January 21, 2023

Part 1:

I thank you all for being a part of my healing village and for whatever role it is you play. Be it in phone calls, private messages, or financial support, I am beyond thankful. I am a broken record now forever asking for help. Last month brought such relief with your donations, I was able to live without absolute fear. I am so very grateful and continue to heal as I try to figure out how to navigate this interim of life by myself.

◇◇◇ This sure has been a long haul for me. It's been nine months now of being exposed to the sun, the rain, the heat, the cold, and the unforgiving wind that ushers in the dust. That wind robs you of anything unweighted never to be seen again. At first, I tried to chase the tumbling objects as they grew smaller with distance, but it was to no avail in the end. Just a futile desperate breathless attempt to eventually land in a prairie dog hole or to be impaled by a cactus. These ends had not yet occurred and I wanted to stay the course.

I suppose I've shrunken into the shadows awaiting better days. "Winter is just hard", I was told. "Expensive, too." So yeah. This has proven to be true and I've preferred to sit with my mind and all of Its bleak wanderings. Not having cell service at my site is problematic for a zillion reasons, though mostly because this is a solo journey. Days will pass without seeing or speaking to anyone. And so I'm left with the ponderings of someone stripped bare to build from scratch the ability to right myself again.

Writing seems foreign to me now, as early morning light filters through the foggy wet glass. Rain taps on the roof. I was so weary from constantly being on the move that there was nothing left of me. Every moment of every day required focus as I weaved my way through miles and miles of desert landscape in search of tolerable air.

After a few weeks of camping north of Vegas, a dust devil gathered speed so close, I caught the breeze in my hair. I could feel the eerie portent of doom edging its way in. One morning on an exploration hike, I came upon the skeletal remains of three wild horses. My heart sank. Nevada, I discovered, is home to the largest population of such magnificent creatures. The sun-bleached bones lay there like a project in place, ready to be assembled. It reeked of sinister doings as a few pieces to the puzzle had gone missing.

Coyotes kept their nightly visits pacing within earshot. Anxiety became unbearable. Sleep would not come for me, so I rose with the full moon to break my camp. Delirious, I left those killing fields and managed the traffic flow of the seven lanes into Vegas through wicked air. I continued to Death Valley, where the air presented intolerable. Nightfall was coming fast, so I blindly veered into a long, lifeless scape and hurriedly set up camp. The air was oddly great in this little postage stamp square and a godsend to discover. If I needed to venture out for supplies, I could scarcely function. My trips were quick and planned. On one occasion I remember parking to check my messages when a cacophony of Spanish-speaking voices filled the cab of my truck. I raised my eyes to the four-way stop where three Hispanic gentlemen were racing around the pavement screaming out instructions. A baby goat was flailing about slipping on the pavement scared and confused. The young men crowded around the little creature while the driver of the car at a four-way stop opened his door. The baby goat leaped into the car and then the passenger door was flung open allowing the terrified creature to escape again. All was well in the end. My source of entertainment for the day had come and gone.

Upon my return, the only life for miles and miles appeared with great fanfare. These desert grasshoppers (which I had previously mistaken as crickets) parted the path of my tires in a blur like leaping mottled party poppers. I befriended these excitable fellas and invited them for breakfast. Never had I thought I would while away my time doling out potatoes to grasshoppers. They were ravenous. I could not figure out how they'd sustained themselves. It was a wasteland of rubble, with no plant life to speak of except for the spiney barrel cacti. This was a harsh existence. There were no birds overhead as there was no water. I had never been privy to a quiet like this. My daily hikes brought me closer to the rhythm of my heart as well as the cadence of my breathing without having summoned it.

Once I received word of my topper arriving, I made my way north to Utah again for the installation. I drove from ninety degrees and camping on rocks to below-freezing in a single day.

The dramatic shift in temperatures caught me off guard and sent me shopping for a winter coat. The next order of business was to shorten the length of my cot. It needed to fit between the cab and the tailgate. Bundled up in my new coat, I stood in the parking lot of Harbor Freight with my newly purchased hacksaw where I cropped a good three inches from the steel poles. My efforts caught a few stares making me feel like the spectacle I was. A few of the comments fueled my endeavors, like a cheer session. I could thrive on a little badass woven in about now. This is when I took note of how I had always taken my own backyard for granted. The little patch of outdoor privacy to accomplish these projects in your own time would certainly have been preferable to having an audience.

The following day, I bought a heavy-duty aluminum cargo trailer. It came with an instruction manual, no tools and was in about a dozen pieces. So, while the guy installed my topper, I borrowed his ratchets and wrenches and assembled it in yet another parking lot. These are the kinds of tasks for which I had always counted on someone else to do and yet here I had assembled this thing and was now inserting the square metal tongue into the cavity of the tow hitch and securing the pin. I remember nearly any project with a quick scan of the directions would generally have me passing the buck to any willing party. Now, I had been forced to take the reins. This was my life now.

My last morning in Utah brought snow. I had a long way to go to get somewhere warm enough to spend the night, so I woke early to drive south into the darkness.The invisible landing point was the hardest, most disparaging part of this kind of life.Where am i going? Where will i end up on this night? Where will i lay my head? The refineries and buildings were alive with lights casting a calming glow over the harsh, frigid landscape. I had arrived for its melt in the springtime so many months before, where cold waters had poured down the highest peaks, creating a majestic display of falls cascading down onto the beautiful granite mountain shelves and landings below. Now, here I was as the cycle began, snow collecting above holding on and piling up until the coming spring. Those rental cars had kept me handcuffed to this state for way too long, and it was time for us to part ways.

My sights were set on spending my winter in the Southern California desert. I would seek warmth without the expense of extra clothes, blankets, and a source of heat.

That first night up off the ground was a thrill for me.I felt like I was suspended mid air. Being so close to the ground for six months broadened my appreciation in ways I could not begin to explain, though this was a luxury i did not expect. In theory, I knew it would change my life, but not like this. I was now afforded the ability to sleep more soundly.

..

Only after having been given this Iift up, did it occur to me how much I'd felt like I was in on it too. The connection was built into me now. The ants, the chipmunks, the snakes.The shared pulse of being so close to the earth for that length of time bound us with a familiarity i would carry with me from here on out.

Not long after my arrival, from my boxed in chambers, I lay awake for several nights enduring the power of the santa ana winds.The one thing tent camping had proven was that the ground would remain solid and still. I rocked back and forth and up and down much like a boat in choppy waters. It summoned up a memory from a time when my father brought us on a "wives and children", trip aboard an aircraft carrier, "The Forrestal". We were stationed off of Greece and the excursion was to the island of Rhodes. We boarded a small ferry boat inland where wives and children alike were gathered in a circle, taking turns between swells, and nodding into the oversized bucket to vomit.

Now, I took in the world around me tucked away safely behind the glass. I'm beyond sad about the leaks in my new sleeping quarters. They say it can only be repaired if the whole thing gets sent back to the factory and it could take up to six months for it's return. Really? I have no choice but to stave off leaks with ducktape and tarps. It's just one more thing to add to the obstacles as they pile up. I know i can't let this get me down. I am still on my healing path and I can still breathe. Please donate of you are able.♡♡♡

https://gofund.me/9b563122