I shot out of bed at 5 am to the sound of coyotes. The sky was not yet turning rainbow, but it would soon enough. The cool 55 degrees I feel on my skin, if today follows the course of yesterday, will double to 110 by lunchtime. The coyotes were closer and in greater number than normal. Hence my response. From deep slumber to dressed & ready, in a matter of moments.
I am becoming.
Heartache. Frustration. Loss. Wonder. Silence. Growth. Confusion. Gratitude.
I am stretching my wings and feeling them bound.
Ablaze and unheard.
Mystified by the ignorance of so many.
Consoled by the hearts of a few.
It is a time of contrasts.
All of the shit is about to hit all of the fans, and it seems that most humans are just-kinda-tired-of-it-all, and so therefore are choosing to kinda-sorta-get-back-to-normal, to kinda-sorta-prentend-this-all-isnt-happening-anymore, to kinda-sorta-get-together-with-friends-and-family-to-celebrate (and speed up, *cough*) the dispersal of said shit, from said fans.
Most of you know that I appreciate a special blend of science and woo. And right now, the science and the woo are joining forces to suggest that the second half of 2020 might just make the first half look like Kindergarten. The stars (and by that I mean the sparkly ones in the sky) don’t tend to be wrong (that's the woo), and the scientists do tend to know better than the politicians, when it comes to matters of science. So, umm… fasten your seatbelts? And... be smart? Please?
It’s been some time since I’ve known what to say. And I’m still not sure that I do. So instead I’ve been listening. Listening to the resident barn owls as I fall asleep each night, and the birdsong at sunrise. I listened as air-tankers and helicopters and ground crews battled a wildland fire that threatened my home. I listened when a pair of pronghorn peacefully approached me on my way to Nanny’s service – she’s at peace - they said. I listen to the crops I’m trying to grow – too much salt in the water – they say. I listen to this land, this place, this time that we are in. It seems there is much to learn, if I am indeed willing to listen.
Beyond the immediacy of my microcosm, I am listening. To the pain of generations that is bubbling to the surface. To the cries for equality and justice that have been there for so long – that we cannot, and should not, ignore any longer.
Like you, I have only ever lived my own experience. In my world, my mom had snacks ready when we got home from school. Nan & Pops took us on road trips. For the most part, life was good and easy. Dad remarried. Mom remarried. I grew up as the oldest of seven – all boys - until my one & only baby sister came along.
Looking back, I realize now, I always felt safe. I never questioned it – it just was. As I grew up, I was always able to find a job that paid the bills, even if the living was simple. I traveled. I went to community college. Studied art. Started a photography business. Got married. Got divorced.
I bought a tiny little off grid home on 2.5 acres of alkaline grassland. I am raising ducks, grazing sheep, doing my best to move with grace through the overwhelm of 2020. And as I listen, as I humbly open my ears to perspectives other than my own, I am beginning to recognize my privilege. In being here. In getting here. In growing up feeling “safe”, and how that affected every breath, every moment, every movement, of my days.
The lack of pigment in my skin has come with many privileges, most of which I have taken for granted. And this whiteness I inhabit has a painful generational history attached as well. And even though all that territory is uncomfortable, it is my duty to explore it. And so that’s what I’ve been doing. Quietly. Exploring. Listening. Learning. Crying. Reading. Sitting with the discomfort. And then listening some more.
Black Lives Matter.
As I listen, I am able to hear why vocalizing that is so important.
If it’s hard for you to hear that, or say that, or you feel yourself getting defensive about that, I challenge you to set down your defenses, and just LISTEN.
Just. Listen.
It seems that most everything about 2020 is uncomfortable.
Most everything about growth is uncomfortable.
Talking about race is uncomfortable.
Coming to terms with the true history of this country is uncomfortable.
Lecturing my loved ones about why they shouldn’t be getting together during a pandemic, and why I won’t be joining them, is uncomfortable.
Wearing a mask is uncomfortable.
Living with rattlesnakes, where it reaches 112 degrees in June, is uncomfortable.
Not knowing what’s going to happen to my career is uncomfortable.
Grieving the loss of my Nanny is uncomfortable.
Not hugging is uncomfortable.
Being an empath in times of intense planetary grief is uncomfortable.
Listening to someone's pain in uncomfortable.
I’m gonna do it all anyway.
Because it’s okay to be uncomfortable.
That’s where the growth happens.
2020 is forcing us to grow in new and uncomfortable ways, providing us the opportunity to consider perspectives and lived experiences that are different than our own, demanding that we notice what we have taken for granted, and finally, asking that we imagine a better world, and that we do the painful and necessary work to make it so.
And about that pandemic…
It’s not over. It’s getting worse. Here in the US, we’re winning in all ways we don’t want to be winning. Experts are saying the first wave and the second wave will likely just blend into one massive wildfire. Fun times.
Stock up on food for yourself (and your pets) for the fall. Trust me on this one (or don’t).
And wear a freaking mask when you go out in public.
Now if you’ll excuse me, my darlings, I have a 7 am date with a weed whacker.
Because wildfire waits on no one.
Much love to you and yours. Truly. So much love.
Thank you, as always, for listening.
Post-production on “Where There Once Was Water” continues. I was recently interviewed by Jaime Lewis on her podcast CONSUMED. We chat about progress on the film, life in the Carrizo Plains, the harsh realities of life without running water, and... we manage to giggle a lot too. I think you’ll enjoy our conversation. Take a listen HERE.
And if you haven't yet, I invite you to take a couple minutes out of your day to watch the official "Where There Once Was Water" movie trailer, HERE.
The Soda Fire in California Valley on June 10th came within one mile of my home. It was a terrifying experience. I remain intensely grateful to all the firefighters, and reminded of how quickly fire can move in the dry & windy conditions we've been experiencing out here.
I created a resource page for all things COVID-19, and I am doing my best to keep it updated as the situation evolves. It is my gift to you, and you are welcome to share it widely... wherethereoncewaswater.com/covid19
And finally, here's a quick peek at what I'm reading these days. Much Love, y'all. xo
