singing

Yesterday evening I texted my friend to see how things were in her neck of the woods.  We discussed family issues and I folded my 10 cranes (Day 3 of The100DayProject.)  Then she sent a link to Richard Thompson's Facebook concert and I listened to that while I finished the cranes and knitted 8 rows of the 3rd swatch (another project, using up the stash.)  I thought about all the ways people are dealing with isolation.  Musicians and restauranteers have it the worst, I think:  their livelihood depends on social gatherings.  I winced in sympathy as Thompson peered at the screen and said, "thank you, thank you very much" at the end of each song.  Hearing no applause, talking to no one, playing for himself, but trying to give a living room concert nonetheless.  "This is weird," he said, and launched into another song.

It's Easter weekend and Alexander Lingus shared some Holy Week music, courtesy of the Capella Romana archives.  I listened a bit to those as well and thought how forced but sincere these efforts are.  Patrick Stewart is reading a sonnet a day.  The Royal Amsterdam orchesra produced a zoom performance of Ode to Joy that brought me to tears.  Friends from my Portland symphony played Bach:  a little stilted and without dynamic nuance, but they were all doing their best, listening to the principal violinist's part through headphones, recording with varieties of technology.  I think, maybe I should try a Zoom rehearsal with my family or my friends.  And then I think about the sheer effort of pulling together the technology.  I can't even get Mom to clear out her tablet cache so she can unfreeze the screen and order groceries through Instacart.  I have to do it for her.

Still, I am ahead of the curve here.  I am comfortable with virtual connections;  that's how I have been keeping in touch for the last several years, ever since I moved to New Mexico, in fact.  My community is far flung, and my gregarious spirit is grateful for the possibilities offered by the ether.

A year ago, when I was very lonely, I listened to bird song and thought "sumer is a cumen in."  Dad used to say that, and years ago I finally learned the tune and the words.  My musical friend M taught it to me one day as we drove....where?  I can't recall.  Into the Gorge for a hike?  Down to Eugene for a concert?  It was someplace out of town, because we had plenty of time to learn the round.  But, I have had no one to sing it with since then.  M is in Portland, dealing with her increasingly debilitating MS. 

I meant to visit her last fall when I was in town and ran into her husband.  He has bought the Sovereign Gallery, down by the Heathman Hotel.  It was owned by a friend who sold him many paintings back in the day. M and her husband hooked me up with that former gallery owner, a tall blonde man with a handsome Scandihovian face and engaging manners.  We went to a CNW concert by Joseph Silverman, who performed all 6 Bach unaccompanied sonatas, playing beautifullyl by memory.  I still remember sitting in the cramped cafeteria at Reed: this was before the concerts moved to Kaul Audidtorium.  It was sweaty summer evening.  The area by the stage was filled with cushions.  Limber younger folk lounged on them while the rest of us sat bolt upright in tiered circles.  I think that was my olnly date with the gallery owner. But the music was gorgeous.

Anyway, it was long ago, and I am alone, unable to share or make music in any but virtual ways. So, last year I set up my cell phone recorder and sang "Sumer is a cumen in," several times until I had a round.  I shared it then and I'm sharing it now.  Some day, I'll find someone, or several someones, and we'll sing it again.

There are so many memories of sharing music.  I visited T years ago, in Oneonta NY.  His sister was getting married, but the family welcomed me into their home and celebration.  They had a huge New England style home, with an impressive front staircase and a narrow back servant's staircase.  There was wood everywhere, paintings, books, beautiful fabrics.  It was a home, not a showcase, and all the rooms were filled with activity.  It was a musical family, so his mother asked the women who were there for the wedding to sing Jerusalem while she played piano.  It was a thrilling sound, all those gorgeous female voices. The next day, for the processional, we all sang "come follow..."  Years later, when my family was at the beach celebrating our parent's 50th anniversary, I taught it to my nephew and sisters as we sat around a smoky beach fire toasting marshmallows and listening to the waves.  Years later still, E and I sang it together as we drove into Santa Fe.  We also sang "White coral bells," which brought my mind back to the summer drives up to Minnesota when I was very young.  We'd be crammed into the Buick Station wagon, passing the time with singing:  "White Coral Bells," "Barges," and, bizarrely, "Gaylord," an advertising jingle for a stuffed mechanical dog.  (That song surfaced when we drove through the town of Gaylord. My sisters still remember it.)

I think I'll always want to sing, even when my voice is cracked with age, even when I'm isolated.  But singing in the shower or on an empty trail does not bring the same joy of singing rounds around the campfire or driving through the prairie.  And creating virtual music is a poor substitute for the resonance of music shared with others.

life by the lake

A year ago I was in Canada,taking care of two huge lab-type dogs. I was lonely, really lonely for the first time in my nomad experiment. I'm not sure why I was lonely. I had a car to take me to the nearby town. I had a neighbor who showed me his show care with the pearlescent paint job and the Harley Davidson orange interiro. He also showed me the trail out behind the house and returned my dogs when they escaped out the insecurely latched front gate. If I wanted, I'm sure he would have been willing to share some beer and time with me. But I didn't want it. I didn't know what I wanted.

The weather was both spring and winter: snow happened regularly and I got to start a fire, and then it went away and I went on muddy walks above the lake. I tried to blog, but intead I wrote letters and posted pix to Facebook. I set the roomba to taking care of the dog hair. I walked the dogs. I fed them. My hosts had prepped five weeks worth of raw-meat meals and every week I brought in 14 tubs from the freezer in the garage and started them thawing in the small pantry fridge. I monitored the yard pump, which was dealing with the spring melt. I knitted. I cooked. My hosts were on the Keto diet, so I was tasked with finishing up all the pastas and other non-Keto foods that were languishing in the pantry. For the most part I did not use the expensive Keto ingredients, but I did make the Keto non-baked chocolate desert which was WONDERFUL (utilized coconut oil, nut butters, shredded coconut, pecans.) I sat in front of the huge-screen TV, eating the sweet crunchiness and watching the curling championships and Stanley Cup playoffs. I drank Tim Horton coffee. I felt like I was turning into a Canadian. And I felt lonely.

I took a 10-day break while one of my hosts returned to take care of some busiiness. He didn't want to share the house with me and was going to stay with friends, and I thought I might as well explore a bit. I went to Calgary and stayed at the Fairmont hotel next to the old Olympic Torch, where I dined in the revolving restaurant. I walked along the river, visited the amazing library (and got a card just for the fun of it.) I walked through the Dior exhibit and attended a hockey game at the Saddle Dome. I checked out the First Nations exhibits. I swam in the hotel pool and had a good massage. Then I drove up to Banff where I hiked a bit, climbed the Tunnel Mountain by my lodge, and drove to Lake Louise to walk on the frozen waters. On the way home I stopped by the Terrell Dinosaur Museum. Each day was wonderful, full of images, which I took, and stories, which I did not write.

I did send some vignettes in letters:
Serenity, the black dog, is lying at my feet, wagging her tail and watching me intently. Chloe, the yellow, was lying on the couch (illegally) but has gone back to her cage where she feels most comfortable. Earlier today I took them for a walk, turning around when Chloe stopping pulling on the lead & getting home before she collapsed. Reportedly you get pulled half way and then pull her the other half. I wanted to avoid the latter.

I'm rather wiped out. Maybe it's altitude, maybe it's the week of travel, maybe it's time for me to stop this wandering around and settle down. I feel like I should be using my time more actively and productively, although I guess walking dogs counts as something. But I am beyond unmotivated. I took Vicodin for a bad headache on Saturday, and another yesterday just because I liked being drugged into immobility. Suddenly I understand how people can become addicted. I've never done that before, never self-medicated. Clearly something is wrong, but I don't know what. Still, there's no point in stopping this nomadic lifestyle. The issue is not homelessness, it's aimlessness.

**************************

It's pouring snow today: it started April 30 has continued off and on. The snow dries up, then the skies empty out again. Today it's pretty constant, but we'll see if I can manage a short walk through the woods behind the house. The dogs get antsy if I don't take them out.

Last night I watched the Denver Avalanches (Hockey team) win Game 4 in the Stanley cup playoffs, Round 2. On April 19 I saw them live, winning Round 1 in Calgary against the Flames. I was in the very top row of the Saddle Dome, and it was a heartstopping climb up narrow, steep, beer-coated concrete steps. M & I are messaging throughout the games. He's pro-Avs of course, and now that I've gotten over the Calgary trouncing, I am too. After all, if they beat 2nd-seeded Sharks, that will justify the Flames' loss, right? and they are my most local team. Right now the matches are tied.

My host thinks I'm turning Canadian, watching curling and hockey and drinking Tim Horton's coffee. but it's my way of learning the community. Alberta's too much like Texas, in industry and politics, so even though I like the snow, it's just not a long-term solution for my final stop. We'll see what Quebec is like, end of August.

I'm still very dozy and unmotivated, but that is probably my life-long attitude coming to the fore. I just had too many commitments before to let the laziness really blossom into full-fledged sloth. I'm not hanging upside down yet, but that will probably come in due course.

From nomad to hermit

Last week at this time I was on a road trip to photograph desert wildflowers.  I was roaming among Saguaro cacti while woodpeckers shrieked at me to GO AWAY.  I was chasing rainbows en route to the perfect sunset site.  I was stepping in and out of the car as I pursued shadows and rocks. And I was watching the news reports for information about the pandemic.  Saturday morning, as we departed Tucson en route to parks in northern Arizona, I read B an essay that did the math regarding the exponential spread of pandemics and the subsequent  health care overload. The writer said that self-quarantines are inevitable, and that it is better to do so sooner rather than later.  We decided he was right and changed our route, reaching my home the following night.  B took off the next morning.  I drove the eerily traffic-free highway to the Apple store, because my chargers had stopped working the day before.  The outdoor shopping center was empty of people, other than one policeman, who sat on an ornamental boulder and talked into his radio, and a greybeard, who nodded to me as he passed at the correct social distance.  The Apple store was filled with dark blue T-shirted 20-something employees who were watching the doors.  Two young women opened the door to tell me that the store was closed.  I thought, huh?  and the earnest young thing explained that they were just there to tell customers that they were closed.  I thought again, huh?  and explained that my phone was not working and asked if it was possible for someone inside to look at it.  She said, no, but they had a service number I could call.  I said, that's nice, but MY PHONE DOES NOT WORK.  She said, so, you don't want the number?

Sigh.

I next drove to Walmart.  One solitary woman wearing blue nitrile gloves manned the electronics desk.  She spent several minutes on the 4 people ahead of me, even though the transactions seemed simple enough.  While they were out of white vinegar, they did have Apple chargers and I bought two.  In 2 minutes I was again connected to the world.  I then drove to the clay studio, hoping they would at least have someone to let me get my clay.  They are actually open for business:  their concession to the pandemic is to supply sanitizer stations and forgive the fees for people who decide to not attend classes.  I spent the rest of the day glazing my bisque-ware and then gathered up my supplies for the duration.  My plan is to set up a studio on the deck and do work from home.  But the weather has been rainy and windy and cold since then, so I only put in a few hours yesterday before being driven inside.  I don't want to scatter clay dust in someone else's home, so I'll have to await better weather.

I reached out to my peeps, many of whom are musicians, teachers, and service industry workers. They all seem okay for the time being.  A stock market crash will be a problem for retirees (including me), but there's nothing to do about it.  I guess I need to reconsider my online tutoring gig, which I have been avoiding for the past several months.

The stories I've received range from my brother's rather hilarious diatribe about gluten to my friend's plans to delve deeply into personal dark places to my cousin's warning about NSAIDs and concern about a probable home birth. Some have been suffering from seasonal allergies and colds and wonder if they have the virus:  only testing can determine that.  Everyone agrees that, while we have plenty to occupy ourselves at home, it feels claustrophobic because we are forced into solitude.  Businesses are closed, gatherings and concerts are canceled, and most activities have gone virtual. Everyone seems to be reasonably well supplied with sanitizing products and food staples, which is fortunate because so many products have been raided and not replaced.  Happily, coffee and chocolate are still well-stocked. I guess they truly are luxuries, not worthy of stockpiling. I scratch my head over the empty white potato bins, when sweet potatoes remain available.  I kick myself for not replenishing the white vinegar before the trip.

There are plenty of stories to tell.  There are many statistics to digest.  There are many poems to write and philosophical musings to ponder.  And yet, I can't find it in myself to do any of that. I can't even point fingers or rage at revisionist history (Trumpists claim that he was forecasting today's reality, when in reality he was saying "there's no crisis, we are beating this, it will all go away when the weather improves.")  In fact, I don't know what I think about this.  I don't know if we are over-reacting or under-reacting.  I do lean towards a dull sort of pessimism. I don't believe that our human nature will allow us to take away lessons of community.  I don't think we will engage upon global care for the planet. It is no comfort that previous pandemics have not killed off the human race, that previous recessions and depressions have not destroyed our countries, and that these sorts of crises are cyclical.   In fact, I can't think big picture thoughts.  My fears focus on the purely personal:  will my family and friends be okay?  Will my income continue?  Will my necessary drugs be available?  My conclusions are vague:  probably, but who knows?  The world will continue, but individuals I care about may not.

B says we need a plague to reduce population.  Neither of us are worried about our deaths, per se.  I know some people would be sad if I were no more, but my main worry is about the potential pain of the process, not the final result.  I don't know if I believe in an afterlife or reincarnation or the end of self.  I don't think it matters what I believe, just as I don't think it matters what I do in this crisis.  Free-floating anxiety is my response to imminent global catastrophe.  Somehow, it seems too mild a reaction.

And, of course, I think about my reactions to this crisis.  I've spent close to three years as a nomad. That was a reaction to the 2016 election. It worked for me, although recently I have been pondering revising that lifestyle and establishing a home base.  However, outward exploration and travel have remained firmly in my plans.  Now, overnight, I've been transformed into a hermit.  Or rather, to a recluse.  It was not my choice, but my response to the change is still under my control. I'd like to be a hermit rather than a mere unwilling recluse, but that requires a force of character and a firmness of belief that I do not possess.  How DOES one live a life of contemplation?  How does one reach internally for personal growth and understanding? How does one personally and positively impact the world from seclusion? How does one change a shallow, pleasure-loving, outgoing lifestyle and become deep, quiet, and filled with inner light?

I remember a line in Peter S. Beagle's A Fine and Private Place:  "You have to be very deep to be dead, he thought, and I'm not. He began to have some concept of forever, and his mind shivered..."
I too am not deep, I too shiver at the future.  I've never been good at inner exploration.  I use meditation to resolve insomnia or anxiety.  I use crafts to pass the time.  I am not drawn to projects that require prep, practise, or energy.  While I can take this time and make it productive and even enjoyable, while I can reach out to others to give and receive support, while I can find ways to exercise and take care of myself, I don't see myself in anything but a holding pattern.

The ghost in A Fine and Private place tries to escape death and actually succeeds, in a way.  He makes a life out of death by falling in love with another ghost.  Love is apparently the answer for Peter S. Beagle.  But is it for me?  Can love help me become a hermit?  Do I want it to?  Probably not.  But I do think that I must find a path.  It seems that this enforced seclusion is the next step in my Third Act.  I will probably have to redefine myself every few years when physical, financial, and global forces act upon me.  Goals will become more short term and subject to change.  (Perhaps they always were).  It would be nice to find a way to be involved in the process.  Although a sense of control is illusory, it would be comforting to have it.

For now, all I know is the self-centered reality:  I am no longer a nomad.  From herding cats, I have retreated to hoarding caches.

Not a Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Late August, 2019
Wakefield, Quebec

I went out the other day to check out the milkweed patch in the third field.  It was a golden afternoon.  Because of the recent rains, the cricket population had exploded, and I could see them jumping in the recently mown hay and hear the trilling chirps all around me.  It's funny that such a monotonous sound could be so pleasant, but somehow it accentuates the peace of this moment. The air is crisp, the sun is warm, the trees a sussuration of wind.  Clouds float in the blue, and I am out looking for monarch caterpillars.  We found three on my first day here, but they went away with S:  one jar to her father's house, the other to her grandfather's.  S travels among three households:  my host refers to herself as the unofficial mother, replacing the one S lost close to five years ago, when she was only a year old.  While my host is gone, S is mainly in the care of her grandfather, who also tends to the horses and other details of the house, such as transporting me to the store, a mile away, and to the swimming dock on Lac Bernard.  He and S are due in another hour, and I hope to greet them with the news of a successful caterpillar hunt.

The third field has also been mown, but a small circular patch of tall milkweeds remains in the center of the field.  I have climbed through the long iron gates, rather than attempt to unchain them.  Susha, the husky/shepherd mix, ranges about the fields, coming back occasionally to check on me.  This is the closest we get to a dog walk:  there are no trails here and I don't want to walk her along the roads, quiet though they are.  They are potholed from the freezes of a long winter, and clouds of fine white dust rise from the graveled areas.

Last time, S had her Strider, a pseudo bike my host brought her from the Netherlands.  S propelled herself with her feet padding along the hummocky ground, before abandoning the bike in the second field, where she found the first caterpillar of the day.  Today, I look carefully at the small isolated stalks before approaching the clump, but either it requires 6-year-old eyes, or the caterpillars have gone to ground.  I circle the clump, stopping at each likely spot.  Is there poop?  Are there munched-out holes?

I did not find  caterpillars that day, but a few days later I found two.  I carried them carefully on the broad leaf but lost one climbing through the gate.  I put the other in a tall glass jar, along with milkweed and a long twig reaching up to the screen at the top of the jar.  Within a day the caterpillar had climbed to the screen, secured itself, and created a beautiful iridescent green chrysalis with dots of gold gleaming along the top edge.  I tried unsuccessfully to take pix of it:  the screen fuzzed out the details from the top, and the glass did the same from the side.  But S was happy with it, and I left it for her and my host to enjoy after I left.

I had a lovely sit on this farm near Wakefield, Quebec.  My days were simple and meditative.  I did Tai Chi Chih and read books in the sunny loft apartment above the barn.  I walked the dogs over to the milk weed patch and watched an otter run across the meadow into the safe darkness under the woods.  I spent a fair amount of time with S and D.  The almost daily swims in the deep green waters of the lake were fabulous.  One day I saw a family of loons swimming in a line towards the reeds at the end of the lake.  Another day I floated down with the current, arms curled around the float tube, head propped at the curve, watching the treetops, feeling the cold drifts of clear water brushing along my body.  It was very cold, but did not take long to get acclimated.   After a few hours at the dock, D dropped S off  with me while he went home nearby to cook dinner.  S set up her "stuffies" (mainly stuffed animals, but some dolls) as an audience and played my mini piano.  I think we became friends, and on my last night she slept with the scarf I had knitted her.

The garden was full of cone flowers and other beautiful plants, the sky was a beautiful blue, and when it did rain I sat on the screened-in porch reading and listening to raindrops, feeling the cool dampness coming through the windows.  My host's father was an artist, and her home was full of his paintings (some of her as a child) and other beautiful objects. I sat listening to Agatha Christie and A Gentleman in Moscow, while one of the cats lay along the back of the couch and the dogs lay under the coffee table.

I did explore a bit.  I visited Wakefield and checked out the rebuilt covered bridge over the Gatineau River and McClaren Cemetery.  I walked past the old mill, under the highway, and up into the Parc Gatineau. I took a picture of a graffito on the underpass:  "1st Thing we climb a tree."  I attended evensong at the church in La Peche, next to the general store, enjoying the simple lines of the building and the designs in the tin ceiling.  I bought some marvelous ginger jam there as well. I drove for an overnight in the Eastern Townships (my Louise Penny pilgrimage.)  The evensong at the Abbaye de St. Benoit du Lac was less than wonderful, but the setting itself, on Lac Memphremagog, was peace personified.  I sat listening to the service, which was in French, watching the play of light as the sun set. I'd like to go back and stay over and meditate.  It felt a lot like the Monastery of Christ in the Desert, if not quite as isolated:  there's something about being in a place that is dedicated to prayer, meditation, and good solid work.  You know that where there are people, there is conflict, but somehow it gets transmuted into serenity. 

I spent an afternoon in Ottawa, the day I picked up my car, mainly at the art museum, which had a nice Rousseau and Friends exhibit and a lovely cafeteria.  A service was in session at the cathedral across the way, so I need to return for another look at the splendid stained glass and other artwork.  I also need to return to Quebec to visit Quebec City and Montreal, but that isn't really in keeping with my travel plan, such as it is.  My preference is to stay in one place and get to know it slowly and carefully, as Annie Dillard did at Tinker Creek. Although I lack her philosophical bent, I do find a quiet sort of delight, and when I think back, I realize that my time was well-spent.  At the very least, I found a Monarch caterpillar.

Shifting

The other day some friends invited me to join them at Ten3, the newish restaurant at the top of the Tram.  The old one was built in the 60s, and did not follow modern specs in terms of decor and accessibility.  The food was also exorbitantly priced and terrible.  The new restaurant is modern and light, filled with art from a Santa Fe gallery, and sporting tall ceilings and elegant light fixtures.

The food, while not cheap, is beyond marvelous, beautifully presented, with flavors that are perfectly matched.  And the view over Albuquerque is superb.  The sunset came through with flaming colours and amazing patterns,

and then the lights of Albuquerque formed a shimmering quilt, spread out on the plain at the base of the mountain.  S said he could only think of the light pollution, and of course that is an issue.  But it was so beautiful.

In addition to getting up and taking pictures, we of course talked, and talked and talked.  I had not seen them for some time, and they have traveled and created and explored both inner and outer vistas.  As have I.  Most relevant to my current focus was a discussion of decluttering.  I am spending the next few months in one place, taking care of business and trying to determine next steps.  An important part of that is deciding whether I want to have a home base and spend more time in it. If I do, then I'll take my stuff out of storage and settle it in place.  If I don't, I need to decide what to do with my stuff.  Will I ever use those dishes?  Will I ever entertain again?  Will I wear those clothes, read those books, look at that art, do those crafts?  Will anyone, other than myself, be interested in the photos and letters and travel journals?  Do I want to leave these things for someone else to toss?  S is going through that with his deceased ex-wife's possessions, especially the journals, which are full of pain.  Does anyone need to revisit that pain?  Not that I have much pain.  And I don't have much stuff, compared to what I did have.  But, if I haven't used it in close to 3 years, is there any point to keeping it? 

There are so many books about this, so many theories.  S described a movie that he and N and J saw on a trip to Japan, Samurai Shifters.  It's a comedy, based on historical fact from the 1600s, when shoguns destroyed power bases by making people move.  The main character, a young scholar, was put in charge of shifting the clan, and he determined that they could not afford to take more than one donkey's pack load apiece.   The lord of the clan was appalled and distraught:  his castle was filled with priceless art from around the world.  The scholar, who had sacrificed his books to show solidarity with his people's tough decisions, sent for fabric to cover up all the walls in the castle.  The lord was then told that he could bring whatever he could describe from memory.  90% of his possessions did not make the cut.

And that is as good a way to decide what to keep as any, I suppose. 

I recalled another decluttering technique, which I came across at least 20 years ago.  Some strange person had decided to limit his possessions to 100 items or some such arbitrary number.  Maybe 52, one for each week of the year.  Or 365, one for each day.  Who knows.  The gist is that a pair of earrings is one item.  A toothbrush is an item, a fork is an item.  You can see that it would not take much to make up the count, when you count things like that.  I wonder if pills counted as separate items, or if you could count the bottle as one?  My friends said, that's essentially a backpack's worth, and that's another way to look at things.  Do I have what it takes to limit my possessions to what will fit in a suitcase?  It is, after all, what I have been living with for the last 3 years.  My books are borrowed from the library, online.  My music is played from files on the computer, my art comes with me in the form of digital photos.  I have an aeropress, in case my hosts only drink tea, and a portable piano keyboard (thanks to my sister's generosity one Christmas.)  The bulk of my needs are provided by my hosts.

When I think of decluttering, I get a little gaspy.  It seems like I have pared down as far as I can.  I have gone from a 2400 sq foot 2-story house with a casita and a mother-in-law apartment/addition to a room in a friend's house and a 10-foot square storage unit.  And 10 or so boxes in a Portland friend's basement, mainly filled with dishes and art.  I brought back 3 boxes and two trunks of memorabilia and 3 small boxes of dishes last fall, and the memorabilia is sitting in my friend's dining room, waiting for my attention.  What do I keep?  What do I toss?  Gasp.   And yet, there's a certain lightness of heart at the contemplation of a possession-free nomadic existence.  I have been a nomad for 3 years, and I think I may be ready for the final shift.

Or maybe not. The other day I went to the storage unit and pulled out a few books (a blank journal, knitting patterns, Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain), my violin music, and a few kitchen items (a scale and a coffee grinder.)  I grabbed the Scarpini Tarot deck as a bonus.  And I'm using them all.  I guess I need them?

Oh Canada!

Because of a recent border crossing experience, I am rethinking my nomadic lifestyle. Initially, I posted some details to Facebook, along with a rather hideous PTSD selfie. Now that I've had time to think it through, and I'm no longer weeping, I'm ready to provide a more coherent account. However. I am including some of the FB discussions at the end, because they have guided my thinking on this situation.

On Saturday, July 7, I flew into Winnipeg, was flagged at Customs and, after an intense inquisition, was told that I was not welcome in Canada. Housesitting (even unpaid) is considered to be a job, and as such must go to Canadian citizens. I was accused of lying (because I said I was visiting friends which is what most of us nomads say.) I was told I could be fined and imprisoned. They made me book a next-day return to the States and confiscated my passport and ticket for the duration of my stay. My host was very kind about it, fortunately. I never did get to meet her, but she is talking about connecting when they come to Utah for camping and hiking.

The logistics were interesting. I've never been on the receiving end of a police interview. There were always two present. They were tall men, and they were dressed in black, seemingly bullet-proof, gear.  They wore black plastic gloves (for searching?) They started out informing me that entry into a country was not a right, but a privilege. They questioned me regarding my plans, my reasons for visiting Canada, and my relationship to my hosts. They did not allow me to contact my host, who was there to pick me up. They took my phone. They questioned my integrity, told me I was giving them attitude (because I asked what was going on and why), and lectured me. They pulled out a huge tome and made me read the laws I was violating.


After making it clear that I was completely vulnerable and at risk, they backed off the threats.
I was  to be allowed to sleep at a hotel instead of on the airport floors. I was offered water and  handed Kleenex. The main inquisitor asked about my dog (not sure how that came up.) I started weeping, thinking of her loss, of what had led me to this place, sans husband, job, house, or pets.  I was mourning the loss of my newfound lifestyle.  He said,  "You can still travel, you can house sit in the States," not realizing that it's the global community that is at stake, and that it's the contempt and suspicion of my life choices that hurts.  He said, "It sounds like you've had a rough time."  Well, yes, and you're not helping I thought, but I couldn't look at him.  I was so humiliated that I was sharing my vulnerabilities with this professional intimidator.  I took the Kleenex and stumbled around my luggage, putting things away and shrugging on the heavy pack.  He gave me paperwork regarding my passport and next steps, showed me out the door by baggage claim, showed me the phone I'd be using to connect with Border Patrol the next day, and pointed out the information desk that would help me find a hotel.

When I returned the next morning, I was escorted by two different Border Police through the entire boarding process. In a way, that was nice, though it was of course public humiliation. But I wasn't frogmarched or cuffed, and I got through very quickly, bypassing some really amazing lines. At least 300 cadets were flying out at the same time.

Officially I "withdrew my application" to enter the country. I was not forbidden to return: I am welcome as a tourist.  Unofficially...I don't know.

It was traumatic, and I'm questioning my whole house-sitting nomadic lifestyle. Trusted Housesitters basically says they are just a platform for connection, and that it's up to us to familiarize ourselves with the rules of the various countries. But none of the countries want undocumented workers, and that's what the border goons consider us to be. I've been entering countries under the pleasant fiction that I'm part of a global community of people who love animals, not that I'm doing a job. But that's disingenuous of me. I have been "lying" about the housesits, because I had heard stories about other people having border problems, but I'm not a good liar, and I fell apart under intense scrutiny. So now I have to figure out: is it possible to get paperwork that will let me into England as a volunteer petsitter? What about other countries? Forget Canada; the gendarmes told me that there was no way the government would ever grant permission for such a thing: those "jobs" have to go to Canadian citizens. Never mind that no one local wants to do this for free, and that the only losers here are the hosts, the travel business, and the local economy (which are losing out on my travel dollars.)

Many of the friends who read my Facebook post blame Trump's alienation of the rest of the world, but I think the issue is more complex than that. Yes, Americans are no longer exempt from harassment (if we ever were), but the unconventional, the indigent, the "other" is suspect all around the world. Everyone who travels has a border story. And, ever since I stopped working and living in one place, I've been treated with contempt by officialdom of all sorts. Renting is a problem, ditto health insurance, ditto setting up bank accounts. The list of places that no longer welcome me is a long one.  The discrimination is breathtaking, and I'm not a refugee, drug dealer, prostitute, or even welfare recipient.  But that's how I am now perceived.  Instead of seeing me as a respectable middle class white lady, honorably retired and an upstanding member of the community, I am seen as an indigent freeloader with suspicious behaviors.  The fact that I've moved 8 times since leaving Portland is a huge red flag.  My long past counts for nothing: 30+ years in the same town, 20+ years of home ownership, 27 years employed by the same business...I was inert and safe.  No longer.  I own very little, I am unemployed, and the border cop referred to me as a "free spirit...."  It was not a compliment.

Constant travel takes me past the red flag and into International Criminal standing.  The border cops quizzed me about my finances, my work history, and my housing situation. Learning that I don't own a house and that I live with a friend, they said, "There's no indication you have any reason to return (to the States)." So, lack of house ownership is also a sign of unsavoriness.  I am indignant about this, all the while realizing that my very indignation is a symptom of my past years of privilege.  When I have perspective, I can only be grateful that I do have a safe home to which I can return to lick my wounds, and that I have sufficient funds to get me there.  The fact that I want to escape the dying throes of my country is beside the point.  The refugees at the border can tell me that I have nothing to complain about, either in my treatment or in my situation.

I've spent some time mourning my lost lifestyle: I've really loved doing this, making friends around the world, meeting amazing animals, experiencing community, exploring out of the way places. It's been a little over 2 years, though, and I've also been getting quite lonely and a little aimless. This year I've been logging a lot of miles, crisscrossing the States, flying to London, Canada, Florida, Portland. It gets wearing. I need a focus.

So, I made a lot of lemonade from the Winnipeg Debacle. Or perhaps that's just a way of spinning a completely horrible experience.  But, here are the pluses:

1. There were 7 wildfires in Manitoba, and the haze over the city was really untenable. 
2. I needed to return to ABQ to take care of medical stuff: refilling prescriptions, checking on my ankle, checking on my thyroid. 
3. I miss hanging with my New Mexico tribe.
4. I feel much love and support.
5. I think I may have unconsciously flunked the border interview because I need to change what I'm doing. This is a wakeup call for me, whatever the cause.

But, I'll be off again in a week. I'm still processing next steps, but I also have some commitments to resolve.  While I cancelled my July 16 Winnipeg-London flight, I also have a return ticket to Canada on August 17 (for a sit that I'm definitely not doing.)  I've decided to go back to England and stay with my cousins. (Of course, that's still suspect behavior: from the tenor of the questions at the UK border, I'm apparently suspected of squatting in their home and using the free National Health and other resources.) I'm gathering documentation about my personal finances and plans. I'm letting my upcoming UK and China hosts know about the issues, and they may cancel my sits, or they may invite me as a guest and send documentation to that effect. I have several return visits scheduled through September 2020, and I think I can manage a border interview for them: "Where did you meet, how are you friends, where do they live, what do they do..." These questions stumped me at Winnipeg, but now I'm better prepared, and if my new friends are willing to risk it, so am I. The immediate future is working itself out, and I am at leisure to ponder the longterm one.  Do I want to get new gigs and expand the community even further?  On what terms do I want to explore this wonderful planet? What can I afford, emotionally, creatively, and financially?

Meanwhile, I'm flying Icelandair to Iceland, staying over 2 nights, and continuing to London on July 17.  And then we shall see.  Will they let me in?

And, that's my story. BL has decided to call me Mata Kari.

The Facebook Conversation
The original post:

Picture of an illegal alien: turned back at the border. After the lecture about lying and the scary consequences thereof (“how old are you?” “Don’t you know you’re supposed to tell the truth?” “Read this paragraph (in a huge lawbook)” “you can be fined and imprisoned”) they then turned nice and gave me Kleenex.  I can return, just not as a house sitter. Apparently Canada considers it to be a job, even though I don’t get paid, and I need papers (which they won’t give me.) But I’m not forced to stay at the airport or sleep on concrete or otherwise get tortured. I’m not a refugee. But I still feel like pond scum, unwanted. My passport has been confiscated for my overnight hotel stay in Winnipeg, and I’m returning to NM to figure out if this is a sign from the gods that I should settle down like a good little girl.

The Stories
LH: Oh, dear. I'm so sorry. This is unfortunately not a new thing. For future reference, when you cross the Canadian border (in either direction), you're always, always going "to visit friends." I was once held up for hours just because I mentioned that my job title back home included the phrase "Volunteer Coordinator". The word "volunteer" is a big red flag. Hugs, friend! 
Me: I said I was visiting friends, and that’s why I got the lecture about lying, and the threats. I didn’t have enough details about my hosts to sustain the lie...and not being a homeowner is suspect also. LH: that's absurd and ad hominem!  
Me: They questioned my finances and employment and housing status and said, “It looks like you have no reason to return (to the States)”
LH: Oh that's a new one on me! Maybe they wouldn't let me in either. :(

JAD: It’s awful! I was given a really hard time at the US border the first time I said I was house-sitting - then I said we were doing it for friends. They called the home-owners who luckily backed up our creds. I now never say we are visiting anywhere to house-sit - at any border. I just say we are staying with friends.
Me: the problem was that I didn’t have enough details about the friends. But its okay...too smoky and if Canada doesn’t want my money, never mind. I wanted to go home anyway.  
JAD: In all the traveling we do, the worst border crossings are US - so so rude - followed by Australia - and I’m Australian!....just don’t know why it’s necessary for any country. Last time I crossed a US border I was hassled because I have a 5 year visa. They asked me why I had that visa. I said because you told me to. They said ‘why did we tell you to?’ .... It really is very discomforting to be hassled at a border - wherever it is. You feel so vulnerable!
Me: exactly. And since I’m doing this to create a global community, it’s counterproductive...at least I have the option to go home. And I think he felt bad in the end....I cry way too easily
BL: let him feel bad. No reason to be a turd about it. Some of our TSA people are just as bad, though I have also had some very courteous and helpful border patrol and TSA agents as well. One experience doesnt paint the whole picture.....My favorite was soldiers patrolling the Frankfurt airport with rifles ( years ago), with flowers stuck in the rifle barrels for decoration. It was Christmas 1986

BBoo:I 'm glad you're safe, despite the horrible treatment. When I passed through Moscow in April the passport control gal was sound asleep with her head on the desk! I just stood there, wondering if I should just walk on through, but I was too unnerved so I kept calling out to her and tapping on the desk until she woke. It was nuts LOL!

JM: We had an almost housesitter from the US who was turned back at the Canadian border and denied entry because of housesitting, etc. I say almost because she was supposed to come to housesit for us but because of that experience in Canada, she didn't want to leave the US for fear that it would happen in Norway too. Sad..... So I don't think it's a sign

The Fallout discussion
LS: So sorry! Not only bad for you but now the people also have no house sitter!
Me: they were beyond kind about it
LS: that’s good. Am still very sorry. Frightening and upsetting!
Me: and expensive. 😱
BL: My question is how much did this cost you, and your house people? I assume you have to eat the travel costs and they either have to cancel their vacation, or PAY a Canadian to do the sit.
Me: Friends are looking in on the cats, and the dog is coming with. They told me not to worry. I am indeed eating travel costs: very expensive flight home, and another back to catch the flight to London. Plus a hotel stay
LS: Shouldn’t the company you are associated with have known this and advised you what was needed? Also let us know when you are safely on your way
Me: they are just a platform for connecting folks. We’re on our own.
DL: It's not a JOB!! DAMMIT
CB: Aw bless.. then you can return again to visit them as friends... shame they will then leave you to have a friendly holiday and just happen to feed their dog or cat while you are there!

The Political discussion:
WB This is what happens now that the "thing" in the White House insults other world leader and acts like a jerk. Canada was friendlier, I think, prior to 2016. I am so so sorry this happened.....
 
BJR I am shocked. So sorry you were the unlucky one to receive this horrible treatment. I can understand how you feel. Granted, I have not been to Canada for years (and then to British Columbia) I am appalled at the way you were treated. 45 and his horrible border policies have corrupted the way Americans are viewed in the world. The whole world is crazy at the moment. ((hugs)) ❤✌
 
BL: This sucks, but I was also waiting for this to happen. Like the pushback from the hotels and other fee-interested parties with the air B&Bs or Uber and the taxicabs, once this became big enough to be on the radar, somebody was going to try to regulate it and get their cut. This is what governments do. I think it is a sign the house sitting days are over.
This is not some confirmation of 45 pissing off the world and they are retaliating (though I'm sure some of that is going on somewhere). Countries always have jealously guarded their borders against foreigners - all the while trying to get the most economic gain they can from them before sending them on their way. It is worse now with terrorist security issues as well as competition for jobs, they want to protect their economy and work force from foreign labor markets - protectionism. We are just late in coming to the game.
Years ago our passports were confiscated in Italy while the landlady had them checked out with the local constabulary.... Also years ago we were given the third degree by the British Virgin Islands, and more recently Canada, to make sure we had enough money on us to return home (i.e. you are welcome to vacation and spend your money for awhile, but then be sure you get home). They also wanted to know the source and amount of our money, in case we were nefarious drug dealers. Trip to Alaska in 2006, through Canadian port, had similar issues - the bus (and occupants) from the cruise ship was pre-checked, and SEALED, to transport us to the terminal. Unfortunately the bus driver stopped and opened the door for some reason, which meant a 45 minute delay while some official had to come and recheck our passports again. Vowed to leave out of Seattle if I ever go to Alaska again.

CL: Passport confiscated, that's serious. Sounds like they're being jerks.
Me: they wanted to make sure I leave after sleeping in my Canadian hotel room. Better than sleeping in the airport, so I didn’t complain. I’ll get it back tomorrow
BL: They were making sure you didn't fade into the countryside and not show up for your court date, like our border captures. Canadians obviously don't believe in Catch and Release policies of the US Border.

BL: Interesting multiple people to and from multiple countries have had trouble when they say they are house sitting, but not when visiting friends. Its obviously not payback for Trumps behavior, something else is afoot (usually financial or security issues). Work visas maybe, if they consider it to be a job?

Next steps:
CB You keep on travelling girl!! We love seeing your photos and posts xxx

VS: Don’t settle ... don’t be a good little girl ... it’s fucking boring. You will figure it out and then, this bullshit stupidity won’t stop you ever again. xo

LRD: Sympathies. I'm sorry for your unfortunate experience, but I bet time will give you perspective to add this to the array of your fascinating experiences. I agree with R- blame Trump. Also, going forward (no reason to let this rain on your parade), tell border control you are "on holiday ". Skip the details. Love and hugs.
Me: then they asked where i was staying....it devolved from there

PC: Chloe and Serenity are still expecting a visit from their Auntie in September 2020!
Me: Maybe you should write a letter of invitation that I can show to passport control

A private conversation about laws and lying:
I have no idea what any country’s ruling is. I think that any country that thinks that we are ‘taking jobs’ from locals is likely to be tricky. I think that, given our aim to promote a global community, we are well within the bounds of truth to say we are visiting friends. What questions were you asked about it? Perhaps we could ask THS?.....
Me: I was asked how I know them, details like where they work, what they do, names and addresses of course. The minute I said we met through THS, the jig was up of course.
It’s hard. Visa conditions change all the time. I’m thinking that we just say we are tourists, and have hotel info, any hire car bookings, attractions we’ll visit, and we’re staying with friends of friends for a while perhaps, then not sure from there. Have all their contact details at hand. As I said, we never say we are ‘house-sitting’ - either tourists or visiting friends. Never had a problem with that. Although given your experience we’ll be more prepared from now on.
Me: My problem is that the security officer said that not telling the whole truth was lying, and that I could be imprisoned or fined or both
I think perhaps you’re right. The problem was mentioning THS in the first place. If that’s not in the picture, then how can they prove that you are not visiting friends and then planning to travel around? Having said that, I think that house-sitting in Canada is not an option for you going forward. Not that you would feel Like trying again!
Me: I just don’t know what to do about the UK: I am visiting my cousin, but I’m also housesitting. And Norway...I’m visiting family and J&H are friends but....
Perfect reasons to visit. Try not to over-think at the moment. You are - understandably - very upset right now. Please just give yourself time to recover
Me: Yes, I am very traumatized. I hate this, and I’m still blaming Trump
To be honest, we have heard that Canada is receiving a record number of enquiries from Americans wanting to move to Canada. Perhaps they are reacting to that. Whatever has happened it’s so unfair that someone like you gets caught up in it. You have so many friends around the world now. Perhaps you just visit them then take up house-sitting assignments once you’re there. Then you can tell ‘the whole truth’ at border crossings! Like Australia!

Mundanities

I've been back on the road since Feb, and I've written some drafts about housesitting, but I just cannot generate enough interest in my life to write more than my short daily checkins and my longer letters.  If I can't be bothered, why would anyone else be interested?

So, I spent January pulling together the medical and tax information.  Then I went to Florida to celebrate Mom's 90th birthday.  She's awesome and it was great.  Then, off to England for 3 weeks at a Shropshire estate, a week in Wales, and time in London on either side.  I had an exhausting week of travel, leaving at 6 am from London on March 26 and arriving in Edmonton at 5 pm on March 29.  I had one full day in Albuquerque to pick up drugs, deposit my IRA rollover check and get a hair cut.

And now I'm in the wilds of Alberta, living in a log cabin on a lake, walking the dogs, building the fires.  It sounds idyllic, but instead I am lonely.  My contact is either furry or virtual:  both good but not enough.  My work seems small and boring.  If, as Carlo Rovelli says, every day is time travel, then I'm in a loop. Make coffee, feed dogs, play Scrabble, tutor, read, go for a walk, take a picture, write a checkin or a letter, knit, binge-watch Netflix shows, practise piano, practise Norwegian (via Duolingo), wash dishes, go to bed.  Repeat.   As I walk, I write scenes in my head, none of which get typed up.  I do share the photographs I take, but only because I have to connect somehow, and that's the easiest way. I don't edit or process them beyond a little cropping and light fixing.

I think of George Sand, who wrote 30 pages a day for her entire life. I think of Jane Eyre reminiscing contemptuously about her cousin Eliza, who had a rigid routine that sufficed for her;  nothing put her out more than the interruption of that routine, and in the end she enters a convent where things will be done with order and precision.  "The vocation will fit you to a hair," Jane thinks, "much good will it do you."  But, how is Jane's regimented life any more meaningful?  Is it her art that puts her above her cousins?  or her passion, tamped down and controlled though it is?  One sympathizes with St.John, who wants her to put her talents to use, who himself  writhes in the claustrophobia and mundanities of the country parsonage.

As I walked today, I thought about Virginia Woolf and her prescription for the woman writer. I have money and a room of my own, but I still don't have that incandescent mental freedom to write things that are worth reading.  Woolf picks out a "slim volume" of letters and finds the writer to be skilled in fashioning a scene while describing the small details  of her daily life.


But here's the sort of letter I write:
I'm glad things are rosier for you: they are greyer for me. Yesterday it snowed and today it is chilly and cloudy. My only real activity is taking the dogs out for 40-60 minutes. I turn around when Chloe stops pulling, as I don't want to be dragging her back, and it seems that I only have a short window between the pull and the drag.
Yesterday my new glasses arrived. I'm not sure I like them. They are progressive lenses, and I just don't get the hang of finding the right place to look. They also have some sort of a tint to prevent the excessive screen time from straining my eyes, and I'm not sure that's working either. But, since I just got them, I'm going to give them some time. At any rate, the correction is better.
It's been a bit of a trial getting these glasses, since it's all mail order. I'm using a service that E suggested, and I had to measure the PD, and it took longer than expected so I had to arrange to have them mailed here in Canada. What's PD? I asked, when they said that, due to my high prescription they needed that number. It's Pupillary Distance, of course, they said, and sent me a video describing the process for measuring it. I was in Wales at the time. I got no fewer than 6 different measurements, squinting in the mirror, so then I took a picture of myself with the ruler below my eyes and I got 44 different measurements. I sent the pix to the company and they declined to make a determination, suggesting I see my optometrist. I don't HAVE an optometrist, so I waited until I got to London and had R measure, and she got YET ANOTHER measurement and E got a final measurement of 65, which is what I went with because he seemed absolutely sure about it, and he's ordered glasses online before.
Still, I'm not sure that my problem isn't the PD, rather than the progressive lens.
The number usually ranges from 55-65. While I'm in range, I'd feel more secure with a middle number. I do have a large head, though.....
You can see that my life is not very exciting, if I can obsess over such mundanities.

Mundane, indeed.  I think I prefer the time loop.