There's No Place like Home

When I worked in California, before moving to New Mexico full time, we taught the students the basic needs of all species to ensure their survival as an individual, and a species:

FWARPS. Food, water, air, reproduction, protection, space.
It was fun working through the acronym from their 12 year old brains. Of course they never guessed Reproduction, and would giggle when I said it. They would guess the "S" stood for shelter, which I would lump under protection. But the final word, "space" really got them. I liked to teach this in the San Bernardino NF, next to a thick stand of hundreds of Ponderosa or Jeffery pine that were only about 6 inches in diameter with a foot on average between them. Next, I would take them to the strand and tell them about the unicorn sightings and explain that if they hug a tree and make a wish, it would come true, and that if they saw a unicorn they couldn't ever tell anyone... but this post is about space, not unicorns.

Over the years, I've identified my growing need for "space". In a recent appointment with my therapist, I was illustrating my own basic needs, and amongst "friends" and "nature" was space: both internal and external, illustrated by me in a little treehouse, with nature all around.

On a recent trip with a group of senior citizens, an older man named George asked where I was from. "I grew up in Texas, but now I live in Albuquerque", is one stock response that glosses over my transient period. "Oh, how long you been there?" he asked. "4.5 years," I bragged, "but the previous 5 years I had lived in 16 different places." "Oh wow. Where to next...?" he inquired. I smiled.
Although he and most of the crowd had been living in Albuquerque since the 80's, all transplanted from the East Coast or some far away place with an entirely different climate, he somehow recognized that my time in this city was coming to an end. 

The view from my old porch

When I ended my season of teaching in California, I moved to the space from which I am typing this. A small one-bedroom casita with modern fridgedaire appliances in a 27-acre park with apple trees, grapevines and lots of space. Friends and family have teased that I found my retirement job a little early. This space has been my Home, and I mean that in the deepest comforts of the word. On stressful days, I've walked from my front door to the pecan orchard and watched the ducks bathing in the irrigated grove. I've seen baby geese and blooming roses along the trails. I've had to say things like "please don't move your furniture into the sunflowers," and "Sorry sir, you can't use your metal detector here" and been offered a guinea hen, and told that I'm the Poop Fairy. In addition to being a constantly amusing albeit public place to live, this home has also been my safe place through the ups and downs of getting a great job, and losing one, and boyfriends coming in and out of my life, and this world. 

Kitchen/living room

 These walls have seen several shades of love, as I've shared them with my first fiancee, my game-warden-bound best friend and her adorable dog Boone, a work friend and her dog and occasionally her boyfriend, my soul-mate who met an untimely fate, and a couple of years with this wild man I'm looking forward to spending my life with. Under this roof, I grew and practiced different kinds of love. 
These walls have shared the laughter of long nights of rants and giggles. The floors show stains of memories from Amil squeezing peaches to distill into peach liquor, and the walls show a few knuckle dents from when things were really hard to take.

There are desert and NM skies like these elsewhere.

Despite all my fond memories of this fishbowl, I may have worn out my welcome. Two friends recently told me, in their own words, that... In life, when you feel like you it's time to do something different, you should really listen to that. I had held onto this space, despite my exhaustion of opening and closing the gates every day, sleeping with my phone on in case I don't hear the alarm, having to find someone to live-in my house and do my jobs for every night I didn't stay there, and the utter lack of privacy of living in the middle of a parking lot. I held on to the perks of my slice of nature in the city, and the pride of the reputation I have built in my Home. But I finally realized this summer, that there are other Homes. We found a beautiful place to rent in Valdez, NM, along a stream in a verdant canyon under the highest mountain in the state. The neighbors are like minded, the dog can roam free, and there is easy access to the Carson NF. 

Farewell, sweet little abode. 

On the day that I moved all my stuff up, I saw a bus boy watering the plants outside with the leftover water glasses from the table; we donated $10 to the local fire department and were told in exchange "thanks! We'll save you first" in all sincerity; and we discovered that the local "post office" is just a stand of P.O. Boxes. I think this place is going to be a good fit for a while. I can definitely start to feel like this is Home. 
[Check out the song Lost Boy on the link, can you hear me on the back-up vocals? 

---- Just for fun: -------

The 3 stages of packing up your shit.
1) I am the definition of simplicity!
During this phase, you throw out everything you touch, thinking about how good you're going to feel packing the three little boxes into your car when it's time to move. You start with biggest stuff you've been threatening to get rid of, then work your way to the junk drawers and nooks of nothing you've been holding on to since college. You create piles of questionable materials like anything electronic and dead pens...wondering where you can recycle such things.
2) I might need this, later...
About halfway through the purge, you start thinking about your life in the next situation. What if it doesn't exactly work out. What if every Salvation Army and Goodwill across the country suddenly close and you can't ever get that rug/hat/jewelry stand/ boot scraper back...
3) To sleep, or to pack, that is the question: 
Finally, you realize that it will take as many years to sort through everything as it did to accumulate it. You put everything left in boxes, take the final three loads to goodwill, and just move it to the next place, getting rid of more stuff there as it doesn't quite fit with your new floor plan. 

I'm speechless...

and yet, I have a lot to say.
My brain has been racing all day in attempt to express my heart's various emotions- news from Trump's latest Executive Orders, the nostalgia of traveling home, the mixed joy of being welcomed by 80 degree weather in January, more news, and the shock, anger and devastation that comes with it, curiosity for what our future generations will be left to contend with, hope, lack of hope, and inspiration in strange places.

I couldn't even pour through all the saved articles and responses from my affected friends, colleagues and professors without needed to write a response.

Mid-day I glimpse that Trump banned the EPA from using social media to talk about Climate Change. This is censorship and propaganda. I'm thankful for social media and live reporting and sensible people, and a college degree (in Environmental Studies) and having friends as scientists so that I can stay informed, but I realize not everyone has that, and many will be, or already have been, swept up in Trump's positive affirmations and "alternative facts". (An interesting report on EPA-related 'civil servants' and their resistance, here)

On the way home, driving through the traffic-saturated streets of Austin with my mom, who I hadn't seen in 8 months, I overheard that Trump halted EPA related funding. Before I make it home, I hear friends' worries about graduate school funding-- from current and prospective students. I wonder if I should apply to that school in Britain before it's too late...

We drive through an ever-changing Austin. An area I always called home, but hardly recognize. Where there were once acres of land with vast swaths of wildflowers, there are For-Sale signs promising future developments, or current shopping megaplexes and housing developments touting the names of the space they've destroyed.

Happy (and Hopeful) and Warm

At Home, with the news blaring reports of a segment, "Trump's First Days in Office," I'm thankful I don't have a television. Until I realize I have the privilege to sit down with my mom and watch a PBS special about Rachel Carson, the famed author who both my mom and I read about in our Environmental classes. Carson always knew she would be a writer, and couldn't remember a time she didn't love nature, all inspired from her mother. I wonder if my mother's spiritual connection to the Earth was a key to it's impact on me, if I have a weird connection to the world, or if everyone has an innate understanding of the Earth ingrained within them, however suppressed it may be. Perhaps it's all three, but I hope and believe that everyone can appreciate the aesthetics of our Umvelt.

I walk outside in a t-shirt, as the sun it setting. Several deer hear me and spring out into the juniper. Another snorts, stamps his hooves and runs the other way. I am touched to the soul by the sound of the crickets, a familiar chorus that reminds me of Summer and of Home. I inhale the wholesome, bitter smell of tannin, walking right up to the Live Oak until it's leaves are to my lips. I kiss it, hoping that the Greed and fury of Capitalism won't buy out every old Oak and prickly-pear patch.
I admire the slight squish in the ground, and the abundance of green popping through-- an early sign of Texas Bluebonnets... and I wonder if the children born today will every get to walk among wildflowers.

Texas

I am shocked, but not surprised, by the news I heard today. And although I'm speechless, I have a lot to say. Hopefully it will be organized, and argued with facts, and encourage discussion.
But for today, here's all I can do.
1) Take care of self- A lot of sickness/flu things are going around. As a doomsday pessimest, I'm always wondering if this is it-- the last great epidemic that wipes us out. At the very least, we should stay as healthy as possible. Know that every ounce you put into your body is your fuel, and if it's tainted with pesticides or chemicals, those things can add up (thanks Rachel Carson).

2) Stay informed (and/or get educated). I intend to spend more of my free time re-reading history, as it's never been my favorite subject, and staying up to date on Environmental research, and whatever they're calling Climate Change now that Trump has basically banned that phrase.

3) Stay hopeful. The Rachel Carson documentary was very appropriately timed. There were many parallels between the Government Propaganda of the 60's, and what Trump is trying to do now, particularly with the influence of industry on the Government.  At one point today, I lost hope. "Greed will prevail" I thought, trying to hold in tears watching Rachel Carson fight for environmental awareness. But then I saw all my friends fighting back, signing petitions and educating one another. So, I still have hope. I also have faith in many environmental organizations that I have contributed to in the past, that I'm about to fund more. Hopefully they can reach farther than I can.

In my recent travels through the Midwest, I listened to a lot of public radio... much of which didn't share my opinions. One radio host complained that the Right weren't fighting as hard as the Left. That was a bit surprising to me at first, but I think it comes down to this-- when you have nothing left to lose, you fight. When you're so broken, you're angry, you fight. At this point, I feel there's nothing to do but fight. Fight to keep public lands. To prevent oil spills. To have half an Earth left for future generations (I'm being hopeful there). That speaker's Republicans aren't weak. They just aren't (as) angry.

A Long awaited end...

New Mexico...

I'm typing this with my thumbs from a coffee shop in Taos. Twelve children that I'm responsible for are meandering through the Paseo arts festival and I'm simultaneously horrified that something will go wrong and intrigued by the tan moth on the other side of this window.

Water coloring on Women's Wilderness Trek

I couldn't begin to articulate all the emotions I've endured in the last 6 months. I am so grateful for the opportunities I've been afforded this year, and perplexed at how variable my life has become. And yet, while I couldn't have predicted who would move into my house or out of my life, or what coffee shop I would be drinking at on the first Saturday of fall... I have at least had the stability of a profession I'm passionate about.
As I sit here chatting logistics with three high schoolers on my last "trek" of the season, I can't help but reflect on all the journeys I've been on this month. I've climbed mountains and trees, trapped rattlesnakes and cleaned wounds. I have been dirty, stinky, cold, wet and happy-- often at the same time. I've watched sunrises and sunsets and slept under the stars... all while offering the same opportunity to young people from 5-17 years old. Each group of students has made it more evident to me how crucial it is for young people to Experience. To try new things, to be uncomfortable, and to say Yes (and Thank You) are essential to growth... and I've walked with kids that choose To and those that choose not to... or lack the inspiration to ask "What else is there?"

My dirty trekkin' pants

At the same time, I've been reflecting on all the opportunities I was offered growing up. It was up until at least 10 years ago that I was a young, hopeful girl afraid of being uncomfortable. Now that I've overcome that fear I get paid to climb mountains. I can get a 1 ton truck out of the mud. I can guide 30 people through a slot canyon. I can pretty reliably predict the weather. I have grown immensely in this job, even in this last month of exhaustion...

Nevertheless, I've been counting down the days until I can sleep in my own bed for a full week, even a month. I'm so tired from all these experiences...yet I'm already looking forward to next Spring season. And some goooood solid sleeps in between.

Office Views

You and I both know, that the house is haunted.

It is with great anticipation and perhaps too much delay that I have finally moved back into my humble adobe abode.

It's strange to step back into the world of my stuff, that someone else has been living in for the last 10 weeks. It's equally strange to finally wipe the gin stains off the floor, and clean the corners of a world that I had wanted to preserve when I left three months ago. Now that I can more easily accept his absence from the world, I'm left in this house without a home. Here I stand in a structure that has sheltered many different loves, lots of different laughter, and supported me through the rise and falls of my last relationships...and yet here, the most homely place I've had for the last 10 years, is feeling unfamiliar, and inadequate to the sweet simplicity of my tent filled with a book, Sid's pillow and my sleeping bag.

This song has been playing incessintly in my head for the last 4 months:

I've only lived here two and a half years, and there are echoes of previous partners, fiances, lovers, best friends, new acquaintances... Shelves are full of someone else's books, closets with stacks of Sid's clothes and computers, waiting for a quiet cold day... a crooked poster from last summer's subletter that has mocked me for months, and yet all of these things are shadows of the life and love that have been breathed into this small space.

So I'm settling back in, but with a strange unfamiliarity that I've never felt in this space. When I moved in, I made it my happy home. I've shared it and cleaned more than my share of it. Most of my stuff is where I left it, including labels to ensure that even visitors adhere to my organization needs. I spent much of the summer in a little cabin, moving in and out of my backpack depending on the day's adventure, and I was sort of inspired by it. I carried my day-pack with me everywhere, and it always had my basic essentials- 7 journals, colored pens, food, water, sunscreen, camera, chapstick, freeze-dried strawberries in a glass jar, first aid, a jump drive, a compass, my wallet, a letter so belated my last words are irrelevant, and a rain coat (that's a lie, I never carry one, but we always make the kids, so I pretend it's in there...This is why I live in NM).

A friend of mine a few years ago, sold everything she had down to 100 items. I'm not sure if she counted a pen bag as one thing or multiple, but as I've begun my list of 100 items I'd drag around with me, I've counted each of my favorite pens separately. I've also been appropriately teased for the fact that pens are the first item on my list after Wide Mouth Mason jar.

It's been strange settling into this world of stuff, so much bigger than my backpack, but a little too big for one person. The environmentalist in me aches to ease my impact by sharing the space... but now that my new roommate (and her partner and dog) has moved in, I'm seeking the solitude of my own space, albeit filled with the material memories of the others.

Reflections from Rafting the Rio

Today I rafter the Rio for the first time in my 2+ years of living right by it. Another woman on the trip, who had also lived in Austin before here, also expressed her surprise that most Burquenos' fear the Bosque, the unique stretch of trees and shrubs that create a home for hundreds of animal species, and the inspiration for all of the paddlers along the river today.

This is not my photo, but it slightly reflects the beauty I witnessed today. 

Today, we didn't fear the Bosque. We shook hands under the towering, spotting cottonwoods. We glided through the banks of our modern river, marveling at the ghosts of the old twists and turns, set straight by decades of miss-management. We marveled at the growth of willow, olive and cottonwoods on what used to be a sand bar. We heard from people who have spent decades of their lives studying bends in our river, planting trees on its banks, and comparing it's current CFS to historical currents. We bumped along 1500 CFS, wondering what it was like to paddle it at 300, dodging sandbars, or at 3000, when the raging rio floods some of the newly planted plains.

We watched New Mexico shed her skies like skin, shining her sweet rays of sun upon us, and then scattering some simple drops down upon us.

We dined on a deliciously contrasted meal of fritos and potato salad-- with silverware that was dumped out of a river rat's dry bag, and Perrier bottled water served in metal bowls by the resort who had set out the clothed tables and golden chairs for us. We watched a show of the Sandia's getting showered with sleet and snow, wondering if it would blow back to us, as we sat in the sun, then the shade, and the sun again. The ever changing New Mexico skies doing their passionate dance above us.

First time on a SUP on a river! 9.5 miles.

On my way home, reveling in my fear-conquering and powered by Enya's Boadecia while driving through the leafing grapevines in humble Corrales, I passed a brightly colored parachute waving in the breeze above a sign that read Garage Sale. Three mustashed men with relatively cheery attitudes overheard I was an educator, and gave me a deal on the bright colored parachute for my students, as well as two cute shirts. The guy who offered me $5 for the parachute hesitated when I realized I only had $3 in cash, and the other one said, "George, just smile and take her money." I promised them good Karma in return and the most friendly one yelled back that that was all he needed.

This is my city, my community, my home. These are my people. The desert dwellers along the Rio Grande are a peculiar people. We see beauty in shades of brown. We prepare for rain and snow on days we only get sunshine, and smile through sleet on days that were forcast to be cloudless. We don't pay much attention to forcasts. I've heard a lot of Burque-bashing lately, but today was a reminder of our resiliance. Burquenos are a beautiful people. We live with intention, singing to the plants we put in the ground. We embrace change around every corner, and expect that one day, any day, it might be time to pick up our things, leave many behind, say goodbye to our wilted plants, and make a new place home. But when we do, we will carry the same love and attention to our new communitities.

I'm writing this from my desk overlooking the Sandia's, which just disappeared in a mist. I'm listening to rain drops hit my metal fan, and looking at the Apache Plume flowers standing upright despite the wind. This desert has a certain magic to it, and the people that live here feel that magic. I love that.

Texas

I hadn't been to Texas in the summertime in ages. I've smartly taken the opportunity to spend my summers in drier or cooler climates for the last 5 years...so when I received permission  to hop a flight or two to my soggy state, I jumped at the opportunity.
The first thing I noticed upon stepping from the airport was the warm hug that the air in Texas gives you when you arrive. Driving back from the airport in my Dad's car, surveying the flooding beneath the orange mammatus clouds, I felt a lot of things. Many emotions were swirling through my body the way the tornadoes had swirled through the skies just hours before: Stress melting away from months of hard work, sadness unfolding from unreciprocated intentions, loss from leaving friends and changing relationships, and hope for reconnecting and renewal.

I stood in the backyard amongst a graying orange sky and felt the air against my skin. The crickets were chirping heavily in the dark green grass, and birds still twitted from within the deep green leaves. It felt so familiar and so far removed. Here I am.
I remembered right away how nice it is to have a fan blowing the warm air around. Later on I noticed how much condensation forms on the sides of glasses here, and how quickly ice cubes melt. I quickly remembered the sticky sensation after a shower, and felt the perpetual sweat I had longed for on chilly nights in the desert.

I had forgotten how alive it is here in this Texan tropic. Having lived amongst the fence lizards and road runners for years, with the sky offering the greatest variety in species (in cloud variations), I had forgotten the abundance of life here in Texas. On this short trip, I have explored these environments from the eyes of my cat, counting endless bird calls and being stalked by squirrels. I smelled the rich vanilla scent of a budding magnolia tree, and marveled at the helicopter-like form of a mosquito-like species. I've walked to old favorite hiding spots and surveyed new creeks where there had previously only been rocks.
I went to a bar downtown and achieved my dream of existing in a tank top after the sun set. It felt wrong to not bring a jacket, but it felt so right to drive home with the ac just gently blowing.

I've sat in traffic, identified new condominiums and heard about rent prices skyrocketing. And despite all the emotions I'm pontificating on my travels, I've considered the sustainability of living here.
People have asked me how I can justify living in a desert as an environmentalist. The answer is far from simple, and I think I'll be discovering pieces to it for a long time. What I've remembered from watching the growth of this beautiful city since I've been here is that there are ways to live sustainably in almost every environment. Often they require compromises on certain luxuries, or even what people think are basic rights- like daily showers and access to hot food. But so much can be shifted with a change in mind, I've learned.
As much as I've enjoyed remembering my favorite pieces of this climate, the pleasure I have of my life in Albuquerque has been strengthened. No traffic, bike routes, work that I love. I am so thankul, so so grateful for my present situation.
In feeling the warm embrace of this state, I am filled with so many memories. It is warm here and comforting. And yet, it is stifling. It is strange to sit back in a place that I have spent years moving away from. I have had many thoughts and much reflection time on my visit back home, but most of them reminded me of being a 17 year old angsty and artful teenager. I'm ready to return to my world as a 27 year old and make some new memories.
Everytime I leave Texas I feel a longing to come back. And everytime I return my desires here are less fulfilled. I think it's time to spread my wings from this great state and ride the wind to the next adventure.

Thanks, Texas. <3

Coming Back HOME

Hello World! I would like to first explain the brief hiatus I've taken from this blog. It is certainly not for lack of content for my world has sort of been turned...on it's side at least...in the last few weeks. I simply haven't written because I have far too much to write about. Trust me, I'm still overanalyzing everything. :)
So, to remedy that, here's a simple post that arches over many of the little topics that have been on my mind.

Last night Amil and I and two friends watched the movie Home. This familiar movie, released in 2009, covers the highlights of human culture from the forming of the world, to the birth of agriculture to our current adjustments to the environment. This is a non-profit movie created with the intent to be free, with the hopes that it would reach as many people as possible in this crucial time. In this 1.5 hour movie, almost every subject from my freshman Environmental Science class was mentioned, as well as facts from the books Dirt and El Nino that I've recently finished. Although it was sort of preaching to the choir for me, I don't think I will every reach the point where this information doesn't shake me, move me and inspire me to do even more. At the very least, seeing these stark examples of farmers in Africa contrasted with tractors running in America gives perspective on the immense diversity of this beautiful blue ball, while showing the similarities we all deal with.
I think this movie should be required viewing for every person in this country, and many other developing country. You can't deny the facts presented in this but to live without knowledge of them is purely denying our human truth. That's like ordering the extra large chocolate-dipped Mr. Softee and thinking there are no calories simply because they're not printed on the little piece of paper that's wrapped around the cone.
Here's what I took away from watching the movie last night.  
     
      Actions I'm taking as an American Consumer that I'm proud of:

1. Eating locally (from our work garden, from friend's gardens, from our backyard, or from the co-op)
2. Eating write-off produce and products that would otherwise be thrown away, planning careful use of the food we have so we throw away minimal food.
3. Buying used! With the exception of a mattress pump I bought with a gift card in a desperate situation, I can honestly not remember the last time I bought a product new. Since moving to a new place in February, I've purchased all of our needs from local thrift stores, or received them from friends- everything from ice cube trays to Guitars.
4. I combine all my errands into one trip to minimize driving time. We own one car and are challenging ourselves to only use one tank of gas a month. We ride our bike/roller blade as much as possible, and sometimes pass on events that are happening too far away.
5. I make my own toothpaste, shampoo, and deodorant at a super low cost.

Actions I'm planning to work on more in the future (starting today!) because the planet doesn't have time for me to procrastinate.

1. Reducing my habit of gluttony. My life has always revolved around food, and I'm trying to learn how to eat what I need, and not just eat for fun. My best friend is researching and practicing sun-eating, and eating a mucus-free diet (he'll have a blog about it soon!), and is overwhelming me with facts about how little we actually need to eat. Overeating is a trained habit, but an unnecessary one.
2. Continue striving to live simply and sustainably: enjoy the simple moments like sunrise/sunset and live without Kindles and phoneApps and similar distractions.
3. Get more involved in my community: be a big sister and a mentor.

Let me know if you've seen the movie (and everyone should!) and what it inspires within you. Continue making changes to support our planet and be sure to take time each day to think about how the planet is supporting you.

The Move

The most valuable thing that has been reinforced in my two months of living back home is that I am a sponge. It may be apparent to readers from our cross country journey, but it didn’t sink in until the last week or so of living with the folks. I guess another way of saying it is that I am adaptive. Perhaps one of the reasons I get along so well in jobs is because I don’t take on a direct personality of my own, but reinstate the values and beliefs of my superiors and peers. It’s not that I don’t have my own values and beliefs, although admittedly they are still forming, it’s just part of my natural character to slide into the attitudes of the people I’m around. This was evident at home, where I put aside my preferences for peeing outside, reading and writing for entertainment, and vegan eating and instead lay on the couch and watch a long movie, nibbled on cheesy delicacies, and utilized modern luxuries that I have been without in my cross country travels.
The point of this realization is that now that I am finally here in my own space with my fiancé, I get to build a space that completely caters to my values, adding in and keeping out the things I observed from staying with friends across the country. Today is the day that I set routines that will hopefully propel me into life patterns, and I feel a mix between pressure and excitement. It’s like a new year in many ways- not only is the weather warming from a mercurial winter, but a new job is starting and my  26^th birthday is around the corner. This is an exciting time for my blog, too, because instead of just plopping right into my sustainably-focused mind, I can chart out each decision on a new slate. In fact, to commemorate this, I am switching blogsites. I’m going to shift to Blogger, eventually backlogging all my old tumblr blogs. I think that blogspot is a little more professional looking, with a lot more options, such as people being able to comment*, and it will allow me several tabs to organize my blogs into personal rants like these, DIY projects, and art that I’ve accomplished.
So now that the world knows what’s up, I guess there’s nothing left to do but put down the computer and begin to build my new world, my way, with some help from my fiancé, of course.
—Flash forward 2 weeks:
Designing a creative, functional space where I can be productive and happy has not been as easy as I imagined. I’m writing this from my favorite corner that this morning I dubbed my “office,” which is nothing but a creaky but comfy  papasaun and the edge of a desk slightly out of arms distance, now stacked with books, notepads, jump drives, and notebooks. Although I am happy sitting in my ‘office’ where I spent most of yesterday knitting, I can’t help but feel a bit boring. I am slowly getting into the routine that will be my life in this space, which is to say that there is no routine at all. It reminds me of college- navigating appointments and gym hours between classes and meetings. I loved that schedule, thrived in it, even…and yet I feel so displaced from it here. I love living in Albuquerque, and I’ve been trying to take advantage of every little opportunity that presents itself to me- like I also did in college. But I don’t feel ‘at home’ yet. The walls are decorated with our favorite designs, the counters are full of our beloved things, and yet, I’m unsure how to interact with the space. Perhaps I’m not sure how to redefine home now that I have the opportunity to make a space away from my parents and the people and spaces I called home for most of my life, even if I have been removed from those spaces for several years. I guess home is where the heart is and although my stuff is here, and I like it here, I’m not in Love yet, and my heart remains in those humid summer nights, the crunch of the oak leaves under the drying crab grass, and the handful of days when the windows can be open and the inside and outside world are in harmony.  Will I ever find a home like that again? Will it take another 18 years of living in one place to have the roots of my heart remain so firmly in one place? I imagine Austin will always be home, even as the city that once revealed such possibility to me, is now foreign and threatening. But can I make this place feel like home in my heart, knowing that I won’t be living here for 18 years, or probably even 1/4^th of that.
I guess through the last 6 years of moving around, I have held home my heart, absorbing how others interact with me and the spaces I live in…and now that there are no more attitudes to pick up, no more ideals to imitate…I’m left with my empty artwork, and this big old space wondering where I start making the connections just between me and the land. And how?

Convening Captured Clues from Across the Country…18 (Finale)

California(Jason’s Deli)

We woke up in Zion to see more blue sky than we had before, though there was still plenty of cloud cover. We hiked the Emerald Pools trail, taking longer than we expected, then came back and packed up, and head out.

Finally, the last stretch of our grand trip lay before us. My bet that we wouldn’t see the sun until California was foiled by sunny Nevada. We stopped at Jason’s Deli not far from Vegas, to use up a gift card from my bro. As we crunched on endless salad bar food, bowtie pasta and zucchini Panini’s and talking about all the delicious food we were going to create when we had our own space, we debated about the pros and cons of taking one more day. Environmentally, it would be best to go slower, camp somewhere along the way, and hit up the farmers markets on the way up the mountain. Personally, though, we were done with camping, pulling things out of and throwing things into our sad, stinky car, Stella.

 So we decided to go for it, not knowing whether our trailer was ready or if anyone was around to let us in.

It was exciting turning on familiar roads as our car moved closer to the mountains. It had been almost 4 months since we left, and we had traveled thousands of miles since then, yet it all seemed so familiar. Although it was getting dark, the bends in the road were in our muscle memory, and our brains quietly traveled through the memories of this space.

We arrived at our trailer a little after dark, unloaded some necessities, and plopped down on our pleasantly hard bed, excited for what was to come.

Home sweet home? At last, I could unpack the car and organize many of the various items we’ve acquired. I could explore the ‘outdoor gym’ right outside our front step, and would soon meet all the new people moving in the cabins surrounding us.

This is the longest I have lived in one place since College, and at a year and a half, the longest job I have worked consistently…though even with the summer break, I find myself tiring of the monotony, or at maybe just the long, hard hours.

Habits are hard to break, but I’m thankful that my most prominent habit after spending 9 weeks in the desert uplands of New Mexico as a naturalist, is to observe.  I observed some amazing things over the summer- Elks grazing in the early morning light, mountain ranges in hazy blue shadows with a frame of pink clouds at sunrise. I observed children making connections about the necessary skills of early humans in the New Mexico area by hunting a mammoth made of crude Baker tent cut-outs and some artistic touches of tempura paint. I saw spots of flowers emerge from quaint leaves to blooming beauties, and I became familiar with the patterns of a seemingly random sky. I saw children transform from shy and dependent to confident and leading conversations. I saw the land suck up every drop of gently falling water for five weeks, only to be unable to take in the consecutive downpours in my final week. After weeks of stopping to watch every desert beetle cross my path, taking note of any Sagebrush Lizard that scurried by or seeing tracks in the sand or holes in the duff and identifying what creature put them there, I was not going to be able to just shut down that sense.

In our weeks of travel, I tried to simply observe, but the idea of having a home to move into next year pushed those observations into ideas.                                  

And now, here we are. I write this from my kitchen table in my 5^th wheel trailer- home for 14 weeks. This may be our last time to live in a space for such a small amount of time. My family has lived in 3 different houses since I was born. I didn’t help with either moving process other than perhaps packing up some of my things. Since leaving my home for college, I have moved in and out of 16 different spaces.  This is the first space that Amil and I will share completely, not having other rooms to retreat to or other roommates. Next year we will likely move again, into a bigger space of our own, livening the space with what we have learned from our friends and families and ourselves. I don’t feel defined by the stuff I own, but I am expressed by it, it inspires me. It shows the world and reminds myself who I am, where I fit in. However the most important aspect of where I have moved, is the space available outside, to explore, or discover or just be.

Our home is a studio space where I can write, color, explore, classify, and most importantly, Be. These are all the things that are important to me.

Capturing Country Clues … 5

GeorgetownThe next day, after more lake fun, we drove back home for me to sleep in my bed one last time, before I departed the next day to meet up with Amil and continue our travels from Chicago. The usual comforts of home were overwhelming as I realized I had no time to organize, dig through things, find lost items, and clean up messes made from our quick visit last Christmas. I reassured myself that I would be home again in 4 months for Christmas, but this time would stay for long enough to truly go through my belongings and weed out what isn’t necessary for my future.

My short time in Texas was a lot different than my experience in New Mexico. Being back home around family made me realize what a mark New Mexico had left on me. There in the desert uplands I was finally doing exactly what I wanted to be doing:living in a community of amazing people, helping cook and clean as necessary; coming up with my own activities to allow kids to interact with nature, or facilitating exploration through various ecosystems; and mostly, watching the world change in one place from spring into summer, and summer into monsoon season. This being still, being slow, being creative and communal, struck every cord within me. But I didn’t realize how much it meant until I left it for what used to be home- the comforts of my upbringing. 
The short trails weaving through the property in Marble Falls were no longer enough compared to the thousands of acres of forest that surround me now. The comforts of flush toilets and ‘convenience’ of electric lighting no longer seem to be a necessity.

While I don’t think I will grow out of enjoying some comfort food, and drinkin’ a beer in the hammock anytime soon, I have grown to realize that those experiences are outliers of my own ideals. The lake, my parent’s house, my grandparent’s house, are just a place of escape for me to go to just long enough to realize that where I function best is in my own space.
But where is that? 

Cross Culture Clues…4

The Lake 

The conclusion of my volunteer week meant a much needed, long anticipated weekend at “the lake”. 
Visiting the lake means Food, Family, and Fun. There is always an ample amount of food, especially things I don’t usually eat. Despite the cycle of diets that one member of the family or another is on, there is always a bottomless bowl of Peanut M&M’s on the counter. There is also home-cooked food, which at this point I hadn’t had in months. But eating the treats that others create means not being too choosey in the ingredients. I had some cheese-covered-squash that grandma prepared, and some corn-syrup-infused potato salad—store bought, but a Lake staple nonetheless. For this weekend, I didn’t worry about the ingredients as much as I normally would, for any fare my family would feed me would be leaps better than the slop at camp, and I felt I deserved some comfort food. Oh! And, my brother made me a vegan chocolate coconut cake. Yum!

In addition to the ample food, we play games. Once everyone has eaten, checked their e-mail or looked up whatever the subject of the last conversation was, played guitar, and/or swam in the bath-temperature-water lake, a card or board game ensues. Since everyone knew I was only around for the day, they graciously assisted me checking off my Lake-life Bucket list:

-Scrabble
-3-13 (card game)
-Swim/Stand-up paddle board
-Drink a beer (shiner’s Prickly Pear ale, no less!)
-Canoe (replaced with paddle-boating with my bro)
-Eat!
-Lay in the hammock
 When all that was over, it was back to my grandparent’s house to wind down to bed. Something about sleeping in that house: the firm futon, the flowery sheets, the low night lights, or just the fact that there are so many people I love sleeping so close to me, always equals an un-paralleled sweet sleep. Also, waking up to the sounds of people chatting, the smell of toast, and the gentle sun through the curtains is like something out of fiction. :)

Capturing Cultural Clues Cross Country Part 2

Houston – When I stepped off the plane in my home state, my first time in Texas in over 8 months, I was greeted by a stifling warm hug.The Texas humidity I had bragged about, longed for, and written about, was sticking to my skin in a warm welcome. I had to quickly change planes for one more flight into the air and through the sky, holding my breath that I don’t crash before I return home, where my heart can breathe and sigh and jump in the same state it did for the first 20 years of my life.

Georgetown

It was wonderful to be back ‘home’. Home in this case is my parents’ house which they purchased when I was going into my Senior year in college. Although I never lived here for more than a few months at a time (that’s another story…) it has the personal touches that my parents have chosen to express themselves, and a little room full of all the junk I grew up with. As soon as I dropped my bags I wandered from room to room noticing a new framed picture in Dad’s study, new and newly arranged furniture in mom’s art room. Then I jumped into some things I had been waiting to be home to do- digging out some forgotten clothes and items from my room, using mom’s extensive beading collection to make some earrings with hummingbird feathers that I collected this summer, saving my computer onto my backup hard drive, etc. I couldn’t stay up too late because I had to leave early in the morning to drive to Marble Falls, home of a past Outdoor School  I had worked at, to volunteer for a week.  
I woke up an hour early to go for a morning run. Although we had moved from the neighborhood I had grown up in, I missed running through neighborhoods, smelling laundry detergent and grills going as I passed each different house. This morning’s run would prove much different, however. First of all, I had heard so often that when you’re used to running at elevation (I’ve been living at 7500 feet for about a year), then running at sea level is a breeze. This is a flat lie. While I did have some success with this later in my journey, I would like to state that even as an asthmatic, it is much easier to run up and down low hills in the mountains than to run through thick humidity. 
The air was especially thick because we had just received a much needed rain. Although the grass usually cracks under your feet and the trees look like they could topple over at this time in Austin, everything was green. Sunlight danced through the trees, held in mid-air by the humidity. As I jogged along thinking about how jungle-like everything seemed, I was startled by a few deer frolicking across the street and up a ways from where I was running. I slowed down a bit, as one ran in front of me, leaping over a fence into the bushes, but the other stayed, staring at me with a look of, “what are you running from?” He kept his glance and as I ran by, he started to follow me! (Un)Fortunately he didn’t go far, and I continued trudging through my jog, impressed by the massive amounts of mourning doves acquiring on the power lines, and hopping from street to street as I passed. Although I grew up in central Texas, I had been away just long enough to think the measely Prickly Pear and yucca of the desert uplands were normal. I had forgotten what truth there is to the old saying, “everything’s bigger in Texas.”