Balance

Balance. What is that?

As kids we worked and worked, skinned our knees and punished our resilient little bodies until that instant when we got balance. It was magical. It opened up a new world to us. The bicycle seemed to stand up on its own having granted us absolution through the self inflicted scrapes and bruises. We sailed effortlessly into new realms and had access to new sets of friends and experiences. You either had it or you didn't. It was black and white. But it was the thing itself that we wanted and all that it provided.

Today, as adults, we speak of balance. We get that misty look in our eye and speak of achieving it in the same way we experienced it as children. But it is less of the "thing" that we desire. It is more of an avoidance of the pain of not having it that is the allure. The balance we seek as "grown ups" is more nebulous. It is all too obvious when it is absent, and more taken for granted and ignored when it is present. And, it is never black and white - you never get it and never have to worry about whether it is present or not. It required constant vigilance... at least that is true for me.

It has been 6 months or so since the State burned down our house. I don't say that with a sneer or venom. It is simply fact, and one I don't want people to forget. And in the "balance", they have done very little to even the scales. So, we work and work at what amounts to another full time job trying to set our lives straight again. Recently, many things have gone well for us and we may actually have a place to live and call our own. It is in sight. But we are tapped out, our knees are skinned and we are bruised. If we relied on the illusive balance to achieve the things we have to this point, I am afraid we would not be nearly as far along as we are. Maybe to us balance is that position on the razors' edge between sanity and a clean slice away from it. Maybe there is no such thing and it is some fantasy destination that is far less tangible than riding a bike.

For me, as I sit here writing this in Seattle on this project that has been the most challenging and stressful thing I have ever undertaken, I realize that if this did not push me out of "balance" there would be no growth. I suppose the edge of exhaustion is not good either, but who is to say. Do I rely on some nebulous destination called "balance" to tell me or do I just go for it and achieve what I can until I don't want to any more. I am fairly certain I will never arrive and start sailing along effortlessly. I am even more sure that there is no such thing as "balance" in the way we use the word as adults. It is only some fantasy of arrival that we have created that can never really be achieved. We should create new language for what it is that we really want. Call it rest, or a time out, or being lazy or being highly motivated.... You name it. But balance as we use the word literally does not exist in reality.

Impermanence

Scorching sun tempered only by the breeze and the cool water. The cicadas drone in homage to the unrelenting heat. Water so clear and blue against the pinkish white sand that it pulls at the center of one's being in an invitation to immerse in its briny tonic.  It is at once soothing and haunting. There is a quality just out of view of the directly observed beauty that is a reminder of the unforgiving and unattached nature of this place. The sand dollar bleached white, the conch shell beached at low tide, the teak on the deck of my boat, weathered and grey under the torment of the sun, even the tide itself is a reminder - nothing is permanent. I can feel the starkness of the place wresting from my pale knuckles the very idea of myself. I see the grey of my hair in the weathered teak, and the frailness of my physical being in the broken shells strewn about as I sit waiting for the morning stiffness to pass with the incoming tide. Just as I would have preferred to freeze my advance in age at a more youthful point, I wish I could hold the vastness of this place at once in my mind. But it defies me each time and is relegated to the impermanence of memory, dull and misshapen. Like the cloud of stars that appears each night, a number of those that we see ceased to exist millions of years ago, but the remaining light is just reaching us. We too burn bright for a time and become attached to the idea that the light will continue to burn after we are gone. To what end?

The point is that there is no point. There never has been and never will be. So, restore the grey weathered wood to a bright new oiled condition. Scrub the rust from the "stainless" steel to restore the shine.  And on the change of tide, do it again, not because you should, but because you can.

A Break

A day like any other...? Hardly. I am sitting on the 9:00am flight from Denver to Orlando. This is the first leg of a journey well deserved. It is hard to put into words how important this trip is and how close we came to NOT booking return tickets. It seems like we waited forever for this and now that it's here I can hardly believe that it is "already" happening. Since our house burned I have not taken more than 3 days off in a row and that only happened the day after the fire. Went right back to work and kept going. Now, I am not saying that this is good or bad, it is just what I did. I have not had a real opportunity to have a break to digest what has happened in the last 4 months.

We went right into action creating a place to live. My wife found an Airstream trailer for us to live in and what seemed to be the kindest couple in the world that really understood our situation. Chris and I drove to New Mexico to pick it up. On the way home, we stopped at a rest stop and I went inside to retrieve some inconsequential thing. The stink was so bad that I called the previous owner to ask what I had done wrong to cause this. He responded that he surely didn't know anything about it and could offer no advice. Long story short, 3 months and a few thousand dollars more and we had the rear end of 'Flame' dismantled to find years of rot from a failed septic tank. Thanks for that. Sweet, but completely slimy and dishonest. It boggles the mind.

Meanwhile we had bought a Ford Excursion from Fordland in Denver. Assured that this beast was solid and sound, we had it checked at our mechanics and they said it looked good. But playing over and over in my mind was the repeated statements of the salesman, "now remember, this warranty does not cover seals, right?" It should have been a sign. But another $3K later after replacing the seals in the front differential and other non-warranty items, and I am still wondering when this kind of crap will end. I suppose the fact that the 'repaired' reverse camera that was screwed through the license plate holder into the bumper was just an honest mistake.

So, the kindness of friends landed us in the basement of their home in Denver. And after my wife lost an entire days worth of writing to a faulty computer or Dropbox or voodoo, we are very ready for a fucking break. Thank God for these folks. They are watching our precious dogs while we head for a more favorable climate where wild fire is not likely while surround by warm, blue water.

I usually don't write while I am "In the Middle" of something. I like to have it worked out and resolved so I can share some transformative lesson. I am sorry, but I don't have it worked out. And if you are expecting some growth oriented woo as the conclusion to this rant you should sign off now. I am at once blown away by the kindness of people and at the same time disgusted by the human capacity for being petty, shitty and greedy. But that is what it is. It always has been that way and likely, it always will be. I suppose the source of my dissappointment is the fairy tale that I hold on to wherein everyone gets a good look at themselves and what is really important and stops behaving like a bunch of  cave dwelling savages. I'll let you know when I get there. 

Until then, we have friends that we choose to trust, we have our boat, we have our dogs and I have a business that enables us to have a great life. Fuck with it and I will club you wth my Mastadon femur bone. Oh wait. That burned up in the fire. 

Invisibility

The dingy, brown, tile steps he sat on were still warm from the day’s sun. But that probably didn’t matter much. He was staring at his feet and swaying almost imperceptibly as if the ground itself were moving underneath him. The equally dingy white shorts he was wearing defiantly blended into his surroundings as we walked past him on our way to dine at the 5 star restaurant upstairs. No one looked or even broke stride as we stepped around him. He was invisible.

What don’t we see on a daily, moment by moment basis? What is in our field of view by choice or by design? For those that “have” the less fortunate are often invisible. What don’t we want to see? I have noticed that I have become invisible to a certain age group. I am not sure when this happened or even what the qualification is for being noticed. It just happened. I was noticing this morning that I was not noticed by a young person on my walk to the office. I then noticed quite by surprise that an elderly woman next to me at the same intersection was nearly completely hidden from my view. I guess I don’t want to acknowledge the inevitable.

What about the deformed or disabled? I find that they are often equally invisible. It’s not that the wheel chair or the affectation is easy to miss. We just choose to miss it. It’s as if the acknowledgment of a human being in that predicament would somehow make it contagious or make us responsible in some way.

And in time, all of us that have lost nearly everything the recent fires will become as invisible as the folks that lost nearly everything in the Four Mile Canyon fire. What fire? Exactly. We close off our field of view with statements like, “Well at least you…(fill in the blank)”, or “Well your insurance will cover that, right?” God forbid we actually get in touch with anything that might make us feel something other than video game excitement or the protected numbness that we have come to loath and cherish simultaneously.

What would we have to deal with in ourselves to be willing to bring everything into view? Would I have to speak the young man on the steps? Would I have to show kindness to someone I would rather ignore? Does it take away from me to make that effort? Does it really take that much effort? Is it fear or simply disdain and resignation?

On our way down the steps the young man was sprawled out in a positional dare for us to take notice. His non-verbal challenge was palpable as we threaded our steps past his hands and feet. But he was invisible.

Shitter

“First things first. Where’s your shitter?...” –Fat Bastard. 

Indeed. Where is my shitter? As I sit on my flight to Seattle, I contemplate the weekend, and my morning. I notice the people sitting around me. It is likely they know where their shitter is. The woman in front of me has what I will call a “poodle over”. This fine doo consists of all straight hair combed up toward the top of the head culminating in a frisky yet frozen wad of curly poodlized coif. This is punctuated with a part down the back of the head in what can only be described as the poodle’s ass. I bet even she knows where her shitter is.

We took Flame the Airstream trailer to John Martin Reservoir State Park for Father’s Day weekend. Before we left, we once again dealt with the stench of outhouse permeating our shiny silver dwelling. So, I went about emptying the shit tank, which is a process that rivals a root canal in its inevitable joviality. It inspires things like giggles and smiles and words like “wow, shucks and golly.” Everyone, meaning me and Kristen, was instructed not to use it. Instead, we would use the portable outhouse we had delivered for just such an occasion. Alas, this was not to be. Kristen, not wanting to suffer the embarrassment of adjourning to the comfort of said port-o-shitter in front of the crew of workers milling about our scorched yet greening property, decided that one little poo couldn’t hurt (who could blame her?) That is until we arrived at John Martin with a pack of overeager flies trailing behind us following what must have been a very promising stench. So, we emptied the tank once again and were not allowed to use it at all for the remainder of our time in the park. We had a pretty relaxing weekend boating and fishing with Chris, Dusty and the girls then turned much too soon to return “home”.

I guess we hadn’t relaxed quite enough because Kristen and I had a scorching brawl in the “car” in the final leg of the ride “home”. It is truly amazing how small a Ford Excursion can become when the occupants are not speaking. Golly. I seem to have a case of periodic temporary amnesia or some such thing. It is amazing how quickly I can forget that I am responsible for my own experience, opinions and how the world looks to me, especially when Kristen is just plain WRONG! Such is relationship. Suffice it to say, we made it “home.”

Any time I use the term “home” now I must quote it. That is because, “home” is this trailer, which can be taken with us, which is nice, but is that a home? And, “home” is this land that remains after all else was torched and destroyed. And, ultimately, doesn’t a home have a shitter? So, when we returned, “home” to our property, we set the trailer back up on her little spot and lit a candle, some incense, an essential oil diffuser and danced a jig around the trailer praying all the while to the gods of stink to relieve us of our burden. 

Then, I wanted to see how bad the little crack was in the drain line from the sink. I had noticed it about a week ago but thought that if I ignored it that the vintage ’67 PVC would simply heal itself. Not so much, really. Well, it’s bad. I had Kristen run the water in the sink while I observed through a port in the outside of Flame. The sudden gush of tea colored water and coffee grinds spewing from the crack in the line caught me by surprise. I couldn’t contain my glee and began exclaiming, “wow, shucks and golly” once again. This is so much fun. So, we are washing dishes in the “bath tub”/bird bath. Shucks! Washing dishes and breathing in the faint aroma of evening outhouse while sun sets behind the pastels caused by more fiery destruction in Fort Collins. Golly! More hapless unfortunates who have lost their shitters.

We finally settled down to watch our new addiction, The United States of Tara. Tara, in response to some unknown trauma in her childhood, has a “fragmented” set of personalities that tend to show up at the most inopportune times in an attempt to protect her from herself. Sounds reasonable… and enviable. Gangaji, our current source of spiritual teachings, would say, “welcome the experience and go deeply into it. It is there that you will discover that nothing but pure awareness is true. Everything else is a story.” Awesome. But all I really want to know is, where’s the fucking shitter?

Seattle

Seattle has been an interesting journey. Today was much like every other day I have spent there. It was cold and rained as I walked the 7 tenths of a mile to the office. I huddled under the protection of my umbrella and could feel the weight of my pants as my pant legs darkened with moisture. Pandora is the vehicle I choose to get me there. It provides me with my own theme music as I move along in the cocoon of my jacket. An occasional smell passes by that seems familiar in some way and leaves me grasping for a feeling that seems just out of reach as I stare at my shoes and watch the small rivers of rain water pass under my feet.

Ladros coffee shop is at the end of my walk just before the PSE office. The best espresso I have found in Seattle. I always look forward to this stop. This morning I bought a bag of coffee so I can make my own espresso with my little stove top Bialetti espresso “machine”. Coffee is life. The last bastion of addiction and I have no intention of giving it up. I sat in the PSE office and dreamed of making myself a latte this weekend as the fragrance of the freshly ground coffee gently reminded me of its presence.

But the fun just never ends. Looks like the shitter in our trailer is still leaking even after fixing the toilet seal. Shirley Septic delivered a Porto-o-Potty so we have a place to go. Squatting over a hole in the ground is highly over rated and the romance of the camping life style is fast wearing off. Then last night we had a torrential downpour. Much of the scorched hillside washed away. It’s a good thing the fire wasn’t “bad enough” to warrant any assistance from the Jefferson Conservation Board. I guess as long as the Denver Water Board is taken care of, we can suck-it. By the way, they funded the “controlled” burn that started this whole debacle. So, this is what I am coming home to. I have no energy to be angry any more. And I don’t have the energy to deal with this crap either. I feel like I would like to just disappear somewhere and never come back. I don’t see the end of this and I need to. It’s like a dark hallway that is full of low hanging obstacles that I keep hitting my head on. Then, just when I think I have made it out, I crack my shin on the ACME anvil.

So, I sit on the plane now returning home while the man next to me spews vile clouds of gas into the tight confines of the cabin. In disgust I reach for the air vent and notice everyone around me making faces and doing the same. But it doesn’t really help. It’s like trying to clean up a spill with a cloth that has zero absorbent qualities – it just pushes the stink around. Two hours of this. Really? But descending into Denver is simply amazing. We live in a beautiful place. The magically suspended clouds are bright white, unlike the clouds emanating from asshole next me. Will I be welcomed home? What awaits? I am, as the phrase I have adopted says, “cautiously optimistic.”

Gratitude Part II

Ah, Seattle. The bane and source of my existence these days. I have to say I was looking forward to arriving on Wednesday. I woke up at 5:30 AM and started to take a "shower". To be clear, taking a shower in Flame amounts to squatting in an over sized sink, wetting yourself while trying not to soak the rest of the room, then rinsing off. It's cold and awkward.... and on this particular morning, I ran out of water. Awesome! So, I dressed and went about the task that I should have completed the day before. I went out and dragged the "new" used 5000 Watt generator down to the well head. I grabbed all the gear I had purchased to wire the 240 V ("220. 221. Whatever it takes" -Michael Keaton) well head so I could run it off of this generator, plugged it in and fired it up for the first time. She fired on the first pull just as the previous owner had promised. I threw the switch, the pump engaged and water began to mercifully flow from the connected hose. I filled the tank on flame. It is one thing for me to be without water, but it is entirely another for my wife to deal with it.

I grabbed my bags and left for the airport feeling dirty and half-in-the-bag. I kept looking at my watch and trying to deal with the fact that the time was just not adding up. I finally realized that I had intended to leave the house 3 hrs before the flight, not wake up 3 hrs before the flight. Jesus, I was just not firing on all 8. Then I couldn't find a fucking parking place. I arrived at the gate just as my boarding group was getting on. Suffice it say, I made it and got my isle seat, which is mandatory for me as much as I am traveling these days. I took a deep breath and sat there staring into the blackness of my own mind.

When I arrived at my little hotel in Bellevue, Andrea greeted me with a smile. She is a fixture at this place and without her I am certain no reservation would ever be successfully made. She asked how things were going and I responded with something about being excited to take a standup shower. She smiled but it was more of a grimace. I suppose she was putting herself in Kristen's shoes with the prospect of squatting in a large sink and taking a "bird bath", as we call it. I can hardly blame her.

The shower was exquisite! I ironed my clothes and headed off into the irony of my life; traveling to Seattle and living in a hotel is the most normal thing I've got going. And I have to say, this project has been the most challenging and demanding bit of work I have ever done. You can set your fucking watch by Murphy's Law on this project. We were supposed to have all development finished by COB Friday and I was leaving at 1:00 to catch my flight. Everything was going well and it looked like we were actually going to make it. Right on schedule, Murphy showed up. At 12:30 the goddam wheels came off and literally everything fell apart. I simply had to laugh. What else was I going to do? I sat and observed my physical reaction to it without engaging in the inevitable panic that was to follow. This is the gift of choice at work. I just smiled and sent a text to Kristen. I got up at 1:00, grabbed my shit and trusted that the incredible team I have around me would sort things out.

When I arrived back in Denver and caught the Wally Park shuttle back to my car, I had a chance to unwind, as I always do upon arriving. It becomes difficult to keep my eyes open on that short ride. On this trip, it was still light outside and the sweet smell of Colorado summer hung thick in the air. The familiar blackness started to settle in. WTF!? This is the human condition, "why, it's all fucked, it always has been fucked, it's fucked right now and it will always be fucked." At least that's my brand of it. A line from a Jane's addiction tune played in my head, "there ain't no wrong, there ain't no right.... there's only pleasure and pain..." Really? Do I really believe that?

I started to inquire into the blackness. I heard the quote, "There is no wrong or right, only thinking makes it so..." or some variation of that. But still it persisted. Up until now, this had been all the automatic stuff, the wiring we are born with, the survival code that is programmed into our brains. It is the "us" that most of us refer to when we say things like, "I don't feel like it," or "you really pissed me off when you..." It requires nothing from the actual US and does not even require that WE be present in the conversation. The real WE arises when we observe that reaction and begin to ponder a different one. It takes work and everything in us will scream at us to accept the status quo. It's what we know.

So, I chose to start making a mental list of all the things I was grateful for. I have to tell you, this really took some effort. I was calling bullshit on everything I came up with. "Well, I am alive and living in Colorado, I've got that going for me." And I would retort, "Horse shit. Get real. Quit trying to put lipstick on a pig." But I kept going. I listed my wife, who loves me, my dogs, my friends, our awesome little trailer on our lot, my 10 fingers and toes, my ability to listen to and enjoy music, to speak and feel connected through language... on and on. Pretty soon, the world was a sweeter place. Just taking, as Kristen would say, a simple action led to extraordinary results.

And when I arrived home, Kristen had cleaned the trailer, there was space to breathe. We had my new "man cave" placed on the pad of my burned up shed (a 20 x 8 steel shipping container). We lost nearly everything and I have the experience of having it all. I happily settled into Flames comfortable, albeit small, interior and waited for my wife to come home. We talked and snacked on the abundance of food we have packed into our small fridge. I slept until 9:00 am on this rainy Saturday and sit here drinking our fantastic coffee and sharing this process with all of you. Who could ask for more?