Cleaning House

After a blissfully uneventful drive, I rode into Homer yesterday afternoon to find most of the snow cover gone, bright sunshine, and temperatures dropping rapidly as the huge, early-hanging moon approaches fullness.

What this meant in practical terms, as I knew, was that the path down to our cabin was a 40-yard sheet of the sheerest ice that runs right off the edge of the bluff if you don't choose to stop at the cabin door. It was twilight, so any water molecules were packing in tight for bed, and for maximum slickness. Even with the best ice cleats, nigh-crampons, I could barely stand up in certain places. The fact that I didn't fall on my butt multiple times says more about my good balance than about the conditions! Favorite moment: sliding the cooler, which weighed probably 40 or so pounds, all the way down the path, sometimes pulling it like a sled dog, sometimes gingerly steering it from behind as the musher, ready to yank back should it start to run away with me.

And then I got home. When my friend Lynn asked me what I was most looking forward to about getting home, my answer was "getting it cleaned up." It's not that I love to clean: the mess that is the cabin, especially with me having been gone for a week unexpectedly over the break, had really gotten on top of me. 
Mitigating circumstances: 
-Two somewhat clutter-tolerant people in a 16x20 cabin. 
-A dirt path to the cabin--dust and grime in the summer, sand and grit in the winter, dust all the time, all making their way in. 
-No running water since our pipes froze around Thanksgiving, so water always feels limited and hauling six-gallon jugs down above-mentioned ice-run is more arduous than rodeo.
-Even with no bathroom (or perhaps especially with no bathroom), things seem to get dirty faster than I can keep up.

With all those excuses, this person who is unashamed to confess to unpleasant habits is not comfortable showing a picture of the mess she walked in on.
I'd prefer to show a view from just north of Anchorage, one of the many vistas here that invite you to imagine going away, away, away into space forever opening.

 Just an example, though--"my space" where I typically work up at the counter. My space is the inevitable explosion of pens, papers, books, literary magazines, augmented by holiday cards, some of them unopened, unread, unwritten, unsent (yes, I missed the holidays). Additionally, a vial of homeopathic pills, a bottle of herbal supplement, four small pills in a white dish: a potent antipsychotic I'd pretended to take but hadn't taken in the place of no shoelaces. Two Styrofoam bowls from the same place 'just in case' for traveling (as if; they're going straight in the trash). Many many beautiful rocks, some of them donating sand--they don't all need to be right there. A mostly used-up aloe vera leaf. A mug-warmer. Various distractors-from-picking-myself-apart that I've been completely failing to use--my fluffy duster, my squishy lion, my worry beads. 
Add to this the fact that the whole mess spills over onto the floor, spills outward beyond "my space," that my space is commensurate with my dining space and, well, it just doesn't get better. And that's not even to mention all the other spaces--the floor, Phil's areas, the kitchen, the sleeping loft...

So here I am writing about it rather than cleaning up??
No, I'm sharing the situation, and inviting clarity and (self-)compassion to myself.
Storage space to tidy away is an issue; water for cleaning is an issue. We had started to semi-wash dishes to conserve water, I'd quit using my Vita-mix, had been fixing food that minimized water use and dishes. Many dry-cabin-dwellers do all these things, but to most people this is gross. 
Just like with my car, I want to facilitate openness and tidiness, space in which things may manifest; space to see what's already there. 

Space to see what's already there. Clean space that motivates getting all sweaty hauling lots of extra water so I can wash better, and going to the laundromat more often so I can change out my clothes more frequently, before they get stinky (please love me anyway).  
Cleaning beckons. 
These dolphins in the park in downtown Anchorage are pretty awesome.   

My New Car, or , The Exterior Things, and What They Carry

Well, a girl can get really chilled after a long day spent mostly in the Warthog. Phil got pretty cold too, since he accompanied me to Anchorage this time, or I him, as he headed out to Arizona for some space, sunshine, and catching up with some dear friends of ours.

Especially with snow in my boots at times, by the end of a day in and out of the car, I was so cold I did the only sensible thing--ran a sinkful of hot water, hopped up on the sink stand, and soaked my feet. With the gothic-shaped mirror, the little candle on the left, and the sconced glare of the light above, and Phil's talent for photography, I think the picture looks somewhat like one of those Renaissance paintings, almost devotional in its privacy.

Friday and Saturday were much car-searching. I'm sure Phil would rather have been doing just about any other thing, and he was so generous in helping me with this quest. For someone who is a "jack of all trades," with its "master of none" subtext, he really is very good at a lot of things, including understanding automobiles--something still inscrutable to me. Whereas I can hear all kinds of noises and subliminal noises, he can hear those noises and identify which of them may be indicating a problem, and how to slew the car around or put the brakes on suddenly or back up and then go forward to see if it'll straighten itself out. The third car we looked at has a little noise in the back: probably a rear differential issue, I parrot, never having heard of such a thing since high school booty calculus. But that third car we saw is now my car. It's another Subaru, like almost everyone in AK drives--here it is, together with the Warthog, outside our friend Lynn's home.

The engine runs quietly and makes no scary random noises. The inside of the car is sealed--no frost to scrape from the inside of the windshield! It's a little taller, and I can see much farther ahead. Great traction on the icy road, and brakes that don't slip easily. Oh, and the heat works! It gets warm; I get warm--it gets so I have to turn the heat down from max! 

Then there are other nice things like telling me the time and temperature, having many compartments in which to put things, sunroofs (yes, plural), and the wonderful tabula rasa of a clean car. This is the best car I've owned by orders of magnitude, ditto the price paid. Both measures would be nothing to most people my age, but are meaningful for me.

I'm in a very transitional period, and am choosing to invest this car with a great deal of intent and symbolic value. My best ever car...for what?

The first thing I did, even before DMV and insurance, was buy the various fluids a car needs, plus ice-scraper, cleaner, floor-mats, somewhere to put trash, a tarp to put down when dirty things go in.

It is my intention to keep this car clean and organized, even as inevitably it ends up with "stuff" in it. The "stuff" should be useful or beautiful. 

It is my intention to keep this car running well, despite my lack of knowledge of how to do this--to learn enough about what to do that at least I know when to call the doctor! So, I have an appointment with the local-to-Homer expert for as soon as I get home, to find out about the rear differential and all the rest.

Already, it is such a challenge! I set the keychain on the roof of the car, and see how easy it would be to scratch the surface with the key. I sit in the car deciding what to do next, pulling skin off my fingers, picking skin off my scalp--those flakes of skin are mess that would contribute to a general scuzzy buildup in this clean space. Also, though, I try to wash the windshield, and nothing happens. I put almost a gallon of windshield wash in the reservoir--still nothing happens. I pull up the hood again, find the hose, follow it from one end to the other, find everything connected. Now what?

If I don't want to scratch up my car, if I don't want to make a mess in it by pulling off parts of myself, where do I want to do those things? Is it ok to do them in my bed? On someone else's couch? With the windshield washer, I get my first taste of a mechanical problem with no Phil to ask for guidance, and start feeling lame and female; what do I want to do about this? 

I know I could easily scratch things up. I know I could easily make a mess. I know I could easily sit in traffic pulling pieces off myself and dropping them everywhere, gross as that sounds to me now. I know I could easily miss important symptoms and let small problems exacerbate themselves. But in recognizing how easy it would be for me to do these things, I chose to take on the discipline of not doing them; of being conscious, recurrently conscious, of the desire to keep my car beautiful and safe and in best working order.

So, am I a sellout to the superficial and exterior? If Phil is riding with me and decides he has to go dig up a tree and put it in my car, and I insist he tarp it so it stays more contained than he might think necessary, am I placing my anal and newly minted cleanliness standards above the imperative to create a forest and give trees a good life, and do so quickly? Maybe I am. But maybe I'm just creating my own boundaries and seeing how I can become a more kempt person, with a more kempt vehicle surrounding me.

And that's what it boils down to. I'm not selling out to the superficial. I'm recognizing that this car will carry me safely for many thousands of miles, spirit willing, and that if I wish to be carried safely as a precious and beloved cargo, the carrier of the cargo must be precious and beloved also. Yes, an extra expense, but as such, an expression of trust in the universe that I am carried through life safe and beautiful, beyond the hardscrabble survival level.
Otherwise: the outer reflects and reinforces the inner.

I haven't forgotten this blog. I've missed it these past days. Life in its intensity and occasional time-squished downpouring of change precluded any posts these last days. Now, in Anchorage and visiting with several different sets of wonderful friends, I begin to thread myself into space, time and connection once again. Sorry for being so behind on comment responses. 
The outer reflects and reinforces the inner.

Contrarian New Year; Captchas are Back

A herd of four moose was inside the fence made of fishing net Phil had built to keep them out. They were chowing down on our birches and rowans we'd wished to protect. 
And there I was with my new iPhone in the 3.30pm dusk, trying to figure out how to take pictures.

New iPhone and its camera for easy transfer to the blog. 
At a time when I'm seriously considering moving the blog to a no-photo format. Blog evolution is coming--I've been mentioning it for so long, soon must be when.

One of the biggest moose I've ever seen--running up and hollering was just stupidity.
But I scared off both her and the rest of the herd by banging metal on metal.

Everything's contrary.
You all know I think New Year's is arbitrary.
And yet I take advantage of the collective renewal energy to set some intentions.
But this year, I haven't in any clear way. Murky waters between my own recent brain chemistry roller-coaster and huger uncertainty over who/where/what/how I am.

I, who work and am in school, frequently at the mercy of time, tide, and inclination of incredibly spontaneous and outward-looking person whose utter freedom means "When are we leaving for town?" can receive only a provisional answer.
I, who have never been late in my life, suddenly the one who's never quite ready on time (but have still never been late to my own appointments, let it be noted).
Moving apart, deliberately and mutually; finding myself object of increased desire; pushing away, pulled back like on a dance floor to a song whose rhythm I can't parse. 
Who have never thought myself desirable; who sometimes wonders whether all the craziness and restriction are protections from desirability.

Who is doing a cleanse and "apples-sparingly" diet now, along with most of the rest of the country, probably, but contrary to implicit and explicit direction. 
And feeling better for it, in the aftermath of some scary stuff with fluid fluctuations, apparently around an ovarian cyst. 
(Don't worry, this is a short term thing. I have the Lithium tether to discourage losing weight.)

One Final Thing:
At some point last spring, I turned off the Captchas for my comments, after someone complained of how hard they are, and having had the experience myself commenting on others' blogs.
As of today, the Captchas are back on again. I am receiving so many spam comments--probably ten times as many as genuine comments. (Since my blog is tiny, those numbers are not awful, but it's become a major  time issue deleting all of them.) Lately, in my experience, the Captchas haven't been so bad. I hope this won't discourage you from leaving your thoughts, which I always love to hear.

Just as I'm reactivating the Captchas on the blog, so I endeavor to reactivate them psychically. I tend to let everything in and get knocked around from one idea to the next so that I'm in constant Brownian motion and never settled in a space.
Wish me luck.

Post-Epiphany; There but for the grace of...myself

This Epiphany day is only my third back home. Each day, both in its physical attributes and in the experiences it's offered, has been so different from the other that it feels like I've been back longer.

What is Epiphany/epiphaneia? It means epi-appearance -- an appearance/apparition/manifestation with something extra riding on top of it. That extra part could be how intense the thing is, like a really bright light, or it could be how intensely the thing strikes you, like a really bright light that brings you to your knees in prayer. 

A very ordinary object or fact could trigger an epiphany if it strikes you in a certain way. When days go by clothed in such diversity, they offer a backdrop for multiple Epiphanies far beyond the sixth of January.

Today, it came up several times, applying to different people, that working out while sick or insisting on working when exhausted or not paying attention to warning signs around one's mental health all are subconscious messages to oneself and one's body that "getting the work" done is more important than health, the body's needs, and even life. 

That's an epiphany. Leading to a further epiphany: I know I am a fire that can burn out and also a volcano that can overflow. I must also, then, be a firekeeper. 

Containing my fire is/would be a mark of respect: I am connected to everyone and yet I am contained. I acknowledge the breathtaking support I receive from so many loving individuals and from the universe, but on top of that, it appears to me that I need to shoulder myself.

When I consider some of the more unhappy people in the Place of No Shoelaces (and forgive me, I'm just beginning to conceive of writing about this), I saw no separation. 
No, I'm not the woman so unwashed that even her turning over in the night wakens her roommate with the odor. But I have neglected my own hygiene to a harmful extent only partially excusable by our lack of plumbing.
No, I'm not the woman who hides in her room, comes out occasionally with a vague smile, shuffling, can't say more than a short sentence to anyone. But I have been withdrawn into myself so far that other people seem sealed out hermetically with that slightly bubbling plexiglass, like on the windows here.
No, I'm not the man pacing the halls through the evening and night holding a murmured conversation with himself, his pajama bottoms periodically descending as he steps on them. But I have paced the halls day and night, with loud conversations inside my head.
I'm not the girl who banged her head against the door, fought the staff who tried to stop her, and had to be tackled. But I did bang my head against the door.

There but for the grace of...myself...  There, through grace of myself, went I.

I'm not the men and women who had no support system and nowhere to go that reduced the likelihood they'd be back inside soon. 
I feel so much gratitude for a great support system and that, at least for now, I have health insurance.
But at the end of it all, I am my own firekeeper. 
And the diversity of days reminds me of the "50 First Weeks" theme I had going last year. This acknowledgment of responsibility as firekeeper to my inner dragon is a resolution or intention, but no way am I going to make all my resolutions in the first few days of the year! 
Any of these diverse days is good for resolution-making and intention-setting. Return to the fire.

Looking up, Belated Epiphanies

Happy New Year!
What a late start to the blogging year. Past the First, almost to Epiphany!
I'm about ready for an epiphany myself--are you too?--after the world failed to end with the Mayan sunset and we all have to find something productive to do.

In excuse for this tardy New Year's post, let me say this last short while has been an onslaught of missed or belated epiphanies. Are things looking up?
I look up from my preoccupation with holiday goodie-making, and the weather is terrible and we must be on the road now to get to Anchorage to pick up Phil's granddaughter.
I look up from trying to get work done amid holiday stuff, and realize I haven't been managing my self-care, and whoops--my moods and physiology are all over the place.
I look away from angsting at the scale going up for no reason at all, check in with this feeling in my middle that I've been ignoring, and lo, I have a bladder infection I've been ignoring, inflammation, water retention, and it actually really hurts.
I look up from talking with my mom on the phone, and there are four moose in our yard--the most I've ever seen--on the wrong side of the fence, eating on all the trees and shrubs we've been trying to keep them out of. Since I only got my iPhone yesterday, I could barely figure out how to take photos of them while failing to chase them out. (Banging some pans together finally sort of worked, the photos didn't.)

The once happiest man I ever met backs away, saying he's spent. Did I spend him? Or did I waste him?

I've put in time at various institutions where the items you're allowed to keep are about like what you're allowed in the cabin of an aircraft.
I spent most of the holidays in a place where even shoes with laces and journals with ties were out; even toothbrushes and toothpaste were verboten: see the disposable toothbrush below with a blob of gel you squeeze up. My own hairbrush had a hollow handle and was out; my own socks were mid-calf, and only ankle-length were allowed. There was no monitoring of lavatories, but all other doors were locked.

How much more to tell of that story is a dilemma with which I'm wrestling, the writer in me desperate to explore (not "exploit") the experience artistically; the person in me just. so. very. ashamed and embarrassed.
If nothing else, this was obviously a great opportunity to reflect, and to set some intentions, and I may share some of those when I'm more together. What are you guys intending for this year?

Is it light at the bottom of the well or water at the end of the tunnel?
And yet, there is love. Always, love.