When I dreamed of the life I always wanted, it looked exactly like this: waking up in an ancient pueblo under warm wool Indian print blankets, easing out of the top bunk to gather my few most precious belongings and making my way toward the community kitchen. I am the first one up, a usual occurrence in my life, and so I fire up the coffeepot. The teetering kitchen shelves cater to wanderers from across the globe and it seems almost telling to chose the appropriate coffee mug which coincides with your sense of adventure. I pluck a small ceramic cup with Scottish terriers and plaid running its width. It reminds me of when Ryan and I had first moved into the 39th St. apartment and we (in inseparable Ryan, Rachel & Jen) went to the Salvation Army for kitchenware. We laughed uncontrollably as a smorgasbord of designs ranging from kittens to Evangelical Conference mugs made their way into the basket. At $.25 each, they were well worth explaining.
The campfire smell of Taos has permeated my nostrils, spray paint coats the backs of my hands and slight traces of red dirt under my fingernails from a day of driving and creating. The trip in to Taos on 518 was, quite literally, breathtaking. I have never seen more beautiful scenery in all my travels.
For years Joy has said that Taos is a mecca for artists, and seeing as how this is a pilgrimage of my own sorts, it felt only appropriate to determine for myself. The inner plaza is the most inspiring, art galleries displaying every medium imaginable line the streets. Tourists in ski gear admire the leather and turquoise, as did I; purchasing gifts for my beloveds in the Midwest (and a pair of dainty copper earrings for myself.) In every direction surrounding Taos there is an air of unfinished efforts, or works in progress. Nothing is symmetrical, fence posts jut 8 feet high and the next only 4 feet tall, guarding the innumerable abandoned mountain homes. Miles and miles of rusting automobiles from the 50s and dogs of every color and size shoot out from the brush without warning. It is all still somehow very magical. At dusk I got lost on my way to Ski Valley where the Abominable Snowmansion hostel is located. I began to dread the idea of having to navigate the icy mountain terrain alone after dark and flagged down an oncoming truck. That is how I met Black Hill, whose age I couldn't speculate. He lives on the reservation here in Taos and after leading me to my hostel, hugged me and extended an invitation to the reservation this morning where there will be a celebration for the New Year. That is where I am headed at sunrise, to experience the true natural history of a country I both love and despise. And then's it's off to El Santuario de Chimayo for mass at one of the most sacred churches in the Southwest, if not the U.S. I had intended to photograph this church, as I had seen it in a photo some time ago, but I never did get the name. As the time drew nearer for me to leave Kansas the answer was, of course, delivered and I was blessed with not only the name of the church, but found a way to get there. Mass begins at 10:30 a.m., and then it's off to Arizona. My life has yet again changed and I am grateful to be sailing in favorable conditions.