A year of living messily

I woke up this morning at 2:30am, warm and deeply at peace in the old house that my brother-in-law Richard built decades ago. I moved my foot to feel Oso the cat, still at the bottom of the bed. She and I had arrived just a few days ago from Washington state, after a ferry ride and plane ride to get to the San Francisco airport, where  David met us and drove us the few hours north to the ranch.

I carefully climbed down the wooden ladder to scavenge coffee from David (who normally gets up around 2:30am). I went back to bed with Oso, pulled up the down comforter and listened to the wind blowing the trees in the pre-dawn darkness. A dream memory rolled into my mind and I watched it unfold.

I am in a wooded forest in the darkness of late evening and I suddenly see a large den dug into the hillside. I pull my attention in and make myself stay calm. I lay on the ground in a ball in hopes i can pass the nigh unnoticed. in the night I feel the body of a very large wild cat. It smells me and pushes alongside me to size me up, but also letting me feel its size. It is immense. It moves on. I arise before dawn and go to the road in the forest. I see a huntsman and he tells me about the large wild cat. I know it is there and I am not afraid.

I got out of bed and helped David get ready to go to the airport, flying back to Seattle to retreive our packed up possessions and drive them back to this family ranch off-grid in Willits, California and a studio in Bolinas, California. He headed out, leaving me to be in charge of the ranch alone for the next week.

It's a few hundred acres, 30 minutes down a dirt road from the closest town. It's hilly and wooded and sits along the side of Foster Mountain. It's been hand-built by Richard over the course of decades and now includes a sprawling three story farmhouse, barns, shops, greenhouses, guest houses, gardens, solar power systems, and a water system. It is also home to about 100 chickens, a flock of 11 free-range geese, 3 boy cats, and 2 old dogs, a white lab named Bella and a tough-ass Turkish herding dog named Luna. It has that distinctive northern California rural vibe of "in-progress" - everything is quite sophsiticated and developed and yet not quite finished.

I am working full time, so I had desk work and three online meetings. The internet managed to hold out for all of me. But work distracted me and I made my first mistake of the day – forgetting to keep the fire stoked. Byt the time I remembered to add a log the previous log seemed long gone and I prayed for the fat log I added to catch. I got lucky - it did. But, it gave me the opportunity to take in how relentless the 5 days would be. So many details to remember.

After my work calls, I headed out on a walk, up the dirt road, climbing up Foster Mountain. This is one place with good cell service, so I called an old friend, an artist names Helen. We plotted an idea for an art exhibit, spitballing ideas and work back and forth, seeing what threads would come together. Helen told me that she and her partner Mark are thinking about opening their property outside San Diego for co-housing. We need each other; people are not meant to be alone. I told her I have the same dream.

I walked for a few hours and, as I got back to the house, realized that walking alone in wild land, away form other humans, feels like a walking meditation. it is an extremely porous experience.

I got back to the ranch around 4pm and decided to tend to the chickens, since it was dry and all the next days predict rain. It's rained over 20 inches in the last 2 weeks here and the chicken coops are flooded. The floors of the coops are mucky at best and fully flooded at worst. I know nothing about chickens. And, truth be told, I have not eaten an egg in over 35 years. It is confronting, disturbing, and sad to be tending to these beings. I feel helpless and somewhat numb. David has also conveyed that he feels uncomfortable about keeping chickens and has convinced his brother to stop keeping chickens. Two houses have already been emptied and Raoul, the closest neighbor, is taking them away, slowly.

I tried shoveling the muck from the worst house. The watery slurry of poop, dirt, food, and straw was impossible to pick up on the shovel and I decided to try sweeping it towards the door. This was less back-straining, but seemd equally futile. I made small inroads and then decided to bring in buckets of hay to, at least, make some areas where the chickens could walk on something dry. I also knew that the hay would be abcorbed into the soupy muck in minutes. And tomorrow, in te rain, all bets woudl be off. Still, it seemed to be all l could do and I needed to do something. I found some dry buckets and drove down to the barn.

As I worked I noticed that I was talking to all the animals. Calmly, thoughtfully, sharing my emotions and explaining my intentions. "Well, I'm really not sure what to do. This seems terrible and I would like to help you dry out your feet. Let me get some hay. " I wondered if it is natural to speak to other animals in this way. It was certainly spontaneous and quite natural.

My rubber boots and rain pants were covered in the brown, putrid muck. I hosed off my whole body and stripped down to my tights and tshirts. I had to put on my "bertter" boots to go feed the chickens, dogs, and cats. It was close to dark and they were all quite excited about dinner and releived that "the new girl" did not forget.

I was supposed to check the rain gauge, too, but after many minutes of trying to find it, I gave up and went down to the guest house. I was splashed with feces and mud, smelled terrible, and was exhausted. I forget to check the level on the power supply - my third mistake.

In the house, I made a quick decision to steam up "whatever" and add tahini-miso sauce. I was so hungry that I wanted it to cook while I showered. Standing naked at the counter, I sliced a sweet potato and adde it to an inch of water in a saucepan. I turned on the gas stove and let it steam-boil while I showered.

After I showered, I added red cabbage, some last bits of broccoli left behind by Richard & Rachel, and some tofu. While I waited for it all to steam through, I ate cubes of cold tofu dipped in tamari and then nutritional yeast. A strange little snack that is my delight to eat when I am cooking. I made a quick mix of tahini and miso, thinned with some of the cooking water. I drained the "whatever," tipped it into a bowl, and drizzled the sauce on top. Because it looked cold and refreshing, I took a bosc pear from the fridge and added some to the bowl, off to te side.

The sweet potato was slightly undercooked. The broccoli was perfectly tender-crisp, and the pear was my favorite part.

Oso gave me a look and kindly reminded me to feed her. I obliged and then made myself wash the dishes, including the morning's Moka pot, and not wait until morning. Trying to remember it all - shower, cook, rain gauge, geese, chickens, dirty dishes...my conversation with Helen echoed in my mind. People are not meant to live alone!

A small miracle, I remember to add more wood to the fire. So, at least, my first mistake is not my last.

This year we will live in this funky guesthouse part time, leaving behind what was a well-organized, predictable life. And I'll also be part-time in a studio, focusing on work and my own projects. Along the way, we are supporting family and being close to old friends who we have lost contact with during Covid. Our possessions are scattered and the long term future is not clear. But, I feel more comfortable, more at home, and more surrounded by love than ever before. We are looking for community. Have we radically changed our lives? Yes. Is it scary in some ways, with unknown beasts brushing against up? Yes. Fear is real. But, I know it is out there and I am not afraid. I am standing naked at the counter in an unexpected kitchen, making something delicious from "whatever" and feeling more at home than I have in many years.