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.
[ssba]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.
[ssba]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.
[ssba]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.
[ssba]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.
[ssba]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
[ssba]Heading North
It has gotten too hot, too soon here in southeastern Arizona. It’s going to be 101 today, with 90’s for the next week, at least. And it’s just too warm for us. But we are here, waiting, sheltering in place, until our next volunteering gig happens.
And then I realized we have other choices. We could still go up to Oregon and PAY for a campsite.
I looked online to see what might be open and available, since all of the state parks and forest service campgrounds are closed. I found a great place, on a lake, for $550 the month of June, and there was one spot left.
Marika was out shopping, but I called her and asked her to consider this new idea. I studied the picture of the camp site, envisioning us there, and got excited about putting my kayak in the lake.
When Marika got home we unpacked the groceries, she had lunch, and finally, we discussed things. We can afford to pay for camping. We don’t need to wait until our gig opens up. It’ll be so much cooler for all of us. And Cody’s favorite acupuncturist was just up the road. Yes, it was happening fast, and we’d be leaving in two weeks, but we both agreed we were ready.
I went back online to reserve, and the spot was gone. I called the office and the woman said it was a mistake, there was no availability. I was bummed, but inspired. I called a few more private RV parks and found one, very close to the first place, that had room for us. I explained our situation and the woman was so accommodating. We have a spot for the month of June, and can stay the summer if things don’t open.
The RV park is just south of Florence, in the Oregon Dunes. The dunes and the beaches are still closed, so there won’t be much ATV activity. And if/when they do open, we’ll be able to head down to our gig. There’s laundry, and cable tv, and wifi, and I even know someone who lives there, that I met when I lived at the RV park in Cayucos.
The rent is a little pricey, $800/month plus electricity, but then, we volunteer for so many months with free rent, that a little higher priced monthly rent is in the budget. Marika is saying that the government is paying for it, with our stimulus checks.
So boom, just like that, we have a plan to head north. We’ll pull out on the 14th, so next week will be our last time with the donkeys. Many of them will also be leaving mid-month, heading to Colorado, for a cooler summer.
We have a few more camp hosting shifts, and then our exit interview, and we’ll be on the road. We’ll spend a few days in Phoenix for a quick check on my Dad, then head to California on the 10, then north on the 5, taking the freeways that we usually avoid because there is always so much traffic. It will be interesting this time, with so few cars on the road.
So after almost six months here in the desert, the longest we’ve ever stayed in one place, we are finally heading to cooler, moister, cloudier places. And we are ready!
[ssba]Moving in Place
It’s been a month since I last wrote, and I wonder how you are doing with the state of things. Are you enjoying your time at home? Feeling overwhelmed, stressed or anxious? Maybe you are experiencing some depression and immobility. Perhaps you are feeling all of these things and more.
There is no right way to move through these days. Only that we do move through them. One day, one hour, sometimes one moment at a time.
Here at Kartchner Caverns in southeastern Arizona, the days are starting to heat up into the 90’s. The cave tours are still closed, but the full park staff is working because the trails and campground are open. On weekends, every camp site is occupied. The winter camp hosts have returned to their summer homes, so last week, we moved down into the upper campground’s camp host site to fill in, since our summer gig on the Oregon Coast is still on hold.
Our new camp site is paved, more level, and offers an expansive east-facing vista of the mountains and basin. After four and a half months in the upper volunteer village, it is so nice to have a new view, new places to walk, and more people to see, watch, and interact with.
Our hosting job is very easy. We clean campsites, make reservation tags, welcome campers, and do drive arounds in the golf cart to be a presence in the campground. With all of the CDC requirements, we maintain minimal and safe contact with our campers, we don’t collect money or sell firewood, and we don’t have to clean the fire pits or bathrooms.
When we’ve been camp hosts in the past, I was always in a hurry to get the job done. This time, I’m enjoying the meditation of raking the gravel around each fire pit, and looking for birds on the many drives around the loop to check on things. And I don’t even mind that some campers wait until check out time to pull out.
We share the camp hosting duties with our friends Jayne and Paul, who we met at our very first volunteering job at Cape Blanco in 2016. We work three days, and then we have three days off and they work. This way we take turns covering the busy weekends.
We are still going to the donkey sanctuary once a week to brush the donkeys. I am so surprised by how much I connect with these beautiful animals, how comfortable I am being in the pen alone with them, despite the fact that they are so big and strong. It’s like we have a silent communication, a mutual curiosity and respect.
They say donkeys have incredible memories, that they remember people after just one encounter. I think it’s true, because, after four weeks, when I approach most of the donkeys, they come to me right away, which they didn’t do on the first visit. I’ve been learning their names as I brush them, but when they are out of their pens, wandering around the property with the other donkeys, I can only, for sure, recognize one or two.
It’s a fifty-mile round trip drive to the sanctuary, but it’s so worth it. And when we come home, Cody loves to sniff our pants and shoes. He’s doing pretty well, considering he’ll be thirteen in July. His bloodwork came back all in the good range, but his degenerative disk disease is causing weakness and a bit of paralysis in his back legs. He’s been doing well with regular acupuncture treatments, but if he moves too fast, or jerks in the wrong way, he has a setback.
Two weeks ago he fell hard on his back when he jumped down from the bed (that won’t happen again), and since then, he’s been having a really hard time getting up and walking without falling over. He had an acupuncture treatment last Thursday, but he was no better on Friday. And only slightly better on Saturday. He slept a lot in his back room bed, and wasn’t eager to go for walks. We started talking about end of life, because if a dog can’t enjoy a walk….
And then Sunday, he was walking stronger and steadier, only dropping once or twice, but able to get himself up. He was interested in carrying his ball, and sat in front of the screen door for his naps.
By Monday he was walking like his normal, old dog self. He’s still a little wobbly, but he’s able to turn without falling over, squat without dropping, and we’ve been walking a little further each day. He had another treatment this past Thursday, so we’re hoping for even more stability over the next few days.
Beyond that, life is the same as usual.
Full time RV living has always included isolation and social distancing, so we’re used to not seeing friends, going to gatherings, or having regular out-in-the-world lives.
But I imagine that this sudden stay at home situation is very challenging for most people.
When we first hit the road, I was so thrilled with the newness of everything, that I didn’t think about my old life. But it wasn’t long before I missed seeing friends, going to my weekly yoga class, eating at favorite restaurants. And it was even harder because everyone was still living their full and regular lives.
Now, we’re all experiencing this isolation and separation and loss.
I invite you to cry and feel and move though the sadness until you’re able to focus on gratitude for something in your present moment life.
Then come up with one new way to connect to yourself or someone else, so that you feel less lonely.
I saw this post on Facebook, author unknown. It’s a lovely reminder that we are all in this together, but we are not all having the same experiences.
I hope that you and your loved ones are healthy and comfortable, and that you have everything you need. If you are at home with other people, I hope you are finding ways to appreciate each other, and enjoy each other’s presence and company. Please hug each other more, for those who are alone with no one to hug. And, if you are home alone, may you have pillows to hug, amusements to keep you engaged, and virtual friends and family to connect with.
Be well. Breathe deep. Feel safe.
I’d love to hear from you!
Sheltered In Place
I hope this post finds you feeling safe, and calm, with everything you need. We’re still down in southeastern Arizona at Kartchner Caverns State Park. Last week, word came down from the main office that all cavern tours were cancelled, and last weekend the Discovery Center also closed. The campground and hiking trails are still open until further notice. All volunteers here, except camp hosts, have been officially relieved of all duties.
When we heard we were no longer working, I was excited about the two week vacation before our planned departure to Phoenix at the end of March, en route to our summer job on the southern Oregon coast that starts mid-May.
But as friends described the panic and hoarding that was happening in the big city, I had no desire to be there for the planned two weeks. Marika and I talked about bypassing Phoenix completely, but both of us agreed that we should spend at least a few days in Phoenix, to see my dad.
But then what? Should we continue on to Oregon by way of the Great Salt Lake for spring migration? Head to northern Arizona, in case this lasts through the summer? Or hang out to see what happens. We just didn’t have enough information to make any decisions.
Those few days of not knowing if and when and where we were going, made me edgy and unsettled. I distracted myself with planning possible travel routes, and I kept checking the Oregon Parks website.
It rained most of one of the days, so I couldn’t even walk it off. But every night before bed, I’d lie on my back, focusing on my breath, and relaxing every muscle in my body, from my toes to the crown of my head, so that I could at least get a good sleep. Marika, the minimalist, didn’t really understand my concerns, and was fine with whatever decisions we made.
And then we got news that Oregon State Parks were closed through at least May 8, and I finally knew we weren’t going anywhere. I hoped we could stay put, at least through the end of April. We checked with our supervisor and were told that we can stay as long as we need to.
Finally, I could relax. We’re in a perfect place with free rent and full hookups. It’s a small town, we have ample space between us and our neighbors, and there are lots of places to walk and go birding.
Two of our neighbor co-volunteers pulled out on Thursday, headed to their house and family in Missouri. The couple next to them left on Friday, heading home to Kansas. Most of the rest of us are full-timers with no house to return to. So we’re just sheltering in place, waiting to hear if our summer gigs are still a go.
We’re no longer allowed to gather in groups of more than ten, but we talk with our neighbors every day when we’re out walking. We also stay in contact via an app, and folks are picking up supplies for each other as needed.
And, now that we’re not working, Marika is going birding more often, and we’ll be driving out to the donkey sanctuary once a week to brush the donkeys.
Last night I looked up the summer temperatures here, just in case. We’re at 4500’, so it’s not nearly as hot as Phoenix. Still, it can get up to 100° at the height of the day. But we have air conditioning, and foil panels to insulate the windows, and it cools down to the 60’s at night. And, funny, thing, Marika has always wanted to spend a summer in southeastern Arizona, because it’s a mecca for so many rare birds. And I hear the summer monsoon storms are amazing. So we’ll see what happens.
But for now, it seems to be the perfect place for us to be, especially at this time of year. The days are sunny and mild, and evenings are still cool enough to sleep under flannel sheets. There are small green leaves on the mesquite branches, and pops of yellow and purple wildflowers are appearing on the trails. There are all kinds of new bird songs in the mornings, and I’ve spotted several varieties of butterflies and caterpillars along the road. After all of the recent rain, there is water flowing in the Guindani Wash. And the sky, as always, is so big and ever-changing. Just like everything.
I hope you are finding ways to flow with the changes, ride the uncertainties, and rest into some peaceful knowing that we are all in this together. I’d love to hear how you are staying grounded and centered, and what fun things you are discovering about life as you, too, shelter in place.
Be well. Breathe deep. Feel safe.
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7 Practices for Sheltering in Place
1. Breathe
Focus on your breath. Inhale slowly and consciously. Exhale deeply and fully. In and out. Breathing calms the nervous system. Following your breath takes you out of your head and into your body. Breathing brings you to the present moment, where you are safe, where you are healthy, where you have everything you need.
2. Feel your feelings, but don’t become them
It’s understandable that you will worry, feel anxious, spin out in fear. Don’t follow the stories you are hearing and telling yourself. Come back to where you are, right now. Focus on something near you that brings you comfort. Make a list of your favorite things. Allow yourself to exhale and let go, to be OK with not having control. Engage in an activity that requires presence and attention, perhaps something that you can control.
3. Give yourself permission to be lazy
So much has shifted and we are having to deal with so many new ways of living. Yes, there is a long list of things you could be doing with all of this stay at home time. Resting and slowing down are also important, to give yourself time and space to adjust to all of the changes. Binge watch Netflix. Go down a YouTube rabbit hole. Take a nap in the middle of the day. Enjoy a long phone call with a friend. Read an entire book in one sitting. Notice spring happening outside your windows. Turn all of those “should’s” into “could’s, with no obligations.”
4. Keep moving
Physical activity is good for the body and the mind. Shake your arms and shoulders loose when you’re feeling tense. Get up from your screen every two hours and stretch. If you miss going to the gym, find some online workouts and yoga classes. Turn up the music and dance. Create a fun obstacle course through your house. Go for a walk in your yard or neighborhood or a park. And be sure to say hello to everyone you see. From a safe distance, of course.
5. Learn stuff*
So many museums, zoos, aquariums, and national parks are offering free virtual tours, and video cams. Famous chefs are giving online cooking lessons. Folks are teaching online art classes. Even audible.com is offering some classics for free listening.
6. Create a new routine
Our minds and bodies love routine. Knowing what we’re going to be doing brings a sense of order, and order brings calm. Get out of bed at your usual time. Shower and get dressed. Eat regular meals. If you are working from home, show up on time, and take regular breaks. Reprioritize. Set small, manageable goals. Follow your energy, and be willing to do things differently.
7. Connect
Stay in touch with your neighbors, your family, your self. Ask for assistance. Share your gifts. Find new ways to support each other. Join an online gathering. Write an old fashioned letter. Find humor and delight and gratitude in the simple things.
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* I’ve made all of my old Mac training e-books available for no charge. (Donations accepted). www.sparktheheart.com/mac
Feel free to share!
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