Riding, Redwoods, and Rosh Hashana
We’re past the halfway point of our volunteering gig here in Mendocino on the Northern California coast. Three and a half months done, one and a half months left to go. Both of us agree that this is the most beautiful place we’ve volunteered, with all of the moist green, the redwoods, the headlands, the ocean, the rivers, and so many gorgeous wildflowers, plants, and blooms everywhere.
I asked Marika, “Could you live here?”
“Too cold,” she said.
“Too isolated and hard to get to,” I said.
But boy, are we enjoying it all while we’re here.
This past month, we had a very different work schedule. Instead of working at the Ford House, we were scheduled to only work at the two campground visitors centers. And it was every weekend.
At first we were both upset. How come no one else was scheduled at the campgrounds? How come we didn’t have a single shift at the Ford House? And why were we the only ones working every weekend?
And then I remembered that the new couple was still in training so they can’t work at the campgrounds yet. After a bit more whining, we agreed that we were fine working wherever we were needed. And I sent a note to our boss, asking for at least one shift at the Ford House the following month.
And then I cracked myself up, because, when we first interviewed for the job, we were told we’d probably be working at all three places, and we had both hoped we wouldn’t have to work at the Ford House and learn stuff and have to do tours.
Of course, we actually had a lot of fun working in the campgrounds. It was more relaxed, less busy, and we didn’t have to be “on” as tour guides. Many campers had come to escape the inland heat and fires. One family had been evacuated and was waiting to hear when they could return to their home.
We answered questions about the trails, sold lots of merchandise, and, my favorite thing, we engaged with kids about nature, and swore several in as Junior Rangers.
And we even worked a shift at the Ford House because the new people were sick. So it all worked out. As it always does, if we just allow it. This month, we’ll be working a mix of weekdays and weekends, at both the Ford House and the campground visitors center. Win Win Win.
When we’re not working, we’re still finding new beaches, new vistas, and new restaurants. We have checked out a lot of the local art galleries, and finally, the Mendocino Art Center has reopened. Established in 1959, it was a magnet for artists from the Bay Area to come up to Mendocino in the 1960’s, and still hosts exhibits of well known as well as local artists.
We walked around the sculpture gardens and inside the gallery, but the best part was talking with some Native artists in one of the studios. They were working on the tiles for the mural that will be installed in the new bathrooms near the Ford House.
We spoke to the three artists, each from different bands of the Pomo tribe, and asked them what they would like us to share with our visitors about the Pomo Indians. They said, “That we are resilient, and we are still here.”
The man, the oldest of the three, shared stories of how his people were moved from one piece of land to another, and explained that the difference between the words reservation, reserve, and rancheria is the size of the land, though not necessarily livable land.
One morning we joined Mary, one of the Ford House docents, for a very informative walk along the Headlands. She told stories about the Ford family, and pointed to the remnants of the wooden structures and chains from the apron chutes, then showed us photographs to bring it all to life. We learned that the Portuguese were excellent woodworkers, and she showed us where the Chinese herb shops were located. Afterwards, Mary and Marika made a plan to go birding together.
At least once a week we explore someplace new. We took a walk across the Pudding Creek Trestle where people leave locks, like in Paris, and listened to live music at the local Forest Fest.
We walked through the cemetery in Mendocino where the Ford family is buried, and explored the marina side of the Noyo River Harbor.
I’ve also taken myself into town alone a few times. I wandered through a wonderfully musty used bookstore that’s been in business for twenty three years, and revisited a few thrift stores. One morning I took myself for a walk along the Headlands, then picked up pastries to bring home to Marika.
One afternoon after I did the laundry, I stopped at a park that I had noticed on the map. It was a wilderness of tall redwood trees tucked into the middle of Fort Bragg. I walked a few yards into the park, but was met with the loud banter of school kids, so I turned back. On Marika’s birthday, we went back for a full exploration.
We followed the wide dirt path from the parking lot down to the floor of the forest, then followed a narrow side path along the slow running Pudding Creek. We walked over exposed tree roots that crisscrossed the path, and took pictures of the flowers along the banks.
And then I saw her, a fully hollowed out Redwood tree, taller than I could see. I found my footing down to the base and stood inside the tree with my back leaning against the bark. I looked up, then closed my eyes and just breathed. The sounds of the world muffled and I could only feel warmth and peace and love.
I feel that same peace when Tillie and I walk through our backyard forest cathedral. It is quiet and still, yet humming with energy. Especially when the fog hangs low and drips from the trees onto the path. My lungs love the moisture, and my whole being feels hugged in the presence of all of the magnificent trees.
I’ve been in forests before, in the pines in Northern Arizona and Colorado, the colored oaks and maples in the east, even the magic fairy forests on the Oregon coast. I’ve liked them, but I’ve never felt hugged by them like I do here in the redwoods.
Redwood trees are the tallest trees in the world, growing as tall as 350 feet. Surprisingly, their roots only grow six to twelve feet deep, but they intertwine with the roots of the nearby trees to provide incredible strength and stability. Redwoods also share nutrients through their roots with nearby trees. No wonder I call them Mother Trees. And when a Redwood tree dies, new trees grow in a circle around that tree, sometimes from seeds, often from the stumps and roots of the old trees.
When we’re not out exploring, our days off are filled with laundry, food shopping, TV time, neighborhood walks, beach romps, and dog park ball playing. That is, until Tillie tore a big chunk of a back toenail off at the end of July. She was on restricted activity for three weeks, with just walks around the neighborhood with a baby sock protecting her bandage.
She was more than willing to let us change her dressing daily, and she now lets us Dremel her nails every few days to avoid another incident. And now that she is all healed and back to full on fun, we are back to the beaches and dog parks at least every other day.
Meanwhile, my body has gotten bigger and softer since we got here, and I hadn’t been on my bike since the end of May. The neighborhood just felt too small, and too hilly to enjoy a lazy ride. And so I stopped.
A few weeks ago I noticed that my ankles were popping, my upper arms seemed even weaker than usual, and it was becoming an effort to walk up the RV steps. So I made a commitment to myself to get back on my bike. Not for a required amount of time or distance, but to simply get back in the saddle.
That first day I rode two times around the circle, with one hard climb up to the office. The second day I did the same, but without the hard hill. On day three, I turned my bike pedometer on because I was curious how many times around the circle made a mile. Three. Most days since then, I’ve ridden at least three circles around. Sometimes several times. Most days I even remember to turn on my bike pedometer, because I like to see my commitment, like proof.
Riding takes me deep into my head thoughts, and also completely out of them. I can rerun an uncomfortable conversation, or focus on the burn in my thighs as I climb up the hill. But lately, I’ve been able to let it all go, and just feel the rush of the air as I cruise down the hills, and lean into the turns to do it all over again.
I ride the same loop every time: out our driveway and onto the street to the left, toward the maintenance yard. I say good morning to the workers as I peddle up the slight incline and curve to the left at the water tower. On the straightaway I shift gears to pick up some speed in preparation for the hill up to the auxiliary parking lot. I gear down as I climb to the top and then turn around.
The first few times I noticed that I was always turning to the left at the top of the hill for the turnaround, that I felt less steady and sure when I turned a tight right. So I’ve been practicing turning right each time, and now, it’s as comfortable as turning left.
I fly down the hill, turn left back onto the main road, and then left again, up the hill to the employee parking lot next to the office. Sometimes I stand and peddle because it feels so good. And then I coast down the hill and turn left, circling into the maintenance yard again. I ride past the workers and peddle hard on the straightaway past our campsite as I enter the blind curve, listening for any trucks that might be coming down.
When we first got here, I avoided this stretch of the circle because the road past our campsite narrows to barely wide enough for one car, you can’t see around the corner, and sometimes the workers drive through kind of fast. And, after the turn, it’s a slow but steady uphill climb to the road where the office is.
But I got tired of only doing half the circle, so I tried it. Each time I approached the curve, I’d squeeze the brakes in anticipation of the slight bump in the road around the corner. And then I’d have to work pretty hard to get up the hill.
I noticed that my body clenched before the bump, so I reminded myself to drop my weight low into my seat and relax my arms to absorb the impact. After I got used to the bump, I tried slowing down as I approached the curve, but without using my brakes, and I began to trust myself and my riding skills. Now I fly around the corner at 15 mph, lean into the bump, and easily gear down to peddle up to the top of the hill. And it feels so good.
The metaphors are not lost on me. So I’ve been noticing where else in my life I’ve been avoiding blind curves and bumps in the road, and how I can tenderly and lovingly move toward them and through them. And it seems like the right time, with the Jewish New Year beginning next week.
There is a Jewish community in Caspar, just four miles north of us. For the first time since we’ve been on the road, I will participate in the Tashlich ritual, at the beach, owning my less than loving behaviors, forgiving myself and others, and letting it all go.
The following Sunday we are going to a special meditation related to Shmita, the every seventh year practice of letting the land rest. I’ve never heard of the practice, but being outside on someone’s land, chanting and meditating, sounds like a beautiful way to let go of the old, and and open up to the sweetness of the new year.
Never Say Never
It’s been four weeks since Marika’s hip replacement surgery, All went very well, and, according to her surgeon, she is healing ahead of schedule. She gave up her walker and is now sporting a cane. She’s driving and running errands, and even went to a friend’s house for some backyard birding.
I did a great job as her care helper. She got her meds on time, had clean laundry, dishes, groceries, had her potty moved and emptied every day, and I even found ways to make getting her TED hose stockings on more fun.
I felt like I was channeling my father, the efficient caretaker, while trying to infuse some of my mother’s compassion in the mix. Still, Marika will tell you I was too controlling, and she couldn’t wait to be independent.
So while she was recovering, I continued to get things ready for the house sale and getting back on the road. I’d gone through all of the “things” in the house, and was starting to look at storage spaces for our boxes of stuff and the few small pieces of furniture I wanted to keep. I had a cash buyer willing to pay my price, and a list of five estate companies that I was ready to interview about the bulk of the furniture. Everything was lined up for us sell the house and pull out of town at the end of April.
And maybe it was because everything was falling so easily into place, that I was able to see another option. Marika had been saying, all along, that she loves being in the house, and suggested I hold onto it so we could come back every year.
But I had always, adamantly, said I didn’t want to keep the house, that I didn’t want to live in Phoenix, that I hate the heat, and have no attachment to the actual house. But in the middle of March, a week or two after Marika’s hip surgery, something shifted.
Maybe it was how often we were both saying, over and over again, how grateful we were to have the house for her to recover in. Marika had her own bedroom, with a bed she could easily get in and out of, the halls were wide enough for her walker, and she had a huge shower with room for a shower bench so that she could easily bathe herself. We had a washer and dryer, a second freezer, long, carpeted hallways for indoor ball playing, and a huge, enclosed yard that Tillie loves. The house may be outdated, but it’s fully functional, paid off, and in very good condition.
And suddenly, I realized that keeping the house didn’t mean we had to live in it all year. We could still travel and volunteer, and come back to the house in the winter, when the weather is practically the best in the country, where we have friends and community. Heck, we can even volunteer and take classes, like other snowbirds who only live here part of the year. And we can still travel in the winter if we want to, using the house as a hub.
Living in this north central neighborhood is very different than living in busy, bustling Central Phoenix. I rarely have to wait to make a left turn onto the main street, four supermarkets are within a mile, many favorite restaurants are within twenty minutes, and we’re only a couple of miles from both major freeways.
And house values in Phoenix are only going up, so it seems like a good financial decision too. The gardener will continue to mow the lawns and keep the property looking good, the neighbor will check the mailbox for stray mail, and a friend will drop by to check on things while we’re gone.
I couldn’t believe it took me so long to figure it out. Maybe I had to grieve the relationship I had with the house, and the things in it, and find ways to make it my own. Maybe I needed to see the value of the choice. I know both of my parents would be tickled, knowing we’ve decided to keep it.
And so, instead of packing up my mother’s fine china that she bought at Fortunoff’s on Long Island, we took them out for our Passover Seder. It was just the two of us, but it was very special, telling family stories and the Passover story, with fun pandemic humor, and the old red Haggadahs, me reading the Hebrew, Marika reading the English, and me, drinking way more Manishchewitz wine than usual, because I wasn’t driving home.
And the meal was delicious. We ordered some brisket from Chompies, which was OK, but I must say, I have mastered my mother’s crispy, almost burnt on the outside, creamy on the inside roasted potatoes. And I made carrot tzimmis for the first time, and there were string beans, too. All so so good. Next year, I hope there will be many more people around the table.
When I first decided to keep the house, I considered how to not make it look vacant. I offered a friend the use of the garage for a new studio space while we were gone. I even offered him indoor space, if he wasn’t doing his dusty gourd carving. He considered it, but declined.
And then I realized that I could set up a studio space for myself! The idea gave me all kinds of giddy goosebumps. Years ago I had imagined turning the master bedroom into a studio, because it’s a 20 x20 room with huge closet storage space. But when I stood in the room and began to visualize things, the room felt stagnant, and had terrible light.
Marika encouraged me to consider the family room, which is next to the kitchen. The room is cozy, with a wall of west-facing windows, wood paneling, and a linoleum floor. I spent hours sketching where I’d put my tables and shelves and work spaces when we returned in the winter. And then my friend Judy said, “Let’s do it now.”
She helped me move everything that had been stored in the family room into the master bedroom, and then we moved tables and shelves into the family room, which is now, officially, my studio.
I kept very few books, supplies, pieces of art when we sold Marika’s house and moved into the RV full-time in 2016. Most of what I kept, I haven’t seen since 2012. It has been AH-MAZING to touch and connect with the precious pieces I chose to keep. Each with a special story, most that I made. They are truly reminding me of my authentic self. And yes, that fabulous yellow furniture was my teen bedroom set.
For my birthday this year, Judy asked me what I wanted to do. Now that we’re keeping the house, I can begin collecting boxes, objects, future parts of art pieces – one of my very favorite things to do.
So on my birthday we picked up my very fancy, very delicious Princess Torte, and then spent the morning at thrift stores, looking, touching, having a funderful time. And it felt so amazingly wonderful to know that I could buy anything I saw, because I have the space to begin collecting again. And I am even more excited because now I can go thrifting on the road, too, and bring things back to the studio.
While I’ve been unpacking and organizing the new space, I’ve also been idea-ing about a piece I want to make using my father’s handkerchiefs and pants hangers. It has been so fun to gather materials from my stashes, sketch possible compositions, scribble story notes, and get lost in the process of creating. And I have no deadline or need to finish before we leave town later this month, because I know I will be back.
We’ll be closing up the house and getting the RV out of storage later this month, then spending two nights at our local RV park, so we can clean the RV, prep, and pack for the road.
We were originally heading to Brookings, Oregon, on the coast just north of the California border, to volunteer with the Fish and Wildlife, educating folks about shorebirds and tide pools. It was the job we were supposed to do last summer, but it was cancelled due to Covid. Restrictions are still in place, so the job, while in a gorgeous place, would offer us limited public contact.
And after a year of mostly being with just ourselves, we both need more engagement with others. So we bowed out of the Oregon job and accepted a volunteer position with Mendocino Parks in California, working in the various state park visitors centers in the area. We’ll be camped at Russian Gulch State Park May 15 through Labor Day.
We’re both excited that we’ll be learning things, exploring a new place, and engaging with the public. Many of our California friends have promised to come visit, and we have friends that just built a cabin ten miles up the road, and they’ll be spending a good part of the summer there.
We’ll be taking our time to get from here to the coast, with a week’s stop at the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge north of Salt Lake City, Utah. We’ll be there during spring migration, which should make Marika very happy. Then we’ll head west through Nevada, and into California.
I am excited to share the RVing life with Tillie, to take nature walks, romp on the beach, and explore together. She’s settling in so well, no longer getting into things when she’s left alone, and she comes every time I call her. She loves the daily routine of taking out the trash with me, has so much fun playing ball, and is also happy to entertain herself with her assorted squeaky toys. And just this week, I brought out Cody’s Chuck It Launcher and ball, and she loved it.
So these last few weeks we’ll be taking care of final appointments, stocking up on big city foods and supplies, and readying to return to life on the road. As always, it will be different leaving, this time especially so, knowing we have a house to come home to.
YOUR TURN
Do you recall a time when you were certain about making a choice and then changed your mind? How did you “know” you wanted to make a different choice? How did it feel? Did you have any regrets? Gratitudes?
I invite you to take out paper, pen, colors, clay, paint……and explore the questions.
Perhaps you’d even like to share in the comments.
A Dog, a Hip, and a Bucket of Tears
It’s been a month of idling and waiting to see if Marika would be approved for a much needed hip replacement, when it might happen, and how long the recovery would be. Without any of this information, I’ve had to find ways to be OK with not doing, planning, or even knowing when we’re leaving, or where we were going.
That’s a pretty big ask for a person who loves to plan and know the future.
So, while Marika went to her medical appointments for her face and eyes, did physical therapy, changed her diet, and lost 30 pounds, I spent most of last month watching Hulu and Netflix, riding my bike, playing games online with friends, and keeping up with the laundry, dishes, vacuuming and washing the floors.
We did have fun shopping for the fabric to have the sofa and bunk cushions reupholstered in the RV. And we’ve been spending lots of play time with our new dog, Tillie.
Back in December, Marika and I started looking at online rescue sites for a dog. After several failed meetings with other dogs, we brought Tillie home on January 10. She’s about two, originally from Rocky Point, a beach town in Mexico. She was taken to a rescue there, had puppies and was then spayed, then brought up to a local rescue in Phoenix where we adopted her.
It has been sheer delight to have her puppy love energy in the house. She’s smart, quick to learn, loves car rides, and will do anything for treats and pets. And she loves all kinds of squeaky toys. She’s great at chasing a ball, and has even learned to bring it back. And when she’s done playing, she’ll sit for a minute, gnawing the ball, then run like the wind with it, around the yard, into the house, onto the sofa, out the door, back inside, and down the hall, then back out into the yard. Like I said, sheer delight.
Last weekend we picked up the RV from storage, packed up the fridge and some belongings, and took Tillie to a favorite state park campground two hours north of Phoenix for a quick camping trip. She found her spot on the sofa, and was a fine traveler.
She loved all of the smells, but is not a fan of peeing in public places. And we need to practice getting out of the RV. It only took a few times for her to learn the car routine, and now she knows to wait while she gets buckled in and out of her harness. And she knows to wait until she gets permission when the car door opens. Not so much with the RV. As soon as I started down the steps, she tried to follow. We were only there for two days, so I’m sure, with practice, she’ll learn her manners.
But it was a great getaway for me, to be in the quiet, to be able to hear the birds and the neighbors’ conversations. I was able to let go a little deeper, and it felt so good.
And then we were home, and the week was suddenly filled with my own endoscopy (routine checkup), and Marika’s pre-op appointments and getting all the supplies she will need after her hip replacement surgery this Wednesday.
Suddenly, I was emotional, tired, and crying unstoppable buckets.
I thought I had been doing a good job of feeling my feelings of grief as they came up. I’ve been though all of the drawers and closets in my parents’ house, and things are sorted and stacked for sale. I’ve been sharing stories of my mom and dad, gifted a favorite pitcher and glasses to a cousin, and finally figured out that I don’t need to keep my grandfather’s entire rolltop desk, just the drawers for future art pieces.
I even joined a friend for an intimate art making class called Holding Space for Grief Using Color. It was uncomfortable, and I wanted to quit several times, but I stayed with it and created a very beautiful book.
But this past weekend, as I was readying for an online writing class, I was filled with anxiety about what might come up, what I might write. I had been dreading the class for days, and even considered cancelling. I had steeled myself so tightly against my feelings, barely breathing into my belly, that on the morning of the class, I tweaked my back.
Of course, I didn’t see the connection right away. It’s been at least two years since I’ve had a thing with my back, so it caught me off guard. I wanted to blame it on the lumpy mattress we’ve been sleeping on. And then my dear writing teacher friend Laraine Herringreminded me that feelings are so big sometimes that they will, of course, overwhelm us and take over. But if we can name them, even if it’s just with just a color, or sound, it moves them out of our heads, so we can observe, examine, and begin a conversation with them.
The more I talked with the pain, the more obvious it became that, while my instinct was to breathe shallow so it wouldn’t hurt, what I really needed to do was breathe deeply into my belly, to give my back the full support it needed.
And as I breathed, the sharpness moved a bit and I realized I was terrified that Marika would die in surgery. Because last year, when we were having some big relationship issues, I considered leaving. But it was too hard, and so I wished for her to die, so that it would be easier.
This, in and of itself, is a shameful thing to feel, to wish someone you love dead. The thing is, a part of me believes I really have the power to make it happen. Because in my life, I have manifested so many amazing things with the powers of my thoughts. And because when I was 6, I wished for my brother Lenny to die, and he did. And so I was terrified.
As I listened to myself tell this story, I breathed deeper and slower into my belly, and my back, and then into my heart, giving me the much needed reassurance that I am safe and loved and strong, and that all will go well with Marika’s surgery.
I spent that day resting on a heating pad, crying lots of tears, releasing, recognizing, writing, and being gentle with myself and my feelings. I was able to step back into life the next day, feeling strong enough again to support Marika and the family through these next few weeks.
After the surgery, Marika will spend the night in the hospital, then come home to this perfect rehab house, with wide hallways, no loose carpets, and, yes, my parents already had the high toilet seat commode, and walker that Marika will need for her recovery.
She’ll be healing and recovering for a good six weeks, so now we have some time before I need to schedule the estate sale, sell the house, and plan our route out of town. And that feels good. I don’t need an exact date, just a pin in the calendar that says SOON. Now is for focusing on Marika’s full healing and recovery. And we even had two friends over for a Walker Decorating Party, so now Marika will be surrounded with love as she walks her way to recovery.
UPDATE: All went well with Marika’s surgery and she is moving and grooving with her walker.
Home, Again Home
We are here in the Big City, staying at my Dad’s house in central Phoenix for the winter. It took a few weeks for me to shift from the fear that we’d never get back in the RV, to enjoying and appreciating living in a real house, with great water pressure, three bathrooms, a big kitchen with a real stove, two ovens, a microwave and, my favorite, a toaster oven, a washer and dryer, recycling, and lots of space to spread out. And even though my Dad hadn’t lived in the house for the last year, there is an ample supply of plastic wrap, toilet paper, and scent free laundry detergent to last for the duration of our time here.
When we moved into the house at the beginning of December, it was familiar, odd, uncomfortable, and homey, all at the same time. This is the house I lived in from ages fourteen to eighteen, until I left for college. Except for a few overnights, and the time last year when we moved in for a week while the RV was being repaired, I hadn’t lived in the house since. But my parents did, so I was a frequent visitor. And, Marika lived here with them for five months while her kitchen was being remodeled. So it is familiar and comfortable for her too. Still, it has been odd to be settling in, while, at the same time, I’m going through things for throwing out.
Some moments I feel like I am in a movie. I’ll be washing the dishes while listening to the oldies station on the 1970’s under-the-counter radio that has a dial and no programmable buttons, and a song from the ‘70s comes on and I flash back to me at sixteen, listening to that same song in the living room on the family stereo console.
I remember my grandmother’s greasy fingers as I peel potatoes at the same counter she did, and think of the years of potato latkes that my mom and I, and then Marika, too, fried in the extra wide fry pan on the stove. But when I lit the Chanukah candles in the family menorah for the very ever last time in this house, I was crying so much I could barely sing the prayers.
I am memorizing the random house sounds: the rattle of the pipe after you flush the middle bathroom toilet, the rumbling motor of the electric garage door coming down, the clink of the brass handles on my father’s dresser drawers.
And slowly, I am emptying shelves and boxes, readying the house for a spring sale. I’ve been taking it a room at a time, with the larger picture clear in my view. December was all about going through my Dad’s office and taking care of the executor papers, the house deed transfer, and filing his 2019 taxes. I also emptied his desk and filing cabinet drawers. He saved everything, neatly organized in folders by year and topic, many labeled in my mother’s neat handwriting.
Much of it I just tossed, but it has been fun to go through the contracts for every house I’ve lived in, and read the operating manuals for appliances from the ‘50s. I read the holiday newsletters that the family co-wrote every year, all of the saved birthday cards, father’s day, mother’s day and anniversary cards. I touched every paper in the green metal strong box: my father’s parents’ birth, death and marriage certificates, my mother’s passport photos, and the note I wrote my father after his mother died, telling him he was a good son.
Some of it makes me smile, feeling the connection to what was important to my father. Sometimes I cry from a sharp memory, and the realization that, despite his later years of stubborn crankiness, my father was quite a great guy. But when I lit the Chanukah candles in the family menorah for the very ever last time in this house, I was crying so much I could barely sing the prayers.
I had a rare, two-day meltdown when the bathroom leak we thought we had fixed happened again. But I cried and slept, stayed in my pajamas, and ate all kinds of comforting carbs. Marika took tender care of me, and we got it repaired. And last week we put a brand new ac/heat unit in so that we can have heat in the house.
This month is all about clearing out my mom’s office. It is pretty much as she left it when she passed ten years ago, though I did go through her files and photos and papers back then. I still need to find a place to donate her various aids for the visually impaired, including a magnification screen that enabled her to write checks and read the mail.
The majority of the room is taken up by the twenty boxes I left here in 2012 when I thought I was moving to the Central California coast. I’ll be going through every box, choosing, once again, what to keep and what to let go of. I’m excited to see what things I chose to save back then, that I may have forgotten.
While I’ve been sorting through house things, Marika has been taking care of all kinds of medical things. She is benefiting from physical therapy sessions for her hip twice a week, had a MOHS procedure to remove a cancerous patch on her cheek, and had a laser procedure to remove the scar tissue created by her cataract surgery a few years ago. And she’s lost fifteen pounds on a new diet.
I’ve been riding my bike every day, though I often have to wait for the temperature to go up, and the air quality numbers to come down. Sometimes I ride on the quiet neighborhood streets, more often in the nearby school parking lot where I can let my mind and imagination wander.
One morning I was thinking how stuck I felt in the city, with no end in sight for leaving. And I noticed that, as I rode, I kept my eyes looking ten to fifteen feet ahead. Even though I was so familiar with the circular route around the lot, knew where the bumps and undulations were, I watched for hazards, as if it were my first time.
I challenged myself to just watch the road a foot ahead of my front tire. But I kept looking further, not trusting what I knew. After three circles around the lot, I was able to keep my eyes on the road just in front of me, trusting I’d know when to turn, where the speed bumps were.
It helped me come back to embracing being here, now, living in the house, and trusting that this, like everything, is temporary. And I realized that this is how we usually do things – staying in a place for three to five months. Yes, this is different because we’re in a house, and we’re not volunteering, but, really, it’s just another adventure on the road.
I also know that I need to have something to look forward to, to really know that we won’t be here forever. And so I made a call to a second possible camp hosting job on the Oregon Coast for the summer, just in case our preferred job doesn’t happen again because of COVID. And we’ve picked out new fabric to reupholster the RV sofa and dinette cushions. We’re also looking for someone to paint the dark interior cabinets a lighter color. It’ll be like a brand new RV when we move back in this spring.
These are the practices that work for me, that give me the ability to remain present to the work at hand, and still have my eyes on a down-the-road prize. Mix in some delicious meals, laughs with friends, and so much gratitude, and you really can call it home, again.
Hold On, Let Go, Lean In
We left the Oregon coast mid-October, just as the evenings were getting colder, with days of rain in the forecast. We took our time, mostly sticking to our 2-2-2 rule: drive no more than 2 hours each, arrive by 2 in the afternoon, and stay 2 nights. This way, we don’t get tired and cranky on the road, and it gives us time to move our bodies, and explore the area if we want to.
We stayed the first two nights in Medford, where we ran Big City errands, visited an art coop, and ate Thai food in a park. On the third day, we had reservations two hundred miles south for three nights at a casino RV Park so that Marika could bird at the nearby Sacramento Wildlife Refuge. After a summer of few bird sightings, she was delighted to see shorebirds and pelicans, a variety of ducks and hundreds of white geese.
But on the second day, the weather reports warned of big winds, which could heighten the fires that were burning on both sides of I-5 that we would be traveling. So we left a day early and paid for an extra night at our next stop near Stockton.
We drove around the back roads of the town, trying to find the big ships at the Navy Pier. We ate gyros from a food truck, checked out several farm stands, and visited a Cambodian Buddhist Temple with giant colorful statues depicting the story of Buddha’s Enlightenment.
And then big winds were in the forecast, and again, we left after just two nights and added one more night at the next stop in Bakersfield, at a man-made lake in the middle of desert and agriculture. It was a lovely, quiet spot, with a bike path and lots of families enjoying the water, but I’d never go there in the summer, when it’s probably mobbed with locals escaping the sizzling heat.
We overnighted in Banning, then spent our last night on the road at a favorite county park on the border of California and Arizona, along the Colorado River. I reveled in the water, and the grass, and the trees, and the last bit of solitude before we pulled into our usual RV park in Phoenix on the last Sunday in October.
We will be here in the Big City for the winter. We cancelled our volunteer gig at Dead Horse State Park in Cottonwood so that we could take care of my dad’s stuff, and get the house ready to sell, without time pressures.
My father was a meticulous paperwork person, and every year of papers is in its own hand-labeled banker box, dated with big magic marker numbers, all the way back to 2010, the year my mom died. For the past few years he’d been sending me emails with the subject For Your Executor folder, so I had a good idea of things. And on his last brief visit to the house two weeks before he died, he left me a new red folder on the coffee table labeled Sol’s Death Instructions.
Still, it took many deep breaths to make the phone calls to the funeral home, the insurance companies, the banks. Surprisingly, my very estranged brother even offered to help.
While we were still in Oregon, I arranged for a lovely ZOOM gathering at the burial, and friends and relatives from all over joined in to share stories of my Dad. He would have loved that we were all together, and it was free.
And then I gave myself time before taking on any of the other Executor duties until we got to Phoenix. I kept reminding myself that there was no expectation for me to hurry up and get everything done. I was sitting shiva, the Jewish custom of seven days of grieving.
And I gave myself permission to enjoy our last two weeks at the Snug, riding my bike every morning, sometimes crying, sometimes remembering, sometimes visualizing how it would be when we got back to Phoenix. But every time I got overwhelmed, I let it go, and focused on the peace and simplicity of life in the moment.
A few days before we left, we spread Cody’s ashes along the grass at the marina. Marika spread some of her mom’s ashes, too, because she would have liked the view.
And then we finally joined the migrating birds and headed south. We took our time, enjoying the slow change from ocean to forest, mountains to valleys, from Oregon, through California and finally, into Arizona.
I worried about how I would feel when we went to my dad’s house. Would I be overcome with a wave of sadness? Would I feel nothing? I told myself it would probably be something between those two extremes, that I will feel what I feel, and I just needed to focus on staying centered. Centered between extremes, and centered in myself. Grounded, stable, flexible, able to feel, and still move forward.
My dad had been living at his girlfriend Carolyn’s house in Sun City West for the past five years. They used to spend a few weeks every few months at my dad’s house, but in this past year, he’d only been there for a few days. And so when we went to the house that first Monday, his energy really wasn’t there. And it felt much like all the other times we’d stop at the house when he was in Sun City. There were dishes with leftovers in the refrigerator, tax papers piled on the dining room table, and a handwritten pencil note reminding me that the dishes in the dishwasher were dirty. So it felt like he was still alive, just at Carolyn’s.
Until I went into his room and saw his orange Samsonite suitcase, and the three banker boxes of pills and papers, the Las Vegas carry on bag filled with One Touch strips, and a laundry basket filled with his shoes – all the things that my brother had brought over from Carolyn’s house a week after he died.
I still haven’t gone through all of his things, but I have opened every dresser drawer, remembering how it was my job to put his fresh from the Chinese laundry, white, no starch, shirts, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string, in his middle, shirt drawer. I’ve looked through his desk drawers and filing cabinets, and the green metal box where he kept labeled envelopes with the birth and death certificates of his parents, my brother and mother.
With all of the emotions, the executor stuff, and getting the house ready, it could all be overwhelming. But I’m able to separate each big job into its own pile, then break down the individual tasks that each involves. For example, executor things are separate from house things. And readying the house for us to temporarily live in, is different than getting it ready to sell. The piles help me take care of big things in small steps. And as I get more information about things, I know what “pile” to put it in.
And when I do get overwhelmed, I cry, I step back, and I lean into the support of Marika and my friends, and my family, until I’m ready to dive back in.
And so far it’s been OK. All of the financial and beneficiary changes are in process, and the a/c thermostat and plumbing leaks have been fixed at the house so we can move in on December 1st. We have spoken with a realtor as well as a cash-offer company, to get an idea of our options. And I keep reminding both of us that we don’t have to make any decisions right now.
In addition to all of the house things, Marika has severe osteoarthritis, and is on the path to a hip replacement in February. Staying in the house will give us a big, open, easy place to spend the winter, rent free, with no steps. And for the first time in five years, we can buy the family size of chicken breasts, and still have room in the freezer for ice cream. We’ll park the RV in the driveway, and I’m sure we’ll be taking some camping trips while we’re here.
Besides seeing doctors and dentists, food shopping and picking up take out, we have been limiting our contact with the world. We did get together with some dear friends, maintaining safe distance and practices the entire time.
The one constant through all of this is my morning bike ride. Every place we camped, I found a place to pedal. There was a multi-use trail along Bear Creek in Medford, a bike path along the edges of the park in Bakersfield, and where there wasn’t a designated place, I rode around the park and parking lots.
I even experienced a bucket list item – riding my bike on a golf course. It was glorious to pedal on the paved, rolling hills, with moist grass on one side and tall dry grasses on the other, watching the sun set.
Now here in Phoenix, the roads through the RV park are rough with a lot of tall speed bumps, which does not make for a fun ride. After a few days I ventured to the next door apartments parking lot, and then further, to the church parking lot down and across the street.
And it is divine. I ride along the sidewalk to get there, just down the block and a little ways down to 27th Avenue, around the corner and into the lot. And then I’m home free, peddling up and down the lanes, across the lines, around the light poles, circling and figure eighting my worries away.
Sometimes I cut my wheel across the lines in sharp angles, which makes me think of my dad, which makes me cry. Sometimes I visualize the yard sale we’ll have, or work out the details of the new Heart Sparks chakra group I’m creating. Sometimes I just listen to the wild screams of the kids in the playground next door, and think, how wonderful that they have the freedom to let it all out.
And so I take my cues from them. I make a few calls, sort through a few boxes, and add more to do’s to the house readying list. And when it gets too big and too much, I cry and let it all out. And then I’m ready to go again.
This is how you move through any kind of change. You hold on, and let go, and scream and cry when you need too. Then you look around you and lean in, and you see, you’re really doing just fine.
Where Parallel Lines Intersect
My father passed away this week at the age of 90. I imagine him swirling in happiness in a sea of numbers and equations, on the plane where parallel lines finally intersect.
The Practice of Here and There
It’s that time again, when we are leaving one place and heading to another. We’ve been here in the safe, quiet, perfect temperatures of the central Oregon Coast since mid May, before the official summer season began. Besides losing Cody, it’s been a bit of a dream come true time for me.
There’s no sales tax, I get fresh, wild, smoked salmon at the fish market across the street, we buy bread and produce at the weekly farmers market, and there’s a dispensary on every corner. And there are three quiet walking beaches, all within five miles of home.
I’m riding my bike every day around the marina, sometimes singing as I pedal, sometimes talking out loud as I prepare for the week’s Heart Sparks coaching circle. Yes, three women said YES to the circle, and it’s been expansive and inspiring for all of us.
I’ve sold all of the remaining Make Your Own Prayer Flags, and the last of the first edition copies of my Heart Sparks book. And I’ve sold even more decks of Heart Sparks cards though my Etsy shop. I’m writing a bit most days, and started sharing my stories onmedium, and I’ve even taken out my crayons a few times.
I fixed a flat tire on my bike, twice, all by myself, and Bill helped me adjust my seat and handlebars for the now perfect fit. My skin and bones love this moist climate, and my whole being thrives being surrounded by a big sky and so much water.
Marika and I are communicating in new, healthy ways, and singing and laughing more. We go on an outing at least once a week, and we have finally found a TV show that we both enjoy. (Last Tango In Halifax, on Netflix.)
And our dear friend Judy came to visit for two weeks. We took her for very windy jetty walks, and to our secret beach, and we explored the gardens at Shore Acres on one of the few warm and sunny days. We checked out all of the thrift stores in town, and she found the vintage folding TV trays that I’ve been looking for, so that guests can sit on the sofa and eat instead of us all being crammed around the dinette table.
On the mornings when I had my Heart Sparks circle, Marika and Judy picked up donuts and coffee and went to the beach. And on the day Marika wanted some home time, Judy and I went on a hike at the Slough, found a few geo-caches, and stopped inside a local distillery, but did not have a taste.
We drove to Bandon twice, once to check out Washed Ashore and the Marine Yard Sale, where neighbor Bill was selling a variety of boat related items, and again, to visit the local artist coop galleries. We ate pizza and ice cream, and drove out to the Coquille Lighthouse where we watched two young women choose the perfect piece of driftwood for a macramé project. And all three of us downloaded the SEEK app, so we could identify all of the plants and trees and anemones we found.
I told Judy the story of when we first came to Oregon in 1998 with the other RV for our first four week adventure, and we took a tour of the Coquille lighthouse. We both loved the idea of someday being that retired couple, giving tours. When we shared that with the couple, they said the next couple had to cancel, so there was an opening for the month if we wanted it. We actually considered it, but agreed we’d rather spend our month traveling, but that it was definitely something we wanted to do in the future.
And we did. It was our very first volunteering job in October 2016.
And on that same trip in 1998, we came to Charleston, where we are now, for a birding festival. We stayed at the RV Park near the marina and I rode my bike all around town while Marika went on birding field trips. I remember thinking, “Wow, you can stay here for a whole month for only $350.00. I want to do that someday.” And we did, for the entire month of September, 2016, on our way south to that lighthouse job.
We ate fresh crab and local smoked salmon. I bought my kayak and paddled in several nearby lakes. We enjoyed the variety of ethnic foods in nearby Coos Bay. And I loved the town even more.
Which is why I was so happy to return here again this summer, and even happier to find this RV park tucked behind the shops on the main drag, looking out over the ever changing tides of the South Slough.
We’ve made friends with our neighbor Bill, and Ruthie, the woman who cuts our hair at Beauty and the Beach. We know the back roads, the cheapest gas, and the best vistas for take out food eating. And we both agree that the best fish and chips is at The Portside Cafe, with huge portions of delicious panko-breaded fish, a tropical Cole slaw, crunchy-coated fries, and only $11.00, or $14.00 if you add a cup of chowder.
It’s been the perfect safe haven for us during the pandemic. It’s off the beaten track, so we had fewer summer tourists than other places on the coast. And now, with the fires burning all over Oregon and the west coast, we are blessed to be surrounded by water, and to have the fog that acts as a filter for the smoke.
I know I will be sad to leave. But I remind myself that we will be back on the coast in eight months, either here, or at our interpretive volunteer gig further south on the ocean.
For now, the practice is to continue to embrace being here. AND to keep an eye forward on the best plan for leaving.
We were scheduled to leave next Thursday, driving north to Newport for four days, then going inland for a few days in Eugene before heading south to the Klamath Falls area for two weeks of some migratory birding. But with all of the fires and smoke between here and there, we have decided to wait and see.
We’re still going up to Newport next week to visit with our next year’s supervisor who rehabs wild parrots. But, if the air in the rest of the state is like it is now, we’ll head back here to our safe Snug Harbor, pay for the month, and watch and wait and leave when it’s clear. We’re looking at alternate routes and timetables to get us back to Phoenix by November 1st, where we’ll stay for the month, to vote, visit my Dad, and take care of medical things. Then we’ll be camp hosting at Dead Horse State Park in Cottonwood, two hours north of Phoenix, for the winter.
Meanwhile, the summer tourists here are gone, the commercial crabbing season is on hold while the crabs molt, and “free range” albacore is now being sold off the commercial boats at the marina. Weekdays, there are only a few boat trailers in the marina parking lot, but salmon season is coming soon, and weekends are still busy.
This weekend is Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year. It’s a time for forgiveness and compassion, for ourselves and others. It’s a time of endings and beginnings, of moving forward with clarity and sweetness, for ourselves, for our beloveds, for our communities.
There are so many people struggling and suffering, especially these last months, that sometimes I think I should feel guilty for living this amazing life. But then I remind myself that my freedom and love amplifies and raises the vibrations around me, and extends the love bigger out into the world. Every time I say good morning to a person on my ride. Every time I smile behind my mask at the supermarket. Every time I say thank you for all that is.
River, Rocks, Repairs
Can you believe it’s already August? We’ve been here on the central Oregon coast since mid-May, our longest time in one place without volunteering. When I see the summer temperatures around the country, I can’t imagine being anywhere but here, where it averages 60° every day. Sometimes it’s sunny, sometimes foggy, sometimes gray and overcast. They are all my favorites.
We are adjusting to life without Cody. It’s the first time in our thirty one years together that we don’t have a dog. And now it’s just us. I realize how much time and energy and attention went to his care, and how I relied on him for my own regular moving and walking. Sure, now we can go away all day, with no time restraints, but we haven’t done that yet.
But it was a blessing that he did not have to endure the week we spent living in an RV repair shop parking lot last month. We drove 140 miles inland to Grants Pass to a highly recommended company for help with our suspension. Because we were parked and living in the parking lot, we had to be out of the RV by 8 am, and most days we couldn’t return until 5 pm.
So every morning we drove to one of the city parks along the Rogue River where I rode my bike and Marika walked by the water. By noon, it was already in the 90’s and too warm to be outside. All of the museums were closed, so we’d pick up lunch and spend the afternoon in the clean, empty, but sterile waiting room.
One day we did laundry and went food shopping, one day we checked out the thrift stores in town. We visited a glass blowing studio, spent a morning at the Pacifica Forest Farm and Nature Center, and had delicious hand pies at the farmer’s market. The hand pies were so good that we drove out to their farm on Monday morning to buy more.
Because all of our parts didn’t arrive, we had to stay the weekend, so the owners gave us gift cards to Olive Garden, and a local ice cream place that was delicious. As cranky as I could have been about the delays, I was grateful for their generosity, and that we had a free place to park with electricity and water, a dump a block away, fast wifi, places to be in nature every day, and everything we needed was within two miles.
We finally drove back to the coast with new shocks, a Super Spring suspension system to raise up the back of the RV, and an upgrade to the steering. And we bought two more new tires for the front, for a total of six since May. The ride home was smooth and quiet and stable. Now we just need a front end alignment and an oil change this week, and we’ll be ready to hit the road.
Except there’s no better place to be right now. We are loving the quiet community of Charleston, with fresh fish and crab, and a new fish and chips place to try every week. The weather is always perfect, even when it’s foggy or cloudy. I sleep well with the windows open, and I am comfortable wearing shorts and a long sleeved t-shirt to protect my arms from the sun.
I’m still riding my bike every morning around the marina, and most days I meet Marika on the jetty and we walk together to our private beach on the bay. She checks out the scoters, common murre, and an occasional brown pelican with her binoculars, and I watch the slow ripples of water trying to be waves. On low tide mornings we walk along the rocks and look for anemones, crabs, and sea stars in the crevices.
Sometimes we’ll drive into town in the afternoon to check out the thrift stores, or try some new take out. Last week we took a private tour of the Marshfield Printing Museum and learned about the local paper that was completely run by one man for more than fifty years. Some afternoons we drive to the beach. But most days we just hang out at home, not doing much of anything. We really miss volunteering, having a work schedule, learning stuff, and sharing with others.
Last Monday, Marika took herself birding so that I could work on a new vision board. I’ve made several in the last fifteen years, and everything on them has manifested. So I thought it’d be a great way to spark some new energy and passion.
I found a few magazines in the laundromat, turned on some baroque music, which is said to inspire creativity, and had a fun time tearing colorful images from the pages. But I ran out of magazines. And in these pandemic times, it’s been hard to find more. So yesterday, I got on my bike and went for a Vision Ride. I pedaled out to the marina parking lot and asked, “How can I be more active?”
These past few weeks I’d been thinking about how everything, including my work, is quite passive right now. I’m not walking much. I’m watching a lot of TV. And, if people are buying my book, or Prayer Flags, or Heart Sparks cards, it is not from any effort on my part. It’s like that’s my old work, been there, done that, so now what?
As I pedaled up and down the parking lot, trying to open up to new ideas, I thought about an email that a coaching client had sent me a few weeks ago about a good friend of hers. The friend had been struggling over the past year with her job, the end of a long term relationship, and generally trying to figure out what her next steps were.
At some point my client told her about me, our coaching, and my book, and the friend said she ordered the book, took copious notes, and it has been one of the best tools she has found. She said she liked it better than Martha Beck’s Finding Your Own North Star. The friend recently left her unsatisfying job and enjoyed a mini vacation before beginning her new one. My client said she sounded lighter than she has in months, and that I played a large part in that.
And I realized that I don’t need to create something new. This is my work. And this is what I love. So how can I actively share this work?
And then I had a clear vision of an intimate virtual group gathering, and we were using Heart Sparks cards as prompts for free writing, and then sharing. It felt warm and powerful, like magic.
When I got home, I found a webpage I’d created a while back that just needed a few changes to make it current. I looked at my calendar to see how seven weeks could spread across the rest of our time here. And I put out the invitation.
Suddenly I am excited about something. I can feel the sparks of possibility, imagining a woman reading about the Heart Sparks Circle and saying, “Hmmm, yes… that sounds like exactly what I am needing right now.”
I know it’s what I need right now.
So if you are feeling stuck, or unmotivated, even if you’re not sure where the resistance is, the Heart Sparks Virtual Coaching Circle can support you as you explore and claim and manifest something that sparks your own heart. Details are here. And if you’re not sure, or just want to chat, I’d love to connect.
Riding the Joy and the Grief
Before we even got to the coast, I was thinking about getting a bicycle so that I could ride around the area right from our spot. Marika and I used to be avid cyclers, sometimes riding fifty miles in a weekend. But my twenty year old bike had seen its best days, so I left it with the rangers at Fort Pulaksi two years ago.
The only bicycle store in town sells mostly high end bikes, and, because of the virus, Walmart had limited stock. I looked on Craigslist with no luck, but kept envisioning an inexpensive fun bike to ride. And then I found a community bike shop in town listed on Facebook, where folks could share tools and work on their bikes. They also sold refurbished bikes, and they had a yellow Spalding mountain bike that fit my five foot, three inch frame.
It’s not a fancy bike, but it’s got fifteen indexed gears, a kickstand, and water bottle cage, and it fit me like a glove. I paid seventy dollars, put it in the back of the car, came home, and took it for a ride.
I rode out of the RV park, crossed Cape Arago Highway at the crosswalk, and rode the half-mile to the marina. I pedaled past the boat charter companies, and the fish processing plant, then out to the jetty at the end of the road, before heading home. It was glorious. Just like riding a bike.
The next morning, the back tire was flat, and I noticed that both tires were cracked. I felt some shame for not having looked at them before I bought the bike. I also understood it was a refurbished bike, but shouldn’t it have safe tires? I checked the price of two new tires, and realized I could get a new bike with new everything from Fred Meyer for about the same price.
So I drove into town and bought a purple bike at Fred Meyer, with the intention to returning the yellow bike to the community shop the next day. I got home, took it for a ride, and my whole body hurt. The next morning I measured the distances between the seat and the handlebars and the pedals on the perfectly fitting yellow bike, so that I could make the adjustments to the purple bike. But the numbers were the same. There were no adjustments to make.
I returned the purple bike and took the yellow bike back to the shop for two newer but not new tires. The guy also tuned up the gears and the brakes. I gave him an extra five dollars and I was happy.
In the past, my riding was all about building stamina, adding distance, getting in shape. This time it is all about freedom and exploring, and getting out of the RV. I have an app that tracks my miles, and another that even adds photos to the route.
I ride every morning, across the crosswalk, down Boat Basin Road, past Crabby Cakes Bakery and Beauty By the Sea. Sometimes I turn down Metcalf Drive, past the fish company office, the stacks of crab rings, an AirB&B and the Dockside Cafe. Sometimes I stay on Boat Basin and turn right at Captain John’s Motel, following the Scenic Tour Route signs to the marina.
Both routes take me past the Charleston Marina RV Park where we stayed for a whole month, three years ago, and the small tidal basin where we used to take the dogs for walks. The road continues past the Coast Guard housing and dock, to the commercial fishing boat marina where you can buy live crab, rockfish, and tuna right off the boats.
I ride past the bright orange Basin Tackle shop, the public boat ramp, and the public fishing station that is wrapped closed with yellow caution tape due to the virus. I pass the Lost At Sea Memorial Park, then follow along the edge of grass and Monterey pines, stopping at the corner picnic table where Cody and I sometimes sit and watch the boats in the marina.
One morning, there were big puddles in the parking lot from the previous night’s rain. I remembered how I used to love riding my bike in puddles, feet up and off the pedals, flying through, the water making one of my very favorite sounds.
But I told myself, no, you don’t have a fender, so your pants will get all wet. And I rode past. And then I thought, So what! And I turned around and headed toward the water. I hesitated slightly, and stayed on the outer edge as I pedaled. I barely got a woosh.
I circled back and tried again, this time, aiming for the very center of the puddle, the deepest part. The swoosh was full and long and delightful. But I forgot to pick my feet up, so my boots got splashed. But they’re waterproof, so who cares.
I turned around to ride through again. And then again. After five or six times, each one faster than the last, I was full up and happy. Yes my boots were wet and my pants had a line of muddy water up the butt, but I didn’t care. I rode through every puddle on my way home.
The morning that it was drizzly, I put on my rain jacket and rain pants and headed out, not even minding the water spots on my glasses. One afternoon, I was feeling lazy, but I heard my body say “Please!” And so I got on my bike for a second time and headed to the marina. And, of course, it felt so good.
Sometimes I’d go for a ride so I could cry about Cody. Without his regular acupuncture treatments, he was having trouble getting himself up and walking with stability, and he was mostly incontinent. Marika spread pee pads in his bed at night, and washed the area rugs every few days. By the fifth week without treatment, he was dragging his back legs in the morning, and she was talking about putting him down.
Instead, since we still couldn’t go in with him for acupuncture, I called a different vet in town who offered cold laser therapy, and they said we could go in with Cody for the treatments. He’d had good success with laser in the past, and it was better than no treatment. We signed up for six sessions, Monday, Wednesday and Friday, for two weeks.
I saw small improvements with each treatment. He was walking further, enjoying sitting in front of the screen door to watch the squirrels, and he was still coming over to me at my desk for neck massages. But Marika said he was suffering and, after the third treatment, she said enough, she wasn’t going to do it anymore. So I took him for his fourth treatment on Monday by myself.
A dear friend reminded me that we see what we’re used to seeing. Marika, with her twelve years of hospice nursing, saw how much Cody struggled, and how uncomfortable he was. I, the forever optimist, saw small improvements, and how much he enjoyed his walks in the grass at the marina, and smelling everything. And, even when he was panting, I saw him smiling.
But after that fourth treatment I could see that even small improvements weren’t going to make enough of a difference. He had a degenerative disk disease, and it was only going to get harder for him. And it was obvious that he was in pain. He flinched when I touched his back, so he no longer enjoyed being brushed, or even petted by people, one of his very favorite things.
I told Marika I agreed with her, and she made the calls. The vet came last Tuesday to put him down.
After he died, it was so wonderful to hug on him like I haven’t been able to for months, wrapping my arms around his very soft coat, rubbing him up and down, feeling all the feels. I stayed in the bedroom while Marika helped the transport man put Cody’s body in the van. Marika picked up his ashes yesterday.
We had an amazing five years together, spending almost all day, every day together. We traveled across the country twice, in two different motorhomes. He visited thirty states, and ran in both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. He lived at the beach, in the mountains, in the forest, and along rivers and lakes. His favorite things were running after a ball, meeting strangers to get pets, joining Marika in the kitchen for late night snacks, neck and chin rubs, (he’d touch you with his front paw if you stopped too soon), and sitting in front of the screen door, watching the world go by.
He was alert and engaged, with a healthy heart, and normal bloodwork. Even on his last day, after our walk at the marina, we gave him four valium, and he was still alert enough to sit up and bark when the vet arrived. It took two injections of the vet’s sedative to knock him out for the final injection, which he also needed a second dose of, for his heart to finally stop. His front half wanted to go and do and explore, but his back half just couldn’t keep up. He died eight days shy of his thirteenth birthday. Now, he is free, and he is running, running, running.
And every morning, I am riding. It gives me a new routine, it gets me outside, and it helps move the grief through my body.
Sometimes I ride directly to the marina. Sometimes I take the back roads, so I can check on the progress of the ice house being built at the end of the commercial pier. Sometimes I stop to watch people crabbing off the docks, putting their boats in the water, or fishing off the pier.
Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time riding around the boat trailer parking lot, curving and coasting up and down the lanes. I feel like I am nine, biking around the blacktop at Fern Place School with Fran and Karen, pretending we are teenagers, driving cars.
Sometimes I ride wide circles around the lines of the parking spaces. Sometimes I ride across the lines, cutting angles with my front tire. Sometimes I ride parallel to the line, trying to keep my wheel as straight as possible. And sometimes I ride along the squiggly patched sections in the asphalt, imagining I am riding on a giant topographic map, following the lines of a river.
Sometimes I ride to collect my thoughts, sometimes to let go of them. Sometimes I think of Cody, lying in the grass in front of the corner picnic table, smelling the air. Sometimes it makes me teary, and other times I smile.
Sometimes Marika will drive to the jetty and I will meet her there so we can walk together. One day we walked to the end of the jetty, further than I go on my bike because the road turns rugged and too bumpy for comfort.
We found a trail down to a small, private beach that opens onto the bay. It smelled salty and fishy and healing. The sand was soft and the waves barely rolled. We sat on the rocks and watched the water. Cody would have loved it.
Snug in the Harbor
We have always planned our routes and volunteering gigs based on where the birds are. Once we choose an area, we check out nearby food shopping, restaurant options, and proximity to things to explore. Now, we also consider where Cody can get his acupuncture treatments.
After we heard that our summer volunteering job was officially cancelled, we were excited to spend the summer in Florence, Oregon where Cody’s favorite vet is. But when we found out she is no longer in practice, panic set in. I extended my search beyond Florence and found two vets in Coos Bay, a coastal town an hour south of Florence. They offered acupuncture and cold laser therapy, and there was even a mobile vet who serviced the area.
We love the Coos Bay area. With a population of 16,000, there are several supermarkets and lots of restaurant choices, so I started looking online to see what might suit us. There are high end resorts and very low end RV parks in the area. I considered staying at the Charleston Marina, where we had spent a month three years ago, but it is essentially a big parking lot, and not a place Marika wanted to return to.
Then I found a small, 10 space park, also in Charleston, that butts up against the bay. I called and they had one spot available. I explained that we didn’t know how long we’d be staying, since our volunteering job had been cancelled, and they said, no problem, you can stay as long as you like.
Suddenly, I felt ease and calm again. We had a great place to stay, we could walk around town right from the park, and we’d be right on the water. And Cody had a vet. Now I could happily plan our journey from Phoenix to the coast.
We pulled out on Monday, May 18, the anniversary of when we began this life the road. We headed west on I-10 into our fifth year, and thirty miles out of town, we had a blowout. If you’ve ever had a blowout on a freeway, you know it’s pretty scary. Imagine being in a 32 foot motorhome, towing a car, when your back RV tire explodes. We managed to cross three lanes of traffic and pulled onto the shoulder.
We waited an hour on the side of the freeway for AAA to come to change the tire. Every passing car and truck shook the motorhome, but we stayed as calm as we could. We had lunch, watched some TV, finally the AAA arrived. He jacked up the tire, and then his jack broke. And then he saw that both tires on the back right were flat, so we’d need a tow. Four more hours later and the tow truck finally arrived. We had to carry Cody down the steps of the RV since there was no room for his ramp, and the three of us drove the car to Discount Tire to get four new back tires on the RV.
By the time we were done, it was almost four o’clock, so we stayed at an RV Resort in Buckeye for the night. And thank goodness they had a swimming pool, so I could let the whole day go.
We headed out in the morning, rested and ready, with all of our travel stops rescheduled for one night later. There were fewer cars on the freeway from Phoenix to our first stop outside of Banning, in California. We stayed at a KOA, a rarity for us, since they are usually family-focused and expensive. But this park was quiet, with trees, and situated against the mountains, so there were spectacular views. We sat outside with Cody and chatted with a woman, six feet apart, who had just bought a new RV to live in full time.
In the morning, we took the back roads to the I-5 to avoid the crazy LA interchanges, and headed north as far as Lost Hills. RV Parks along the I-5 are nondescript and hardly fancy. No pools, no grass, but they offer a safe place to park with hookups. And after our 260 mile driving day, that was all we needed.
On our third night, we pulled into the fairgrounds outside of Sacramento for the night, and the leveling jacks wouldn’t go down. And I noticed that all of the road vibration had once again, loosened the kitchen cabinets from the wall. And we had two more driving days. I was freaking out. We called our favorite RV mechanic in Coos Bay and made an appointment, but I was still worried.
I am usually the optimistic one, the encourager, the one who knows everything’s going to work out fine. But that night I imagined the worst scenarios, and woke up in a real panic. I was anxious about the levelers, the cabinets, and the fact that the day’s delay meant we’d be driving in big winds, which is not easy in an RV. I shared all of this with Marika and asked her to please help me through.
When I got behind the wheel I cried, and then I practiced some four/eight breathing, and I did fine. The winds were 18-25 mph, but they was coming at us, not from the sides, so it wasn’t bad at all. Marika took over in Redding and drove us up and over and through the Shasta Mountain range, to our final stop of the trip.
I had found an RV Resort on the Klamath River, just a few miles from the California-Oregon border. Even though it was the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, the park was quiet and clean. There were blue herons and ring billed gulls, even a white pelican floating on the river, the first water birds I’d seen in seven months. I was in heaven. Cody loved the grass and the smells, and Marika and I appreciated the level concrete since we weren’t trying out the jacks. We especially loved the cool air and having a day of no driving. And they even had ice cream novelties for sale at the office.
Marika spent the entire day on Saturday in bed, reading, Netflixing, napping, even eating her lunch in bed. I enjoyed walks with Cody, sitting outside, in the SUN, watching people float by on the fast moving river, and reading a book from the park’s lending library. I even did a load of laundry, because I could. We would have stayed a third night, but there was no availability, so on Sunday morning, we pulled out and headed to our destination-the south central Oregon coast.
Again, I was anxious, this time worried that the narrow, winding mountain road from the I-5 to Coos Bay would be full of holiday traffic, and it would take twice as long. But the drive was easy, it was two lanes most of the way, and there were hardly any cars on the road with us.
We pulled into Snug Harbor RV Park around two on Sunday afternoon. The park is behind the laundromat and gift shop, right off the Cape Arago Highway. Our spot backs up to the south slough of the bay, and the back window offers a panoramic view of the water, the forest of pine trees, the boat yard, and the drawbridge. It is cozy and snug, just like the name implies. It’s a double-wide spot, with thick shrubs between us and our neighbors to the right. In the space on our left side, the owner is building a dome house, but building has stopped for now.
There are only four other rigs here, two of them are permanent residents, Overalls Bill, who lives in a converted school bus, and Fishing Man, who lives in a 5th wheel and probably works at one of the nearby fish processing plants. The other two couples are just here for a while, like us. There are sections of grass in the RV park, and a great little city park across the street full of good smells. And, funny thing, the leveling jacks worked fine when we pulled in.
Cody had his first appointment with the new vet on Tuesday, but because of Covid, we weren’t allowed to go in with him. He was so anxious and skittish, and the uncarpeted floors were slippery, that he only got a partial acupuncture treatment. We asked if we could go in with him next time, or do it outside, but no, we’ll have to wait until policies change.
On Wednesday I woke up, ate my cereal and coffee, then puked. I spent the rest of the day in bed, mostly sleeping. I realized that I was freaking out because of Cody. He needs his treatments to maintain his back health and all I could see was that he couldn’t get them.
But then I looked at him and realized he’s doing really well right now. The cool air suits him, and the level ground is easier for walking. I have to trust that, when he needs another treatment, it will work out. Because I can only plan and control so much. And then I just have to let it go, and simply be grateful for what is.
And this place seems perfect for now for all of us. It is quiet and safe, with birds and water, and places to walk right from our front door. Some mornings we drive a half mile to the marina so Cody can enjoy a walk around some water. Some mornings we leave him home and drive to the beach, less than two miles away. And some mornings, like today, we are tucked in at home, listening to our first steady rain on the RV roof. The tide is going out and the gulls and egrets are scattered in the mudflats, fishing.
It’s the first time we don’t have a plan, or a job, or a list of places to explore. We’re just here. Taking our time to acclimate to the weather, the pace, the change in elevation, and to explore what we want this time to be.
And isn’t that what we’re all doing these days? Settling into a different pace, a different space, and exploring how we want to show up in this new world?
I would love to hear how and what you are adjusting, noticing, and shifting in your own life.
Stay cool. Stay healthy.
From my heart to yours,
Ruth
