Doing things right means living as though your grandchildren would also be alive, in this land, carrying on the work we’re doing right now, with deepening delight.
Gary Snyder (from the essay “Reinhabitation”)
Walking out the side gat, into the south hayfield to move irrigation around this morning, I passed by a gravestone. In simple letters it said, “white-crowned sparrow,” which were accompanied by a child’s drawing of a bird. Found the songbird a few months back, dead and lying in the grass. We got to it before the ants did and buried it. Two days ago we buried five baby bunnies and a young rattlesnake, in two separate graves, now marked with rocks upon which flowers have been placed.
The practice and act of living-in-place may not begin with death but it certain deepens there. You know that you have settled in a bit when during your daily chores you pass by gravestones on your land. Been here long enough and care deep enough to have burial spots.
These become places to pause and reflect on the life-and-death nature of this thing we call existence. Places to stop and bow or say a prayer or whatever feels like an appropriate acknowledgement. And these are places to remember loved ones and to “remember to remember” that lives come and go, come and go, that living isn’t separate from dying. They are also places where we all, daughter and parent alike, learn to say hello and perhaps most importantly, good bye.
I just killed a rattlesnake. It is the first time I have ever done that and likely the first time that I have killed any snake period, except for the few that I have inadvertently run over with a car. That didn’t feel good, and it doesn’t feel good today.
I found it in one of our rabbit’s cages. The doe, who we call Misty, was up on top of her nest box and nine kits (baby bunnies) were inside. The rattlesnake’s head was inches away from them. I had hoped in the moment, as my heart raced and I got a snake noose (length of pvc pipe with rope going through the middle and tied in a loop) from the shed that I had gotten there early enough to avert major heartache.
We just buried five bunnies, eyes not yet open but furred and getting cuter by the day. My older daughter cried, hard, and so did I, softly. Even though we were raising these rabbits for meat, this still hurt. Still does hurt. I am surprised by my feelings. Very sad and also pissed off. I am also thinking of how many times my kids hang out in the rabbit area and I am so thankful that it was bunnies that got bit. Emotions swirl and an ache sits deep in my chest. A gravestone and flowers mark the place where our bunnies lie and where our tears fell, moistening the dirt.
We buried the snake too. Near a tree so that its body and energy can nurture new growth. I regret killing the snake. I easily could have just put it in a bucket and taken it someplace far enough away to ensure it would not return. That would have felt better. The girls put flowers on top of the burial spot. That felt good.
I am surprised that the snake killed so many kits when it really could only eat one or two I would think. It was not a big rattlesnake – four rattle segments only – and how could it have thought to eat so many? It seems so wasteful, so gluttonous.
Then again, I think of how much I take from the earth, and how wasteful I am. Five little bunnies doesn’t seem so bad when compared with all the death and destruction that our people have wrought on this sweet, dear earth – to the earth itself, to other people and cultures, and to all the other beings that live here with us. Gluttony seems to be our way of life.
So why does this piss me off so much? Why am I so sad right now? Can’t I share this planet with others even if they seem so different from me? Don’t I have room in my heart for all beings even if it feels full to the bursting with sorrow? Why am I so rattled?
I don’t have any answers to these questions right now, and maybe I never will. I think I just need to ask them.
Ten years ago, yesterday, Kristin and I left Morocco, a place that had become home to us, and returned, exiles in part, to a land once called home. I remember an absurdly early departure from Tounfite, our small Atlas Mountain town, which was still sleeping and quiet except for the feral cats and dogs that roamed quiet streets looking for scraps and mostly getting scrapes. The taxi driver, who I can picture but whose name I cannot recall, loading all our belongings while we hugged and kissed and hugged again a host family who had truly become family. Many tears were shed and words failed to express our love and gratitude for these more than kind women and a place that had seeped into our very being. Transformation is a trite word to describe how Morocco, the Eastern High Atlas Mountains, the Amazighen (“Berber”) people, and this family in particular changed us.
A different, and perhaps greater, change was to greet us upon our return home.
Ten years ago, my mom was nearly killed in a car accident that she had nothing to do with. Well, actually she had a central part in this drama, but sometimes our most important role happens when we are just sitting still. She was hit broadside on the driver’s side while waiting at a stop sign. As we hurtled out of the mountains and on across the vast Moroccan coastal plain toward the airport in Casablanca, she came within an inch of her losing her life, saved by the miracles of modern medicine.
The next day, this day ten years ago, we found out this terrible news upon our arrival in New York City. Blown away and shocked would be understatements. I didn’t know what nor how to think, it seemed, during the long drive from the city upstate to my hometown. Culture shock within culture shock. We immediately began spending our days in hospitals, malls (there was a branch of public library in it), and lawyers offices. Not places anyone wants to spend much time, except doctors and lawyers I suppose, much less two triumphantly returning Peace Corps volunteers. No parade for us it seemed. Just long days and troubling affairs.
Fast forward ten years. The sound of my girls, ages 8 and 5 can be heard. Talking, giggling and the occasional high-pitched scream as they splash and play in a cattle tank that we use as a pool. It’s big enough for a kids kayak, three pool noodles and two girls (or more when friends come over). What more do you need?
It is a hot early summer day. The irrigation is spraying happily away. I hear the soft clucks and sweet chirps of our mother hen and her four week-old chicks. An ochre ringlet butterfly flits and fluts by, and a robin sings sweetly from down near the river.
I sure miss my mom and I’ll probably never “get over” Morocco. Both changed….nay, both sculpted my life in such strong ways that I cannot separate out where they end and I begin, like mycelium and tree roots. They have and continue to nourish my life in ways unimaginable and seldom imagined. Life sure is a trip and you just never know what’s going to happen. Pay attention, appreciate it and live it well.
Spring rain — Coming down on me again This hood I’ve been wearing.
~ Yosa Buson
Hobby– an activity done regularly in one’s leisure time for pleasure
I have been thinking about hobbies today, which is not something that I have thought about in quite some time. Last night Kristin and I were going through some relationship cards (Gottman cards app) and one that came up was “Name two of your partner’s hobbies.”
A “hobby” is defined as an activity done regularly in one’s leisure time for pleasure.
This sparked a discussion not so much about our hobbies, but rather about what are hobbies and why don’t we seem to have any. Are we boring? Too much TV watching? No leisure time? Too busy working all the time for that tech company that you didn’t know we worked for?
The last one may be the closest to the truth. Our life seems just a little too full to have much “leisure time” and yet that isn’t quite it either. When we were younger we seemed to have time for hobbies or rather we had distinct work-time and leisure-time, whereas now we seem to have just one time. Being-time you could call it (which happens to be a writing by 12th Century Zen Master Eihei Dogen, called “Uji.”)
Most days or weeks I play the guitar, read and write, garden, bird watch, spend time in nature, run, hike, and the like. In the past I may have thought of these as hobbies, but now I just see them as integral parts of my life. And then there is meditation, Zen study and practice. Could I possibly think of that as a hobby or separate that from my moment-to-moment life? I don’t think so. Not possible.
And now I realize that this is how I view my “hobbies,” they are simply some of the activities of my life. Nope that isn’t quite right….they are (in part) my life. My life flows through them and they color and energize my life. Not separate from who I am and yet not exactly or only who I am. How could I call them hobbies? Many of us think of ourselves as our hobbies and create a self-identity from that partial-view of who we are. I saw partial-view because how could our hobbies be the sum total of who we are.
the actual application or use of an idea, belief, or method, as opposed to theories relating to it.
the customary, habitual, or expected procedure or way of doing of something.
perform (an activity) or exercise (a skill) repeatedly or regularly in order to improve or maintain one’s proficiency.
carry out or perform (a particular activity, method, or custom) habitually or regularly.
It’s approximately seven miles on a paved road from town to our land. The road winds it’s way around the hulking block of McClure Mountain, in whose shadow lies the town of Twisp. We seem to drive this road everyday, following the Methow River downstream, which is just a part of rural living these days. Driving the same road can be boring, habitual, something to ignore. Our bodies seem to do the driving while our brains wander aimlessly. Mindless. But it can also be a chance to re-engage, to pay attention and to be mindful. The ever-present possibility of a deer running out in the road should make us pay attention, if nothing else. And yet it is all too easy to be lost in my thoughts as I drive this stretch of known road.
When I was growing up in rural upstate New York in the 1980s and 1990s, people waved to each other on rural roads. This was certainly true on our road which was not properly paved until much later. I remember watching my dad wave at neighbors and seeing them wave back. Sometimes it was a full wave, emanating friendliness in its fullness, while other times it was simply raising the hand or a couple of fingers in habitual movement. I vividly remember old man Donny Driscoll, who lived down the road from us, in his white Ford pick up truck driving basically down the middle of the road, two hands on the top of the wheel. He was pretty near-sighted as I recall his coke-bottle thick glasses. He just raised his index finger, nothing more and nothing less.
You always waved on our road, that’s just the way it was. On other roads, however, the rules of engagement were a bit different. Perhaps you waved at everyone, if you were particularly friendly. You always waved at tractors. And if you were driving a pickup truck, you waved at other pickup trucks. Such was the culture, at that time, on the back roads and byways of upstate New York.
Since moving here to rural North-Central Washington, I have re-engaged with this practice. As I drive the seven miles to and from town, I wave at everyone I meet, and I do it for two reasons. First, I want to cultivate rural friendliness and neighborliness, which I do not want to see go away in our country. It is a simple way to connect with each other, like saying hi in the post office. Secondly, I do it as a practice of both mindfulness and connection.
Doing this everyday gives me the chance to see my own mind, my own preferences and my own prejudices more clearly. Because I try to wave at everyone, I notice more astutely when I do and do not wave. When I don’t wave at someone, I realize that my mind has been wandering. I am lost in thought and this practice helps me to return to the present, to what I am actually doing. Driving and being neighborly.
I also notice who I do and do not want to wave at, which shows me the subtle and, I have to say, idiotic, judgments I make based on the car that someone is driving. Do I wave at that big-ass redneck looking truck? Do I greet the all-too wealthy looking BMW-driving liberal city slicker? You betcha I do! I get to see my prejudices and how quickly I make distinctions and then let them go with the wave of a hand. Yes, I get to say, this car too I will wave at. This person too, regardless of my opinion, I connect with ever so briefly as we zoom past each other. Getting to practice with myself in this way, everyday, is an important way to see myself more clearly and to let go of it with a kindly gesture. Some days I just go through the motions while others I am more kindly.
What I am realizing is that simple acts, like waving on rural roads brings me more fully into this very real and present moment. It shows me where I am dividing the world apart and where I am reconnecting it in its natural wholeness. Awareness and present-mindedness are cultivated and most importantly practiced. Over and over and over again, the never ending practice of being human.
*I must begin with a warning: this post includes a discussion of our bathroom, yet again. I don’t know why this seems to be a theme for me right now but if this bothers you, be forewarned and don’t read on.
There are many wonderful things about living in a tiny home – closeness to one another, simplicity, less stuff, being outdoors often, and sustainability to name a few – and there are some annoying things too – bumping into each other, quick to clutter, lack of indoor space to be alone. One of the positive things about living in a tiny home is having a bath house that is separate from our living space. The irony is that separation is actually promoting connection and here is how.
Several months ago now, my younger daughter, Juniper, who just turned five a few days ago, told me that she likes going #2 more than #1. Slightly surprised, I asked her why, and she replied, “because we get to talk.” I smiled, and said, “yeah, you are right.” And she still feels this way. So do I.
So why is this important and why does she appreciate it? This very natural of human processes allows us to have time and space together to talk or just quietly be with one another. If we lived in a “normal” house, with indoor plumbing, then I would be more likely to just ask her to call me when she needed help, and off I would go to do all of the “important” adult things that I think I have to be doing all the time. What are these anyway?
But because we have a bathroom that is separate from our house, I go with her to do her business and then I just hang out. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we don’t, sometimes we just think, and sometimes we think about nothing at all. The magical part is that with nowhere to go and with nothing else to do, I can relax and just be with my daughter, and in that ordinariness is the most magical thing of all. Presence.
Someone once said that the “best things in life are free,” but I think it is the simple things in life that are free. Free from money, perhaps, but more importantly free from want, free from worry, freely given, and free for the taking because it’s not taking when it is freely given.
We have now been living in a valley tucked into the North Cascades for the last two winters. It is snowy here and can be rather cold (the lowest recorded temperature in Washington, – 48 degrees F, was recorded here.) We live simply – in a school bus converted into a tiny home, no running water (it would freeze beneath the bus this time of year), and a stand-alone bathhouse (uninsulated right now) behind the bus. Since we have lived in the bus, it has dropped to perhaps -10 degrees F or so, and just a few days ago it was -8. Squeaky-snow, nose freezing, lungs hurting kind of cold.
Have you ever sat on a toilet seat in an unheated, uninsulated bathroom in the morning when it is that cold? Well, I have, and I was thinking that it wasn’t that bad. And what’s the big deal? Typical myopic response from someone who pees standing up.
It has also been said that “love conquers all.” Perhaps even stupidity? Maybe it was love or simply sympathy for my wife that finally got me to cut a hole out of a scrap of rigid foam insulation that has been just laying around and to put it on top of the toilet seat. This took me literally five minutes or less and it has been ABSOLUTELY REVOLUTIONARY! I am shocked and delighted by how warm it feels and I now can feel how cold the toilet seat used to feel. Funny how it can be retroactive like that. I still pee outside always, but I sometimes just go in there to feel how warm the foam feels. It is amazing stuff!
The lesson here folks – if there is something that is simple and that you have been meaning to do for a long time, do it! And keep your life simple because then the small acts seem wondrous. And they are!