Moving Sale
The cars are lined up along the street. Like predators, they lay waiting for the door to open at 9:00 AM, so they can pounce on the goods I’ve displayed. The sense of the hunt is palpable. One after another they wind their way among the piles of stuff, searching for that just-right item; finding the thing they forgot they need. Like expert hunters, they let the prey come to THEM. 
I become their inner voice and point out a special tent, a bundle of parts for garden greenhouses, buckets of coloring pencils. Can’t you use this box of caulking, rust remover, and paint thinner? I whisper in their ear. If you like this basket, let me show you these bowls you can put in them, I suggest. You lost your home in the fire? I have bedding, plates and cook pots for you! I help the crafty woman sort the rolls of material that can become a quilt or curtains. 

The aging bohemian collects old things, tools, cracked pots, an 8-inch-thick dictionary embossed in gold. “I have acreage and display these things to let the past come alive”, he tells me. Literally history in the making, I think. The younger ones are sparse in their hunt. They like to live lean. They choose a few books, a special candle holder, a small backpack. A friend stops by. “You don’t need anything, do you?” I ask. She looks around and spots the Japanese soup bowls. “I want these little ones”, she says, “I’ll think of you when I eat.” I wonder if I’ll live on through my discarded stuff. “My teenager will sleep in this bed”, a mom says. “Just as my teenagers did”, I respond. I don’t add how long ago that was. They need not know about this furniture’s time passing. 

In the late afternoon, a young man visiting friends in the neighborhood stops in and finds his treasure, my box of caulking, paint thinner, and rust remover. I show him the rusty gigantic bolts and hooks. “Great”, he says, “a little vinegar will make them good as new”. He takes ‘em all. “Let me text my wife about that coffee table”, he adds. Soon they walk out ready to fill the cracks in their home and enjoy a drink with friends on the cherry wood table. Life continues. It is good this way. 

​By the end of the day, the furniture has found a new home. I sweep the floor of my emptied house; rearrange the two chairs left in my living room to face the hearth and the view of the mountains. I lean on a cushion in front of them; I experience the sparsely furnished room, and take in the view out the window. Excitement about my new, unencumbered life rises. 

Turns with the Earth
Sitting in my writing chair, I have watched many sunsets on the mountains across the valley. The mountains are green this early in the year, green from grasses sprouting, green with conifers. These mountains have invited me to go hike, explore, dream of summer evenings on the trail, and sleeping under the stars. Grizzly Peak has called me to the trail year after year. The sun streaking through from the west has awed me with its play of light, has reminded me of places far away where I travelled, has soothed me at day’s end and let me rest. The light of the sun across this valley has been my companion. A friend, day after day.

There is an average of 198 sunny days in this valley, a number slightly below the average for the United States. We count on 109 days of precipitation here. This is an average climate, not too hot, not too cold; not too much sun, not too much rain and snow. The clearly marked seasons have given me the change I crave. I’ve lived here 36 years.

I will move to an area where there is an average of 285 sunny days per year. More sun, less rain or snow. I will look out at mountains, desert and sky. Sunsets on the mountains and thunderstorms over the mesa will mark my days. The earth’s and sun’s movement gives me a daily experience of what life is: a circular experience; lets me realize who I am: part of a bigger whole. Will I become a different me, I wonder, when I’m awed by colorful sunsets, called to explore a sage green mesa, a dark green pinion pine forest?

Places shape us. Natural places let us know our place in the universe. Hiking solo in 2020 on the Pacific Crest Trail allowed me to become intimate with the trees. I learned how they grew as a family of trees, how they supported one another, how they protected each other (and me) from harsh weather. The trees became my friends. I experienced my place in the whole of things. As I age, I may not hike with a backpack, sleep under the stars and claim myself as part of nature. But I can sit on a porch, feel the wind in my hair, the hot or cool air on my skin and let my eyes rest on mother nature to which my body will return.
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The sun has set. The pale blue sky is losing light. A white full moon contrasts with pink clouds. The green mountains across the valley casts their dark shadows and will soon hide the shapes of trees and houses. I will turn my gaze inward, watch the flames in the hearth, let darkness settle before I turn on the lamps.

Sorting Books, Leaving Friends 
Between skiing and snow walks, I’ve been sitting in my dismantled living room sorting and packing books. While doing this I remembered sitting on the floor in the aisle of our neighborhood bookstore when I was a young teen, smelling and touching the books on the shelves. Paper and ink smell in my nose; smooth glossy bindings, rough linen bindings, under my fingers. 
New worlds opened up as I leafed through these books. I’d choose one to take home and add to my small collection. A book I could keep differed from a book I’d read from the library. The books I kept on a shelf in my bedroom contained stories that became my trusted friends. Soon I expanded to buying art books in a second-hand store. I added paintings to my collection of treasures. Then poetry entered my world and the slim volumes full of thoughts and feelings became go to friends.

Ever since, I’ve lived a life of hauling books. Bookshelves filled with books are an essential part of a home for me. The contents of my bookshelves have changed as I changed. When images and words of the digital world inundated me in the late nineties, books took a quiet backseat in my living room. I still buy hard copies. I still treasure holding a book in my hand to read. But in the new life i'm choosing, a simplified life with less space, I can’t keep them around any longer. And so I’m thinking hard as each book passes through my hands. Will I want to re-read this one? Will I need that information? I read a pruning book and put it on a to go pile. I know how to prune the grapevines, the apple tree, the espaliered peach. And there’s always a YouTube video, if I’m in doubt. The herb books follow the pruning book for a similar reason. And then come the novels with stories that live in my mind and touched me. They are my friends. But I cannot take all the friends I’ve had in my life, with me. I have to choose. The ones that’ll play an active role in my new life, I save. The ones that can teach me about story structure, about writing a scene, about a good plot, I save. Poetry volumes, the wise lines for living when I need it, get to come with me. But the rest has to go. I’ll let myself travel less padded with words, open to new experiences. I look at the stacks of to go books around me on the floor. I must find people who want my books as friends.   

Out with the Old, In with the New
It’s New-year’s eve. Boxes line the walls of rooms in my house. My library now comprises three boxes, taped shut. I like how fitting things in boxes creates neatness among my stuff.  Four boxes not taped shut are the books that have to make new friends. As I reduce, I remember an earlier time in my life. 26-Years-old, my boyfriend and I planned to travel the world for a year. Our rented quarters at the time, consisted of a room and shared kitchen in a big house. Though we had few things, a bed, some cooking utensils, clothes, a chair, and books, we reduced until what we wanted to keep, fit in a 317 cubic feet pine shipping box. My parents let me store the crate at their house until we could ship it upon returning to wherever we lived. We didn't know where that would be. We were on an adventure. Leaving a 317 cubic feet home base for future use and having what we needed on the road in a backpack was exhilarating and freeing.

As I reduce the possessions I’ve accumulated while living a householder's life for 36 years, the lightness of being rises in my body. The tremor of excited anticipation sneaks through the anxiety resulting from making contracts with buyers, repairmen, and movers. I won’t come back here. My new world will be a small home base. The new environment will force me to change my habits. I hope this transition will be easy on me and let me land softly. So far, so good. Things are unfolding in a way I like. I don’t trust life as much as I did in my twenties. An older body, a memory filled with experiences, has made me wiser about what can go wrong. I’ve lost my youthful innocence, but I haven’t lost my comfort with going on an adventure. Isn't life always an adventure if you have the eyes for it?                                                                                             

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It’s my last Christmas in Southern Oregon and nature is putting on a show I won’t forget. While I’m dreaming in my bed the snow keeps falling during the long night from Christmas eve to Christmas morning. In my dream I meet with the buyers of my house. They are choosing things in my house they can use; things I’m ready to let go. When they touch a piece of furniture, a painting, or open a kitchen drawer, the item changes color, changes form. They hold out a bundle of clothes for me and as they hand it over  the bundle becomes a baby. I am standing naked across from them, shivering from cold. My limbs are stiff and I have trouble holding the baby. I hesitate on what to do with it. As I stare at the pink child, I think, I’m done with babies in my life.

I wake up. I’m naked under the quilt. My feet are sticking out of the covers and feel icy cold. The morning light outside my window shows stiff branches covered with snow! I pull my feet under the covers, linger in its warmth and look out at the white world outside. I ponder my dream of the baby. Does the dream mean the buyers will have a baby in this house, or are they handing me a new life? Will I get a bundle of new energy, a "baby", from selling this house, I wonder? Of course I will walk away with a bundle of money. Will that be the energy I transfer to my next home? Or?
I roll over and look out at Mt Ashland in the distance, pristine in its whiteness. The snow cover  reshapes the world, wipes out all its blemishes. The restfulness of the snowy landscape lets me think. I wonder about the possible inner changes this move may bring. I believe that despite change the past connects with the future. The past energy, my life in this place, will linger awhile after I leave, just as a person’s energy hangs around after he or she dies. Eventually the energy of the past will disappear in the waves of new life that’ll inundate me.

Thoughts of my dream fade. Nature calls and drives me out of bed. I must ready myself for a snowy outside world.  I sleep in a cold bedroom and the frigid air makes me hurry to get downstairs where it’s warm.
It’s Christmas morning and I look forward to a quiet celebration with phone calls from loved ones. As I prepare a cup of tea the phone rings. My son asks me how I’m doing with the move. Not everyone leaves their cocoon so easily and becomes a butterfly, he says. I tell him I’m doing okay, I’m taking it one problem at a time, I say. The inspection report revealed just a few things to fix on the old house.  I tell him that we're having a white Christmas. Relieved he focuses on his own life again. I’m glad I’m managing this transition without needing his help.
While I enjoy my tea and a slice of Christmas stollen, I make plans for the day. I will take a day off from moving-related stuff, go for a walk in the snow, and enjoy dinner with friends. Change involves work, but I don’t have to work at it constantly. The work of moving is like preparing for a long trail hike. There are problems to solve, papers to sign, things to pack and get rid of, logistics to figure out. But just as I train my body while I prepare for the trail, I take walks, snowshoe and ski to keep myself in top shape for this transition. I know that as long as I move my body, I have a lifeline to the future. I’m ready for today in a winter wonderland.

oving to a smaller house means getting rid of stuff. While I’m sorting bedding into “go” or “keep” piles, I remember a news post I read earlier. A local shelter will open its doors for the homeless as they predict big snowstorms for the valley. As I wonder what I’ll do with the “go” pile, besides putting it in the landfill, an ‘aha’ feeling surges through me. I can donate sleeping bags, blankets to the shelter! Perfect! Excited with this solution for my stuff, I climb into the loft and find sleeping bags in the “go” pile. Then I look in the cedar chest and find a heap of woolen hats, scarves, mittens and blankets that will warm somebody!

​Memories
As I put my departed husband’s hat in a bag, an image of his large slender hands donning the hat flashes through my mind; hands I loved so much. I can almost feel them again. My son’s smile comes to mind as he held up the first mittens he knitted and the image warms my heart. The hat he wore as he learned to ski, the pink balaclavas my daughters sported while sledding a hill remind me that time passes. A scarf a friend made me, a sweater my mother knitted, creates happy feelings in me. Happiness lives in strange places. An innocuous item can pull strings in your mind and connect synapses with memories. What I remember today makes me happy. The items will find a new home; the memories will fade. When I clear out stuff, I make room so I can collect fresh memories; maybe I’ll get to a place where I’m just creating emptiness. 

Cold and Starry Nights
The big old sleeping bag doesn’t spend much time on the shelf in the shelter. It’s the first one to find a new owner. The bag has lingered in the attic at least 15 years. Why do we keep stuff for so long when it no longer serves us? I weave my way through the aisles of people who share a free community meal. They enjoy being indoors and warm. These are people who, on other nights might sleep under a bridge or in a thicket. People who appreciate a warm sleeping bag during a cold night. That bag may just save someone from getting hypothermia. 

I go home. I have a warm home where I can sleep. As I crawl under my down comforter, I imagine sleeping under the stars in a sleeping bag. I remember nights on the trail. If you have a warm  sleeping bag,  to lay, swaddled like a baby, on Mother Earth under the watchful eye of Father Sky is an expansive experience. I hope to experience many more happy nights looking up at the sky.

The weather forecast predicts snow. To avoid getting stranded on mountain roads, my hiking buddy and I drive to the edge of the watershed around our town where the forest begins. Deep in our rain gear and with warm boots, we hike the familiar trail that leads us higher and higher to the ridge with views of the valley. Even though my moving date is still 2 months away, I suspect it will be the last time I will hike this familiar trail. Snow will cover the higher elevations when winter sets in. Hiking this trail will be impossible then. Drops of rain patter on my Gore-Tex jacket, then rain turns to wet snow, and it becomes quiet. The path turns muddy and snow covers the fir, pine and manzanita trees with a light white dusting. The red madrone berries against the green leaves, shiny wet, with red branches and a trimming of snow, make for a Christmas feeling in the woods.

As we climb, my breath labors, my body moves slow. Deep into the dark days of winter, I lack the energy I have on summer days. I’ve been sleeping more, eating more and moving less. We reach our highest point on the trail and loop around to go back. No views of the valley. It’s snowing hard now and the clouds hang low. Will I miss seeing the valley from above this last time? My legs swing easy again as I descend and the speed gives me that happy hiking feeling. The air is chilly but my body feels toasty warm inside my rain gear. It’s so good to be alive!

My buddy and I do not need to talk. We wind our way to a side trail that leads to a waterfall. Other spring and summer hikes flash through my mind as we cross the creek several times. I hiked here with friends so many years; on this hike I made new friends; because the trail is steep, I trained with long-distance buddies to build stamina. This hike led to so many adventures! I’ll find new trails and make new friends in New Mexico. I’ll be living at 7000 ft altitude and hiking higher. How much longer will my body carry me uphill? The woods are quiet, as if to shush me. Be here, listen! The crunching snow, the babbling of the little creek show me their beauty one more time before I leave. As we return to the car, the sky opens blue and gives a stunning snow picture of the mountains across the valley. It’s a view that is embedded in my mind and will live on inside me.

Clarity comes in strange ways. The first year of the pandemic, 2020, forced me to stay home, away from people and let me settle into myself. I couldn’t travel as I usually do. I still hiked and even hiked a good distance that summer. I hiked solo and met few hikers. Solo hiking let me connect to nature in a deeper way.

​Aging Well
At home, I noticed what was happening to women around me. I saw women my age in isolation have health problems and being fearful of their future. People with friends were less isolated, and their aging related problems seemed to be delayed. Good, I thought, I have friends, I’ll be okay. I noticed that when people’s health declined, friends didn’t offer ongoing support. Family’d arrive and move the woman into a new home closer to family, into a nursing home or worse, hospice.

Getting Real
I’m a realistic person, not afraid of looking truth in the eye. During my 36 years of living in Ashland, I’ve seen friends come and go. My activities are the driver of my connections. I say, every passion of mine produces one long-term friend and a bunch of temporary friends. But long term friends move as well, or their focus shifts to other things. A yearly get-together among old time friends is fun, but doesn’t offer support for serious aging issues.
I considered my family. Family far away in another country, children far flung in the US. Will they come and rescue me when needed? They will. Shall I wait and burden them in five to ten years?
During that pandemic year 2020, I missed my youngest daughter, who had moved to a new place just the prior year. I took a risk flying to New Mexico while Covid was raging. She and her husband shared their back-to-the land plans and invited me to live with them if I wanted. I cried. It’s rare a 73-year old gets invited to join a community. Even though I was deeply touched, I wasn’t ready. We thought it’d take at least 5 years before I’d consider.

Climate Change
Forward to summer 2021. Vaccinated, I planned to hit the trail and complete another section of the PCT. Maybe I could finish the 450 miles still left to hike. Drought and heat ruled during the summer of 2021; the desert was super dry and we hauled water for long stretches. Temps at home rose over 110F. Wild fires erupted everywhere on the West Coast. The garden suffered. The dry heat even stunted the growth of the tomatoes. Everything had to grow under shade cloth. I didn’t want to spend my old-age summers in such heat. I’d look for the best next place to live near a child of mine.

A Sense of Place
After visiting my kids in the Bay Area and on the East Coast, I landed again in Taos in July. 89F Temps warmed me at midday; afternoon monsoon rains with incredible sky displays over the mesa refreshed the air for dinner on the porch. We took alpine hikes at 10,000 ft, where wildflowers were abundant. My favorite summer flower, hollyhocks, grew wild everywhere in the Taos valley. I knew, I would thrive here.
I told my children that it was time for me to move and that I’d start the move to Taos after I’d finished the PCT in August. August came; the Caldor fire broke out and pushed me off the trail. A trip to Holland to walk and attend my brother’s late-life marriage happened instead.

Pregnant with a Move
On my return home, I rested and made my plan. The housing market in Taos was tight, a seller’s market, but so it was In Ashland. I flew to Taos to see what I could find. At first glance, nothing interested was listed. Earlier I made my 10-point list of things important in my new home; things that made me happy and smile. #1 Was an inspiring view. #2 Was location and walkability for daily needs. I’d searched for a week. When I stood on the porch of a small Pueblo style home surrounded by sage brush, I watched the sky put on a late afternoon light show that was awe inspiring. My heart jumped. I knew this view would enliven me and fuel my creativity, encourage my daring with nature, and pull me to the trail again and again. I asked questions and did my due diligence, checking everything on my list. At the end of my week’s stay, I made an offer on my new home. I was pregnant with a move!
I wanted a winter to let things unfold. Lucky for me, escrow in Taos takes at least 4-month due to lack of title companies and Covid lay-offs. I had time to be pregnant with the move. I could do my shedding and selling at an easy pace in Ashland.

The last Trimester
I’ve entered my last trimester before this new birthing in my life. When escrow closes on the Taos house in March, 9 months will have passed since I decided i'd move that day in July. What started as an idea is becoming reality. I’m putting one foot in front of the other as I solve one problem after another. The skills and resilience I’ve developed in long distance hiking have helped me. Many aspects of a long distance hike — such as figuring out logistics, developing trust things will work out, working hard during the difficult stretches, knowing when to take a zero day, getting support crew lined up by using trail angels — are similar when preparing for a big move. It takes stamina, resilience and trust.

Resilience, Stamina and Trust
If you’re a hiker and are thinking of doing long distance hiking, you will not only discover new worlds outside yourself when you get out there, you will discover and build resilience, stamina and trust inside yourself while you’re hiking. Distance hiking will help you in your decisions about the next phase of your life. Let the trail teach you!

I’m on a big journey. Moving from a place where I’ve raised a family to an unknown place by myself, is transformation in the big league. A place “as far away from America, as you can get in America”, my son-in-law says. 36 Years ago I arrived in Ashland with a husband, a 2-month-old baby girl, a 2-year-old daughter and a 9-year-old son. We had no money to speak of, so we bought the cheapest house available in town. It was the 80ties recession, and we got a mortgage at 11.7%! During our life here, we built another house and owned commercial property. Nothing spoke “home” like this place, though. This house grew with us as our family's needs changed. And I’m now selling this completely transformed house.

A NEW PHASE
My needs are changing. The children have grown. They’ve moved away and have families of their own. I buried my husband 11 years ago. In this place, I grieved and learned to live on my own. Because there was no WE and OURS anymore, I remodeled the house to make it mine. I planted a peony bush on my husband’s ashes in the backyard. Each spring, the peonies make me smile and I realize that love endures even after death. I embarked on travel adventures, took up rowing and long-distance hiking. After retiring from my day job, I became a published author. I lived my life and found happiness again.
Though I am blessed with strength and good health, my aging body tells me it’s time to live near those who care for me beyond friendship, beyond adventures, beyond inspiration. I’m moving to another state; it’s a place so different, it may as well be another country. From green forested hills to high desert mesa with the Rocky Mountains in the distance. My youngest daughter and her husband are establishing a “back-to-the-land” community. I will have a role there. My presence will matter; They welcome my life experience and talents and I can take part to the degree I’m able as I age.
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SHEDDING A LIFE
Moving is one of the known major stressors one can encounter in life, on par with childbirth, marriage, divorce, career change. I’m making the journey from one home base to a new one. Each day, since I decided to move in July, I’m engaged in taking steps toward my goal. Like during a pregnancy, I experience feelings, anxieties, and excitement. My sleep is affected, my body aches when I move boxes and stuff. Instead of growing a baby inside me, I’m shedding the skin of a householder life. Memorabilia, kids’ toys, kids’ artwork, books, excess bedding, kitchenware, furniture, you name it, I’m Marie Kondoing it! I no longer need to house and sleep kids, when they come home; I no longer host groups, bake and cook for an army, organize neighborhood support groups, tend a family garden. The pandemic forced a transformation and catapulted me into being more singular; satisfied with my own company, and not in need of big entertainment. I’m desiring a simple life.

​LIVING WITH MEANING
I want inner explorations; meditation, artistic expression. I want time to go slow and not be burdened by to-do’s. I want to do what has meaning to me, not what life demands of me. A small home, a small easy-to-manage garden, one bathroom will do; a living room for three visitors instead of seven.

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“It is time to re-imagine how life is organized on Earth. We’re accelerating into a future shaped less by countries than by connectivity. Mankind has a new maxim – Connectivity is destiny – and the most connected powers, and people, will win.”
— Parag Khanna
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'Tis the season for celebrations. The season for connecting with family and friends. Does that mean we should drink more, eat more, shop more, ship more, and have more fun? Two years of pandemic living means w’re ready for a break from restrictions and isolation. In our isolation we’ve had two years to re-imagine what’s important and how we want to live. This season gives us the opportunity for redressing how we connect and express our love.

A Simple Holiday
We created our own version of the holiday season when my children were young. Every evening in December, we paused, read a seasonal story while the children opened a tiny gift from an advent calendar. Young children live in the moment, and can appreciate the simplest things. Societal traditions soon take them out of that coveted state and open up their awareness of “wishing” and “getting”. For a believer-child the North Pole provides. The adults fall into the hole of Black-Friday-shopping and make imaginations come true.
My children became consumer-aware. Even though we tried to stem the tide of “stuff” coming into our home, the expressions of love from friends and relatives created a pile of gifts under the tree that surprised as every year. The old-fashioned, cozy, one-day holiday celebration with minimal gifts was a thing for sentimental movies we watched amidst piles of newly-acquired toys, clothes, electronics and candy.

From Digital world to Consumption
My children came of age in the digital age. Born and living in the country, they lived without electricity, computers and TV screens in their junior years. We postponed their participation in that digital world as long as we could without harming their educational progress and social life. In the eighties, we moved to a small town. Once there, we lost the battle against screen-time and digital immersion.
I’ve brought one genX-er and two millennials into a world stifled by consumption. They must make the best of it. And they do, at least for the holidays. They limit screen time for their children; they ask to keep gift giving small. Sending gifts back and forth across the country doesn’t make ecological sense for us any longer. Over-consumption and the resulting climate change, forces us to turn to an oldfashioned seasonal celebration. We put up a few lights and decorations to cheer up the gloomy, dark days of winter. We bake traditional specialty foods to enjoy with a small circle of friends or family.

Counting Blessings
I use the holiday time for reflection on another year passing. At this time I count my blessings. My blessings are gifts that keep on giving. I have a loving family and circle of friends I can turn to in time of need. I live near the natural world which gives me magical surprises in my garden and on my hiking adventures. I enjoy good health, which allows me to live with joy. And yes, I must admit, one blessing is I have access to entertainment at the flick of a finger.
For some people losses because of Covid and climate have created big changes. The holiday season isn’t a balm on the wound when you’ve lost a parent or a child; when your house burned down, or the water swept away your possessions. Rather, the season becomes a smarting wound.
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Gifts that Keep on Giving
The best gift we can give each other in trying times is the gift of hope. Hope that comes from action. Action that warms a heart, that reduces our carbon footprint, that helps someone get over their fear of vaccination. We must shrink our economy if we want the world to survive. We must do with less stuff. We must drive less, fly less, move less stuff across the world until we’ve instated a non-polluting system. Vote with your dollars, create a connective world around you. Give gifts that keep on giving and inspiring others and spend time with those who need your loving attention. Happy Holidays.

Simple gift: books are on sale for the holidays: 2FOR22. Click here

 The wrathful deities of Tibetan Buddhism help protect the people from evil. These deities look like ghouls and ghastly figures drifting along the streets on Halloween. As the holidays are upon us, the world’s leaders at the climate conference in Glasgow gather to help solve the climate mess. I feel quite removed from this conference where decisions for the planet’s survival must be made. Maybe you can muster up some cynicism over political optics, but most likely you’ve had it by now with promises that aren’t kept. Greta Thunberg will not sway the big greedy companies that run the world. The world leaders are not our protectors.
Interestingly enough, just as Halloween isn’t a politicized holiday (ghouls aren’t Republican or Democratic yet), we can also agree across the political divide that climate change, real or not, will not be solved by you or me.

So why bring it up? In a prior blog I’ve written how we can do our minor part in terms of “reduce, re-use and recycle”; but unless everyone in the world comes on board, that approach won’t make a real difference. And when was the last time everyone in the world came together around an issue? Even the pandemic hasn’t brought people together. That’s just it. With all the talk of community building in America, we are more divided than ever in our enclaves that stick to stuck perspectives, and hate the other enclave. Sounds like high school all over again? The US is an adolescent society, a young country with very little experience in making it through hard times together. We are people rooted in rugged individualism who can do hard stuff, but building unity isn’t one of them. And if we build communities, they tend to be temporary, because people pull up stakes, change jobs, move across the country, start anew, try something they haven’t done before. The USA is a country of starting new things, not fixing what’s broken. We haven’t found what sticks and works for us as a whole.

When I think about community, be they friends or family, or both, I think about caring for one another, keeping each other safe. I think about creating opportunities for growth and offering new perspectives. I think about sharing love and enjoyment of life. I think about joining in activities that promote health. These communities don’t pull guns on others, they talk to each other. These communities don’t ignore each other when there’s a need. They help. These communities don’t tear each other apart with their criticism, they share their joys and successes and invite others to be a part.

What has happened to our news media, our politicians, our leaders? Has greed and hatred poisoned the shared well, called Earth? Are they having their talks in Glasgow to pretend that the Earth can be saved, as they’re extracting goods as fast as they can while there’s still a profit to be made? I feel minuscule next to the corporate and political forces. And so I go out and get lost in the wide open spaces where the sky is blue and fresh; I climb in the mountains where the trees are doing their fall beauty dance; I take others on the trails where we share our joy and move in unison while bettering our health. I walk with women from different walks of life. We connect, we share our love of nature. We encourage each other to walk the extra mile. We help each other feel our vitality.

My grandson started kindergarten this fall. A big change after 18 months of pandemic home schooling. I asked him what he liked about school. His answer: “I have so many friends!” Easy, pease, 4 weeks in school and he has a large group of friends! I’m glad he values friends more than anything, while in school.
Humans hanker for community. Look at the string of holidays that are here, starting with Halloween. Holidays that bring people together. I’m sure there are people in Glasgow who want the best for the world, but fear, inflexibility, lack of trust, and “me-first” drive them away from maintaining a wholesome world community.
So, it’s up to you and me and the wrathful deities to do the best we can by building life-enhancing communities. Talk to people you meet, care for the downtrodden on your path, pay attention and share the beauty and wealth you’re blessed with in your life. Avoid and correct critical hateful speech, any speech that creates an us and them, that puts down the “other”. Teach your children and grandchildren, and the world will become a better place. Happy Halloween!

Comments and sharing are appreciated! 

The last time I wrote a blog, wildfire smoke was obscuring the sky and depressive feelings were gnawing on my brain. As always, things change. I escaped for 3 weeks to a green country with blue skies and now that I’m back on the West Coast, fall arrived with blessed rain. The air is clean. Between rains, the golden sunlight streaks over the dried grasses on the hills. The garden harvest of tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and other summer specials is abundant and a cool wind touches my face on morning hikes in the hills. All’s well in my world, as I sit to write with a last red rose from the garden on my desk, perfuming the air and delighting my eyes. Outside rain clouds, hesitant all morning, are dropping their wet load. What will fall bring us?

A respite from wildfires, for sure. A reduction in Covid-19 cases? Maybe. A 2-month-long peak of hospitalizations in my county is declining; elsewhere new upticks of Covid-cases get recorded every day. We have to live with and keep this virus under control as best we can. Will we get a sensible infrastructure bill through Congress? A social services bill? Will the immigration crisis at the border wax and wane like the pandemic? Will the summer hurricanes and tornadoes make room for extreme winter weather? Will the reduction of natural gas output in Europe tighten our energy consumption across the world?
So many questions, so few answers. We must live life to learn the answers. We must keep going; live through the fallout of our mistakes to learn what works and what doesn’t. “We’re all in this together”, is the motto of politicians and world leaders. Do we live by that credo? Do you? Am I?

I walked this summer in vastly different places: desert, high mountains, blooming moors and wet lowlands. The basics of walking the trail were the same wherever I was: carry your load, find water and food, carry water and food, find shelter for the night. A simple life I shared with those who are migrating, walking away from climate extremes, bad political situations, or to join family in far-flung places. There was a time when people migrated across this world. They didn’t run into borders. Insurmountable mountains or wide oceans were the only things halting them. People traveled along rivers, through valleys and across plains. Essentially we are all nomads. A recent discovery of footprints in New Mexico (click for article) points to early migrants coming to the Americas, earlier than scientist had known.
As I walked all summer, I felt happy when my legs were moving and the vistas unfolded around me. I felt happy when I curled up in my small shelter for the night, my belly sufficiently full. I moved my DNA as one author (Katy Bowman) calls it.
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When I read about Haitians (click for article) coming from Chile,  crossing mountains in Equador and Columbia, 45 mile wide tropical swamps in Panama, to get away from racism and find a better life in the US, I can only relate to the tip of their mountain of pain and effort that goes into such a journey. My 300 mile journey on the PCT had difficulties for sure, but I had calculated these difficulties. I knew what elevations were ahead of me, how much water to carry to the next water stop. Haitians don’t have a Guthook App on their phone to tell them how much farther it is or how high the next mountain will be. I had to maneuver around a trepidatiously balanced rock blocking the trail, but there was a side trail if I couldn’t make it around the rock. I always had my trusted Garmin-Mini device dangling off my pack. One push of the SOS button and Search And Rescue teams with helicopters would come into action. The closest I came to real danger was in Desolation Wilderness near Lake Tahoe, when the wildfires nearby flared up and caused a heavy smoke obscuring the landscape. We hustled to walk in the opposite direction, back to a road, and a ride to a safe home to re-group. I imagine once you start a journey from Chile, there’s no going back to the danger you left behind, just like there was no going forward toward the danger on our smoky trail.

I walked in the east of the Netherlands where villages perch on hillocks, 36 ft above sea level, not the -6 ft (!!) below sealevel of the paths I crossed through the fields. I walked across dunes and dykes that protect villages from the storm tides coming in from the North Sea. After being inundated by water (the last time this happened was 1953), people returned and built better, bigger dykes. The Dutch are feverishly reinforcing dykes and creating flood plains as they await the rising sea level that will come with climate change.

For the migrants of the world, there’s no going back to where they came from. They have to keep going toward something better. The determination and hard work migrants display comes out of desperation. A desperation I only touch on when a fierce 45-mile-an-hour wind blows across the sandy desert, forcing me to buckle down and keep walking the 5 miles that will lead to shelter.
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How do you migrate away from climate change, from corrupt government, from racism, from poverty and hunger? Some gather their few possessions and start walking. Others remain in place because they don’t have the means, the strength or wherewithal to walk away. After a summer of hiking and walking, I can sit in my home with the sky cleared from smoke and smell the roses. Humans talk themselves into comfort. The wildfires, floods, hurricanes and storms will be back. Racism and corruption will continue. Will you build bigger “dykes”, fight harder to resist the inequities, or will you start walking?

 YouTubes of summer hikes are posted on WW50plus page
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