Our "China-free" Christmas

This year, the Hubby and I decided to have a “China-free” Christmas, meaning that our family wouldn't give any gifts made in China. Ideally, we would have preferred an all American-made Christmas, but that is nearly impossible! We also had a few other challenging parameters to manage.  I was honestly a bit nervous about whether we could find “China-free” Christmas presents that:

1.)   The kids wouldn’t feel were odd, boring, or lacking in that “wow” factor.

2.)   We could afford.

3.)   We could feasibly transport to and from the Midwest by plane.

I am glad to report that it was by far the best Christmas we have ever had with the kids.  I was so excited when Mr. Drama proclaimed in a hushed voice, “Santa really is real,” after he opened all his presents. He even contemplated the idea that perhaps Dumbledore, not Santa, had delivered the presents to his grandparents’ home, since there were so many one-of-a-kind, magical, Harry Potter-inspired wizarding items.

It was a unique and amazing time.  Here are some of the things we learned during this process, in case anyone else would like to do the same next year.

1.)   Etsy and other sites featuring handmade gifts are a terrific source for unique gifts!

The kids received recycled crayons molded into lego figures, lego bricks, and hearts; various Harry Potter items, including magic wands sent via owl post, candies from Honey Dukes, a Gryffindor scarf, and potions; a tutu and a few other items from hyenacart.com (a shopping site featuring handmade baby and children’s items and other natural family items).

Next year, I’d like to visit some local craft fairs to buy from local artisans. I just couldn’t seem to sneak away from the kids for a day of shopping this year, so quick online shopping ventures with one finger hovering over the “close” button became my preferred method of purchase.

Keep in mind: If you plan to order handmade gifts online, be sure to start shopping early. A few of our items didn’t arrive until after the first of the year. Luckily, Santa let the kids know in his letter that he would be leaving a few items at our house. When we got back from our trip on January 5, our housesitter let us know that Santa had left a few things under the tree. Can you believe he never heard a sound on Christmas Eve? :-D

2.)   K’nex and Little Tykes are among the few major toymakers that still produce items in the USA.  However, not all their items are made here, so you have to read the fine print carefully. We purchased a Little Tykes sand and water table, and as I was assembling it, I discovered that many of the components were made in China, even though the table was made here. They list this item as being USA-Made on the website, so beware! It is still much easier to shop for these items online, since retailers don’t carry their entire stock, and it is unlikely that you would find the full “USA-made” selection at any one retail store.

3.)   We went to the mall for a couple of hours. It was a nightmare. I found myself wandering half-panicked through stores turning over every item, searching for something NOT made in China. I honestly would have bought just about anything if it were made here. We spent two hours there and walked away with two puzzles. Definitely not worth the trip, the gas, the crowds, or the time.

4.)   After our disastrous trip to the mall, we stopped at the thrift store, and it was a blast! We had decided to exempt second-hand items that were made elsewhere (even China) because our dollars would not be going to corporate interests but would instead be funding local businesses and charities like Goodwill Industries. We first stopped in the books and toys aisle, where we found lots of books in perfect condition and a helmet to go along with the American-made skateboard that Cowboy received as his “big” gift this year. 

We also found a parachute like this one. We then picked up some fabulous new purses, shoes, and scarves for Sergeant Princess AND had enough time and money left over to buy her lots of sparkly, dangly bracelets from the jewelry counter. Altogether, I think we spent less than $50 and walked away with an amazing array of unique gifts that I would’ve never considered or could’ve ever afforded at the mall.

Since he had to make two stops for our kids, Santa understandably came a day early to the grandparents’ house in Ohio.  The kids were really surprised to awake on Christmas Eve to find that Santa had already arrived. They were even more surprised to find so many unexpected treasures – things that weren’t in any of the catalogs or toy wishlists sent out by Target and the like. Items that none of their friends would have, and items specifically chosen for them with a keen eye to their particular interests. Scanning around all the unpackaged, hand wrapped, unique gifts, Mr. Drama’s belief in Santa was reaffirmed. It was not unwrapping the “must-have toy” of the season that wowed them, but the care, consideration, and authenticity of the giving that made this Christmas especially joyful for our children. The joy for the Hubby and I came from the expressions of delight upon their faces. I truly could not ask for a better gift.

I hope everyone else had an equally merry Christmas this year. Happy New Year to you all!

Going Home Again (Part Two)

 I wrote previously about my experience of returning Back East and the realization that no matter how far I spread my branches, my roots will never budge. I am now preparing to take the trip once again. This time the Hubby and all three of the children will be joining me.  This is the “Part Two,” the part that I have struggled to type. It is difficult to write because I have not yet formulated my thoughts concisely. I have been mulling this over since my trip in October, and I will soon be returning with the same questions still unanswered.

My roots   are buried deep in the rich fertile soil of the Appalachian foothills. For generations, my family has toiled along the river and in the hollers, carving lives out of those coal-rich, money-poor hills. I lived along the Ohio River in Eastern Kentucky until I was 12 years old, when my father was transferred to the Midwest by the steel mill that employed most of the town.

My memories of Appalachian life are filled with hard work, long days, meager earnings, and time spent with family. As a child, I remember dewy summer mornings collecting strawberries from the garden for breakfast, and long afternoons sitting on the porch swing, peach juice mixed with mud dripping off my elbows, while my grandfather rocked in his chair, swatted at flies, and complained about the starlings.

I remember sweet tea, brine-soaked cucumbers, and days working in the blackberry briars rewarded by a warm cobbler-filled belly in the evenings. I remember dancing on the lawn with my cousins in spontaneous celebration of the first thunderstorm after a long drought, and I remember the anticipation of watching the first snowflakes landing on the autumn leaves. I remember weekly trips to visit my grandparents in the city; the tiny house overflowing with people, cigarette smoke, coffee, and laughter. I remember hushed voices and murmured phone calls, and I remember assuming that if someone didn’t show up to a party, they must be in the hospital. I remember the long trek up a steep and winding road to bury my maternal grandfather, who had been incapacitated by stroke years before I was born.  I remember pain and tears, and I remember the lovingly handmade “Care Bear” and “Cabbage Patch Doll” I unwrapped at Christmas.


I remember that I never once considered how much money my friends in school had because none of us had much. We all survived and that was enough reason to be glad. My elementary school gave boys leave during tobacco harvest, so they could work alongside their fathers in the fields, and tradition commanded that fifth-grade girls dressed up in their church clothes to serve the sixth-grade boys their elementary graduation breakfast. Tradition was the custom, and the oral tradition was deep and rich. Storytelling was an art form, and music was the natural manifestation of stories told animatedly on the front porch.

And now, I return. I am so fortunate to have the opportunity to drive along that winding gravel road to the head of the holler to hug my grandparents once again. I sit on the porch swing, watching my cousins’ children play ball in the yard with my own.  Yet, when I drive into town, I now see the poverty that I didn’t see as a child. I see sorrow and pain. I see the manifestations of a decade of torment caused by a culture destroyed by substance abuse. I see pain clinics and once proudly maintained trailers buckling from years of neglect. I see children orphaned by addiction.

Appalachia has a long history of hard work with little reward. Short lives punctuated by injury and illness have, in the past, been a way of life that drew families closer and created a sense of communal responsibility for the welfare of one another. Yet today, I see industry chewing up and spitting out the Appalachian people, feeding upon their pain and their desire for something better.
 
Much like the company store of the past, big pharma and “pain clinics” have targeted the downtrodden Appalachian people as a captive market, wrapping them up in the endless cycle of addiction and need. The proud struggle of the past has become a desperate and angry poverty today. People once toiled in their gardens after long days in the mill to provide food for their families. Today, whether I will be able to speak with a cousin on the phone will depend on whether the copper wires supplying communication have once again been stolen to feed an addict’s Oxycontin habit. 

Do the Appalachian people have pain? Without a doubt. They have always had pain, but no one took notice until there was a profit to be made. The solution offered is hence market-driven, and the true needs of the Appalachian people are ignored while children are orphaned and the murmurs and whispers are now of death by overdose rather than early natural illness brought on by years of hard labor.

It pains me to see this transformation. It hurts to hear of the brutal abuse of my brothers’ best friend’s corpse by other addicts after his overdose. It hurts to watch loved ones enter prison or be injured in acts of drug-fueled domestic violence, but I remember. I remember hot sticky days filled with dirt and sweet fruit juice dripping down my chin. I remember laughter and strength in the face of insurmountable challenges. I know the spirit of the Appalachian people, and I understand that spirit still remains under all the pain and brutality visible on every street corner. I remember, but my children don’t.

How do I frame their experience of Appalachia in a way that they can understand their roots? Their roots are as deeply entrenched in that soil and that soul as are mine, yet all they understand are the whispers and murmurs that so-and-so is in prison or so-and-so overdosed. All they understand is that their cousins didn’t get Christmas presents this year because their mother spent all the money their grandparents sent for them. They don’t know why yet, but soon enough they will understand what drugs are and what they can do to an individual and a community. How do I tell them to be proud of a culture that seems so ugly today? How do I tell them to be proud to be second generation urban Appalachian, when I can no longer lay claim to the culture I see there? How do I make sense of this transformation as an outsider looking in, and how do I show my children the beauty masked by torment?

This must be why they say, “You can’t go home again.” I know where my roots lie, but they are buried in so much grime that it is difficult to navigate the way back. I can’t forget my past, though, and I can’t let that grime distance my children from their heritage. For me, the way home is in my bones, but how will I show them the way?  I still don’t have the answers, but I can only hope I will when they are finally old enough to ask the questions.

Confessions of a Child Protective Services Drop-out

It seems that every week, you see stories about children being unfairly ripped from the homes of their parents for some incomprehensible reason – like accidentally forgetting to pay for a sandwich. Within the hour, you’ll see another story about a child whose loved ones begged and pleaded for help from the state, and those pleas fell upon deaf ears until it was too late to save the child. You see stories about children being abused or neglected in foster homes and stories about children suffering tragic consequences after being returned prematurely to an unsafe family of origin.  All of these stories have the same tone – the state agency obliged to protect the welfare of the child failed, and the consequences of that failure were fatal.

The media gobbles up these stories and spits out sensationalist headlines and biased opinions. Why? Because these stories combine two elements that grab public attention and incite outrage and cries of injustice – combining child abuse and failure of public officials is the coup de grâce of news media.

If these failures are so appalling to the public whether the state acts or fails to act, then why do they keep happening? Why do they happen over and over again in agencies all over the country that are run in fundamentally different ways? No one has a perfect answer to that question, but I'd like to offer my experience as an insight into the challenges of that work.

Here’s my story in brief: I was working as a sexual assault advocate in a large urban environment, where our biggest challenge was a particularly aggressive gang, whose modus operandi was to brutally sexually assault the female companions of their rivals with blunt objects as a means of retaliation. There were plenty of other terrible things that I laid witness to each day, but this group was particularly challenging, in part because if the woman I comforted while a nurse stitched her back up ever revealed who caused such suffering, she and her loved ones were in imminent mortal danger. I recall at least a dozen victims, and the detectives and I never got a single name, description, or even an answer to a follow-up call. I saw this time and again, and there was little I could do. Getting up to this every day was exhausting because, essentially, the very idea of seeking my help would cause these women more harm, and I became a threat rather than an advocate. As a pregnant woman, the physical risks I incurred as part of this investigation led me to daydream of greener pastures. I wanted to move on to a place where I could really make a difference in an immediate and direct way. I wanted to protect people who needed my help, and I wanted to work in an environment where the little person I was carrying inside me would be less likely to be harmed as I went about my daily business.

I accepted a position as an abuse investigator in a rural county nearby. The pay was good, and I saw direct ways in which I could make a difference when a case passed across my desk. So many of my former clients had bemoaned their caseworkers and the system in general, but I had seen the nitty gritty. I had heard the stories of the mothers whose children had been removed, and I had helped them fight to regain custody of their children. I had been on the other side, and I thought I could bring new perspective that would perhaps alter outcomes for children and families.

I was assigned to the Special Investigations Unit, which meant that we only received the ugliest of cases and our caseloads were much smaller because of the complexity of the cases. My max caseload was nine per 30 days. I started my first case on a Monday, and by Friday I had 18 cases. The reason? There were only four of us taking the “ugly” cases, and that was my fair share of the flood of cases pouring in. There were no tax dollars available to increase the number of caseworkers in the SIU, so that’s what we got.

Now, here I am thinking that I can make a difference. I want to complete thorough investigations, and ensure that the children whose cases left my desk were treated in the most advantageous way possible.  Within that first week, I met a little girl who tearfully told a cousin, and then me, that her father had sexually abused her. After the interview, I asked the father to leave the house until the investigation was complete, and he obliged.

Two days later, as I sat in their home, the little girl’s mother told me the financial woes they were experiencing because of the change in the household. They didn’t have money to pay the electric bill. She didn’t know where their next meal would come from. Why? Because this little girl told this story about her daddy.

That day, when I talked with the little girl, what did she say? Can you guess?? That’s right. She made it all up, and she was sorry. She was just telling stories, and everything got out of hand. Of course this made me uneasy, so I arranged another interview with a pediatric forensic psychologist. I watched via closed circuit television as she tearfully recanted and said she was sorry, and she just wanted daddy back so the lights would stay on.

This was one of about 20 cases on my supposedly 9 case max load. I had 30 days to close the case, and I had no substantiation that anything had happened. The little girl admitted to lying. My supervisor pressed me hard for a closed case, and I had 19 other families who needed my time and attention, too. What could I do? I inquired, and we had no funds to provide emergency assistance to the family. What were my options? I closed that case. Dad went home, the lights stayed on, and the little girl learned never to tell anyone what happened behind closed doors.

That was only one of the gut-wrenching cases that I witnessed during my time there. Like any other public agency, child protective services caseworkers must adhere strictly to the law. Unlike many practitioners responsible for life and death decisions, though, they are bound to do it in as few hours as possible because there is very little financial support for what they do and so very many children and families in unsafe situations.

I lasted less than four months in that position. During that time, an infant died in a house fire intentionally set by her mother. A child whose case had been closed as “unsubstantiated” only a few weeks before. The caseworker was fired and sued. The supervisor was demoted. Did this change anything about the way cases were handled? No. How could it? In most of these cases, there is little direct and documented evidence that any harm has come or will come to these children.

In good conscience, I was unable to continue to work in life or death situations where the institutional goal was to close each case within 30 days per state statute, rather than to ensure the safety of children first and foremost. I left my position feeling deeply remorseful, and it took me quite a long time to recover from the grief I felt for some of the children I met.

A year after I left, a child was severely abused and killed in foster care. The caseworker was blamed because she failed to conduct routine checks on the home as mandated. Yet, she had dozens of foster homes on her caseload, and this child was placed nearly two hours away from the agency. There is no money for overtime, and there is only so much that can be accomplished in 40 hours per week.

There have since been huge organizational changes to the institution where I worked during those tumultuous months, and I certainly hope things are incrementally improved. However, after reading case after case in the news media, in which caseworkers are blamed for child mortality, I am left with the sense that we cannot improve dramatically upon the outcomes for child victims until we fundamentally change our perception of the causes of child mortality.

Caseworkers are asked to do the impossible – both in terms of the amount of time required to discover the truth about the history and wellbeing of a vulnerable child, and in terms of their ability to predict the future. How can they be expected to accomplish either consistently in a culture that vilifies them at every opportunity?

When you hear a news story about a shooting, and it is mentioned that “The police had been called to the residence on multiple occasions,” the immediate response is not to blame the police for failing to adequately intervene. There may be some question about police response, but the implication of that statement is that this troublesome situation had been out of control for a long time.

We cannot continue to vilify the individuals responsible for protecting vulnerable children and expect them not to simply follow the letter of the law – make the requisite contacts, collect the requisite evidence, tidy up the file in case of future lawsuit, and move the problem off their desk and out of their mind.

The problem of child abuse and subsequent child mortality does not begin and end with the caseworker. This is a community problem. One we must each accept responsibility for. One we must each acknowledge as a reality in our neighborhoods and our schools. We must each offer love and support to children and to struggling parents. Doctors and midwives should adequately screen for domestic violence and postpartum psychological problems. Pediatricians should ask how new parents are coping and listen genuinely to problems and concerns. Neighbors should ask if parents need a casserole when their colicky baby is keeping them up all night. Teachers should let their students know that they can confide in them if they are worried. Everyone should be aware of community resources for parents struggling emotionally, economically, or spiritually, and be willing to offer help if needed. If we each provide the opportunity for parents and children to reach out for support, no one potential intervener would be singularly responsible when tragedy happens.

None of these things require the state to incur additional financial responsibility, they can be done in a matter of moments, and they can mean the difference between life and death for a child who may never see the overworked and undervalued caseworker everyone expects to swoop in and save the day.

He Who Howls When The Whole World Whimpers

In Friday’s post, I drew comparisons between revolutions past and present. The main observation in that post was that revolutionaries speak the truth that everyone experiences but few voice openly and many fail to notice until the truth is spoken. Revolutionaries speak this truth even at times when it may be politically or personally dangerous to do so.

This may seem off-topic for a blog primarily related to natural parenting and homesteading, but I disagree. Growing up in a family where the personal is political naturally leads to conversations about why we breeze right past the grocery store aisles with all those food products in the alluringly bright boxes. It has also led to amusing conversations, such as the one about the origins of bologna after a classmate revealed the contents of his lunchbox to Mr. Drama.

Granted, I had to console Cowboy on his second day of Preschool when he discovered the existence of “really colorful fish crackers and apple juice,” and listen to this three-year-old’s lament that we don't have those things in our home. In an age-appropriate way, I tried to acknowledge the disappointment while drawing attention to all the great things we have at home that others may not.  Sometimes, I think it resonates. At other times, I’m not so sure.

When Mr. Drama’s second grade teacher told us during parent-teacher conferences that she felt proud that he trusted her enough to whisper his excitement about attending an Occupy protest the night before and that he’d really prefer not to win the Food Drive first prize – a class pizza party – because he’d rather not eat all that processed wheat, I realize that he understands the lessons we’re teaching. When we told him that we’ll have a “China-free” Christmas, he enthusiastically accepted the idea because he understands that locally produced gifts are of higher quality and keep our dollars where they are so desperately needed – close to home.

My children are not sheltered from society. They are taught to appreciate their neighbors and lifestyles other than our own. They go to school. They play sports. They explore their world. They watch television, they eat candy on Halloween, and they whine and moan when it’s time to clean their room. They are normal kids. Yet, when they ask, “Why?” I explore that question with them. Often, I don’t know why, either, and I tell them that. Because no one holds all the answers and sometimes it’s just more fun to come up with your own. Sometimes there are no easy answers, and it’s important to be comfortable in the realm of the unknown, too. When I look to the revolutionaries who have shaped our world, they are the ones who saw what no one else could see and spoke what no one dared to speak. They had the courage to howl at injustice while most of the world passively accepted it.

He who howls

I want my children to see the world for all its beauty and all its flaws. I want to provide a safe space for them to explore the high desert ecosystem outside their doors and the social hierarchies within their schools. I have no intention of teaching them to view the world as I see it. They have different eyes, different lives, different experiences, and a different truth. I want to provide the safety for them to speak their own acquired truth in our home and in the face of injustice. I want them to never stop asking why and never give up on their own dreams of what could be. Whether one day they become revolutionaries, engineers, geologists, or janitors, I want them to continually seek a better understanding of what is now and what is possible. I want them to feel that naming and exploring the current reality is the best way to move forward, both as an individual and as a citizen.

America

Today, I stumbled across some youtube clips of interviews with the leaders of the Beat Generation. I can’t seem to pull myself away from them. I am primarily fascinated by an interview and conversation between Allen Ginsberg and Neal Cassady (famously known as Dean Moriarty from “On the Road”).  These men were the brilliant and bizarre bearers of knowledge and new ideas that shaped American society during the 1960’s and 70’s leading to everything from “free love” to successful anti-war and civil rights protests. At the time, Ginsberg’s thoughts and writings were punished with brutality, outrage, and imprisonment. Yet, he continued. He did not continue because of disrespect for the American way of life. He continued because he believed deeply in the principles upon which this country was founded and saw the freedoms and individual liberties promised by our forefathers trampled upon during the McCarthyist, Cold War, Lavender Scare, Jim Crow Era, which led the government to impinge upon rights of free speech, free expression, and actively and enthusiastically persecute anyone unwilling or unable to conform to the American “norm.” – The white, Christian, middle class, law abiding, two parent nuclear family.

Ginsberg, and others like him, continued to push the boundaries and explore the criminalized idea that, perhaps, there were other ways of being. And he and his contemporaries suffered greatly for it. Granted, they seem a bit unhinged, even in this video, and certain lifestyle choices were no doubt questionable. However, these men helped to pave the way for civil rights for ethnic minorities, gays, and (as sexist as they may have been) women. Few revolutionary ideas come in a neatly wrapped unassuming package. Or, perhaps they do, but without outlandish delivery they fail to gain notice.

What struck me so profoundly in watching this series of clips are the similarities between that revolution and what is taking place in America today and how similar government response has been. Ginsberg, Burroughs, Kerouac, and Cassady first met in New York City, eight miles from Zuccotti Park, where a few dozen protesters assembled peacefully on September 17, 2011. The former group would soon be known as the Beat Generation and the latter has grown into the Occupy Movement. As the ideas of each group spread, the government and the media have been forced to take notice. The responses first range from disregard to demonizing and finally to silencing by force.

At both these times in our history, most Americans were hungry for a change that was not going to come from those in power. In both cases, Americans were trapped in a position of being ruled individually and governmentally by fear rather than by reason. And in both cases, strength and will to change came from a small group of individuals with lofty ideals that America can be something other than what it now is.

During this day of contemplation, I read Ginsberg’s poem titled "America." I’ve linked it here.  With a few name changes (Muslims instead of Russians, and Somalis instead of Indians, for example), this could have been written here and now.  In fact it reminded me of another poem of sorts, a song written by K’Naan, a Somali refugee, coincidentally also entitled “America”. The lyrics are linked here.

Though clearly written in very different styles by intellectuals from vastly different backgrounds, the message is the same. America has let us down. It is not now what it was founded to be. And as a government for the people, by the people, and of the people, we, the people, are responsible for making it what it should be.

Going Home Again (part one)

My recent trip Back East was both exhausting and exhilarating, and the physical and emotional toll of the trip was more than I had anticipated. Though still recovering, I am finally able to reflect for a moment on the experience.

During this trip, I had the joy of reconnecting with many loved ones who have been separated from me by time and by distance. I looked into the eyes of people who watched me grow up, but who have never seen me grown. I walked alongside folks who loved and protected my young self during pivotal moments but who have not stood by my side as I ventured along my path as a Woman. These are people who laughed when I felt joy, cried when I felt sadness, cared for me when I was sick, and whom I knew I could always call when I needed help. Yet, as happens far too often in our increasingly socially fractured society, we all have moved on and accepted that those relationships are part of our past. However, when I look into those eyes, with a few extra crinkles at the corners, or wrap myself in arms that have carried many burdens since I last felt their warmth, I am amazed at the comfort, the truth, and the rawness of that connection. Though we have not experienced each other’s daily lives, we still know the core person looking back at us across the table.

There is something so incredibly grounding in being reminded of the depth of our roots. Yes, each of our past relationships has been fractured, whether through the pain of shared experience more easily left forgotten or simply by the length of time between phone calls. Regardless of the impetus for lost connection, these relationships meant something to each of us. They were deep and fulfilling, maybe at a time when we were searching for truth in a chaotic world. Each of these relationships reminds us of a place we’ve been, a time when we’ve shared ourselves vulnerably with others, and a time when we’ve been accepted wholeheartedly for the people that we are.

To return and find myself still loved in much the same way as I was a decade or more ago leaves me feeling like I haven’t truly ventured so far from where I’ve been. More so, it implies that wherever I venture from this point onward, I still have the same roots. I cannot escape nor will I be cast away from my past life.  This has been an experience of self-exploration, of recognition and acceptance of past experience, and of the power of human connectedness. I am who I am today because of where I’ve been in my past, and I now have a greater sense of self because I understand that more wholeheartedly.

Desolation

Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac is one of those books that I pick up time and again, and each time, there is a new kernel of truth in it for me to enjoy. I have worn my copy completely out, and it no longer has a front or back cover. This week I picked up this book while I was preparing to leave my New Mexico mountain for the Midwest. I am taking the two littlest kids with me, and I will be flying out and visiting family and friends from Chicago to Appalachia.  When I picked up my sad little naked book, the first thing I saw were the closing paragraphs. And once again, this little book made me realize something that I’d been ignoring in my frenzied and anxious preparations.

"I don't know when we'll meet again or what'll happen in the future, but Desolation, Desolation, I owe so much to Desolation, thank you forever for guiding me to the place where I learned all. Now comes the sadness of coming back to cities and I've grown two months older and there's all that humanity of bars and burlesque shows and gritty love, all upsidedown in the void God bless them, but Japhy you and me forever we know, O ever youthful, O ever weeping." Down on the lake rosy reflections of celestial vapor appeared and I said, "God, I love you" and looked up to the sky and really meant it. "I have fallen in love with you, God. Take care of us all, one way or the other."

To the children and the innocent it's all the same.” – Jack Kerouac (Dharma Bums)

I am leaving my mountaintop. Albeit for just over two weeks, but I’m leaving my chickens and my dogs, The Hubby and Mr. Drama, the sunshine, the firewood, the clothesline, the deck, the stars, the moon, and the howling coyotes. 

The last time I did this, I felt like a fish out of water. I had planned a trip to Chicago, and I flew out of Albuquerque, into O’Hare, took the train out of O’Hare, and an hour later, I was standing on Michigan Avenue. Men with briefcases and women with stiletto heels were darting around me as I meandered meekly down the street, soaking in the humidity like a dry sponge. I looked into the windows of Fur Dealers and Jewelry Stores looming several stories above the street in glittering buildings, and my head swirled.

I found my way to my hotel room, hopped in the shower, and then spent the next hour digging the high desert sand out of my toenails and applying a lovely coat of polish. In retrospect, I think I was trying to give myself a bit of camouflage.  I was convincing the world (and myself), “See, I’m not a sun-drenched, earth-baked, mountain mama. I am metropolitan.” And I have the toenails to back that claim up.

At the same time, there was a heaviness and a sadness, as I looked out my hotel window at the lake front apartments with tiny balconies from which to view the water.  It was almost surreal as I realized that everyone can’t have a wild world to explore everyday. They can’t walk out their front door and find themselves surrounded on every side by raw unbridled nature. Even in the cornfields and lawns of the suburban Midwest, everything you see has been touched and sculpted by man. Men have even decided which spaces to designate “Green” and have planted trees to signify such.

Here, I can walk out my backdoor and pick up a big hunk of petrified wood, a geode, obsidian from ancient lava flows, or a dinosaur fossil, none of which have probably been touched by another set of human hands. The only signs of humanity are the numerous arrowheads and pottery pieces left by ancient native people.

Most people would look around my home, discover that there isn’t a franchised business for 20 miles, the only signs of life are cacti and rattlesnakes, I don’t have a maintained road or trash collection, and call this desolation. And I owe so much to that desolation. I owe that feeling of freedom, of quiet, and of connection with nature. I don’t think I could quantify what I have learned any more than Kerouac did sixty years ago, but I can express my gratitude as I head back into civilization with my hands tucked in my pockets to hide the dirt under my fingernails.