After the sky fell
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Our roving life has included long-stays over the decade of our Safety Pin Life: we stayed in the woods for nearly eight years and found a middle land between what we had known, and what would become a lesson in letting go, often. We remained in that space due in large part to the nature of acceptance of the two women who shared their land and their lives with us. With just enough separation to maintain two types of living the pairs of us came and went on the edges of our boundaries learning to give and take with practice. Practice is not easy, and often messy. What we asked of these women was new to them; not easily understood. Yet, there was a willingness to respect the learning curve. Eventually, the mold in the woods and the winds that were toppling the old White Pine tops pushed the boundaries and we moved.
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| Pete built (many) gates in the woods |
Adapting has been slow sometimes and lightning quick at others. At first, and even now (at moments at a time), we clung to the possibility of finding a place closer-to-normal which would mean we believed we could live as the rest of society lived: in a 'house', on a foundation attached more or less permanently to the surface of Earth.
Two years since our move from the woods, we are part of a bigger rest of the world; those who rove in earnest. Campers and rovers on land marked as 'Campground' means (at least two different things): people come in their second home (on wheels) for a time/a vacation, but have another home. The second variation is people come for a time, and move because the 'rig' is their home. What varies in the lives of rovers is whether they continue to believe there is a settled home in their future. Still believing in that home camping is a stop on the way to the ultimate goal, I wonder if beliefs are changing as we all -- rovers and settled folk -- notice whether the sky is falling.
In between paragraphs I'm cooking a pot of beef stew with a pound of Three Sisters beef bought for us weeks ago by friends. They've kept the stew frozen, and stayed away as we learn to navigate the protocol of 'social distancing.' My friend and I have known each other most of our adult lives, raised a single-son each, and among other things we have lung issues that include us in being extra cautious with the 'social distance.' But, yesterday hunger and time coupled to make the choice to drive up and pick up the beef. It simmers now and it is signaling, "Ready!"
I am a resourceful cook with decades of experience planning and following through on making meals. What happened as I cooked this pot of beef stew is what everyone of my cook ancestors has done in the past: pay close attention, and not waste anything. The ends of garlic where the clove meets the root: I'd usually put in the compost. Not tonight. The broken pieces of mung bean threads (what we call 'long rice') I might clear off the counter, or put in the compost. Not tonight. When I stirred the pot of stew after a few minutes and noticed how thick it was I added a couple more cups of water and stirred the stew again.
Also between paragraphs I am fielding email from our niece in Missouri. She's shopping for us! A list of light-weight packaged food items I cannot get, and cannot shop for, is on her list. Another family member is helping out to make the purchase and mailing possible. The normal or near-normal is stretching and I notice.
When I first noticed the sky was falling Pete and I were sitting at coffee shop table in a town I had known since I was a girl. The town was no where near the town I remembered, and coffee shops an unknown entity. Oh sure, coffee came out of a jar spooned dark crystals stirred into hot water made instant coffee. That's as far as it went, until it was being perked on my mother's stove. But on the day I noticed the sky was falling, my world was so far removed from the others who filled their shopping carts in the adjoining supermarket, and could no more welcome us onto their front yard to 'camp' for a night than imagine The Virus would fall from this same sky.
When I noticed the sky was falling we had what remained of the sale of my family home. It was a tightly bound parcel of reality. That home became 'real estate' and though my parents maintained an almost near-normal relationship to what 'real estate' meant, it was tentative and innocent. They lived on a cash mostly basis, paid bills by buying money orders at the post office, and only after my Dad died in the early 1980's did my mother open her first checking account.
The legacy of that land, that 'property' came with such entangled roots. I wasn't very good at managing and living with 'property' and when I sold our family home the way forward would ultimately lead me to a humbling redefinition of what 'home' means.
When I noticed the sky was falling, I called my financial manager, an old friend who are into that sort of thing. She watched and suggested ways for me to manage and maintain or grow the money from the sale of our family home. But ultimately I did what I wanted, and made choices that she'd never have made. I called that friend and told her I wanted to close my accounts. "I'm buying silver." She couldn't believe me, but what could you do? She did what I asked, and the last conversation we had went like this:
"Well, if you think the sky is falling?" She said.
"Yeah, I think the sky is falling. You aren't living in your car." I answered, knowing this friendship was not meant to last. I was making a choice about my wobbly future, noticing the sky in my world was falling. Would I be left behind because I was living in my car, and not a settled house?
"The sky is falling," is a phrase that has it's roots in the nursery story of Chicken Little. The history and background of the story has wound itself into common meanings, and in most discussion, Henny Penny or Chicken Little's worry has equated to unfounded fear. Or, at worst: fearmongering. The thing that I have come to know through living my true story is this: Only them who has had the sky fall on them, can tell when that sky (blue or muted or other-wise colored) is falling.
After the sky fell, I notice the sky is still blue. Muted, but still blue, at least for now. And I look at that sky through a window of a wagon parked on a campground with wild rabbits. People with values in common with mine step up, pitching-in, and nod in appreciation for the fear that comes when a piece of sky does fall. Can you safely pin a piece of sky back together again? Perhaps the making of new fairy tales starts with stepping up, pitching in, and telling new stories, together. Fasten your safety pins.
Thank you, Mary and Eileen, Molly and Margaret, and Teri and Martin for your safety pins.
And to Maria Popova of Brain Pickings for her beautiful book A Velocity of Being: Letters to a Young Reader...which includes
"A 100-Year-Old Holocaust Survivor Letter About How a Book Saves Lives"
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