When I was growing up, I had an interesting family. Our lives were full of experiences. In addition to moving virtually every year, we sometimes moved at least a couple times during the year...once we lived in three separate houses in three consecutive moons! Going through the collected baubles and books, art and toys, belongings and boxes of stuff, always focused on reducing our collected objects, was our way of getting down to what felt essential. Later, I discovered that this is a great way to learn about your own self. The things that you feel are "essential" often define, or hint at who you really are, physically, mentally and emotionally. By the time I had moved a few times, I began to realize that there are spiritual components to these choices as well. "Giving up" objects often leads to a freedom of spirit and an ability to see past the physical realm that I might never had learned of, had I lived in the same house all of my life, collecting baubles and bits of things that would just end up in a memory box one day. My collection of collections today is probably a reaction to living lightly when I was a child.
When we lived in a place for a total of thirty days, or twenty eight as happened a couple times, living by the motto "Stay Packed" became essential. Having the discipline to live with only one bowl, one cup, one plate, one spoon, one knife and one fork seems strange until you find ways to reduce your belongings further. Several Solstices ago, my sister got me a titanium spork, effectively reducing my kit by one item. The stories that have been lived rather than read about have a texture and depth that make believe, for me, simply does not. Fiction is great for some, but I tend to gravitate to real events and sharing the actual events that I have lived. My own feelings and belief is that these hold more power for me than fictional accounts or flights of fantasy. I do love a good native story from time to time, but these are mostly parables about how we should live, not a true record of how we actually did or do.
Living out of a suitcase, or panniers (bicycle backpacks) as I did repeatedly, changes your notion of what it takes to live and live well. I think it would help society greatly if more people understood what a luxury getting dry or taking a shower can be! Two books I would urge people to put in their go bag are the two Peterson Field Guides. These two books have more information on, Edible Wild Plants and Medicinal Wild Plants, than dozens of other books on the subjects and if you want to keep your pack light, getting the most information per pound is essential. I have seen people who feel that a weapon of some sort is essential for a go bag, but for the weight, I have gotten much more food from the land than a weapon would have ever been able to harvest. Books are relatively heavy to add to a go bag, but the value of these two publications has been immeasurable for me in my travels. I have learned dozens of wild foods that can make living outdoors not only possible but relatively luxurious. I have been able to eat hundreds of meals from plants that grew along my path. I'm sure that there could be a thousand moving stories in my own life about finding, cooking and enjoying food! At the risk of becoming mundane, there may be a thousand stories about how I found shelter while living in the woods, perhaps a thousand more about how I have met folks along my path who both inspired me and to whom I have given inspiration. The real challenge would be to pare down the stories to just ones that have profound impact, important lessons or to choose ones that best convey the deeper messages of freedom and responsibility, compassion and cooperation, commitment and abundance.
One of my stories is about the day I was born. Earlier that same day, my mother had gone to the neighbor's house. They had go-karts and she rode them around the yard, bouncing around and she felt that the jiggling and jostling helped to bring on labor later that day. I still have an unhealthy love for go-karting. Late at night, when my mom said it was time to go to the hospital, she said that my dad was running around the house like Chicken Little, even though they had the go-bag ready with everything my mother might need in hospital, dad had completely lost his composure. The doctor with which my mom planned to give birth was leaving for vacation and had already donned his Hawaiian shirt in preparation for touching down in our newest state. I guess they paged him at the airport and he drove back into town to deliver me. As mom was brought up in the elevator, un-comfortably seated in a wheelchair, to the maternity ward, she said she felt me coming. The doctor had arrived pretty much at the same moment she had and I was crowning as she was wheeled out of the elevator. She said that they didn't even have time to prep her for delivery before I squirted out! Blam! Is how she described it. So, the first person I saw in life was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt. So many other experiences relate to that moment. Coming into the world is such a traumatic story for some, I am very glad that my birth story was not. I think that my experiences with normal and natural birth led me, later in life, to become a certified Bradley, husband-coached childbirth teacher. There are few times in life that nature becomes unavoidable and to be awake and aware of the process of birth is a joy often denied womyn. In my heart of hearts, I have great issues with the way we typically practice birth in our culture, healing that one aspect of our lives has the power to transform society form the ground up.
Perhaps one day, I will recount the letting go of the thousand or so things that meant a lot to me over the years. My complete set of Hardy Boys hardcovers, for instance had brought me many stories that allowed me to escape the boundaries of our humble home, escorting me on waves of prose to realms beyond my own imagination. Letting go of my home made movies, some of which were made in Denver in '76 & '77. Those documents were evidence of a great many hours studying filmmaking and honing my craft. My longest movie used Pink Floyd's Ummagumma as the soundtrack. I remember giving away art and selling some pieces for far less than their value over the years as well. We once had a larger than life size print made from a temple rubbing, The painting entitled "respond" done by my mother, things as mundane as a concrete Buddha, our kick ass stereo and eventually all my vinyl. One piece of art that I got back was an ink and Prismacolor pencil drawing, partly a self portrait, partly borrowed from King Crimson's court of the Crimson King album cover art. The hands stick out a couple inches from the face and it is tremendously psychological and topical even today!
Giving away art, especially that art was traumatic, getting it back made me ecstatic! I remember selling a bust of Kennedy that my grandpa Harold and I made together, the guy who bought it at our yard sale had said, "Someday I'll give this back." Thirty years later, he was good to his word and returned it to me, no worse for the wear. Again, humbling and profoundly beautiful. Those stories are unique in that once given they were returned. I do have a bicycle that has been stolen twice and each time returned to me by the thief. Both times it was not altogether willingly, but they did give it back. Both of these are stories unto themselves. Bicycling, as a single activity alone offers many hundreds of stories. The dozen or so hundred plus mile a day stories from when I lived in Eastern Indiana/Western Ohio; each would yield several stories all by themselves! The time our group of three broke down in a storm was just one such story. The two brothers I was riding with took shelter in a woods and I rode on to the shelter under an antique storefront, sheltering under the roof of the porch/entryway as terrible weather engulfed us. After the thundershower and hail had passed, I rode back to find my friends, about three-quarters of a mile and there was evidence that a tornado had swept through right between the store and the woods. We rode a hundred miles one day just to go to the only big hill we had heard about nearby. We rode all the way to Muncie to ride down the hill they use for Soapbox Derby cars. Rob and Scott could not fathom riding down hills that steep for miles like I did when I rode bicycle in and around Denver. As many stories as I have, it may do a disservice to call me, Man Of A Thousand Stories...
When we lived in a place for a total of thirty days, or twenty eight as happened a couple times, living by the motto "Stay Packed" became essential. Having the discipline to live with only one bowl, one cup, one plate, one spoon, one knife and one fork seems strange until you find ways to reduce your belongings further. Several Solstices ago, my sister got me a titanium spork, effectively reducing my kit by one item. The stories that have been lived rather than read about have a texture and depth that make believe, for me, simply does not. Fiction is great for some, but I tend to gravitate to real events and sharing the actual events that I have lived. My own feelings and belief is that these hold more power for me than fictional accounts or flights of fantasy. I do love a good native story from time to time, but these are mostly parables about how we should live, not a true record of how we actually did or do.
Living out of a suitcase, or panniers (bicycle backpacks) as I did repeatedly, changes your notion of what it takes to live and live well. I think it would help society greatly if more people understood what a luxury getting dry or taking a shower can be! Two books I would urge people to put in their go bag are the two Peterson Field Guides. These two books have more information on, Edible Wild Plants and Medicinal Wild Plants, than dozens of other books on the subjects and if you want to keep your pack light, getting the most information per pound is essential. I have seen people who feel that a weapon of some sort is essential for a go bag, but for the weight, I have gotten much more food from the land than a weapon would have ever been able to harvest. Books are relatively heavy to add to a go bag, but the value of these two publications has been immeasurable for me in my travels. I have learned dozens of wild foods that can make living outdoors not only possible but relatively luxurious. I have been able to eat hundreds of meals from plants that grew along my path. I'm sure that there could be a thousand moving stories in my own life about finding, cooking and enjoying food! At the risk of becoming mundane, there may be a thousand stories about how I found shelter while living in the woods, perhaps a thousand more about how I have met folks along my path who both inspired me and to whom I have given inspiration. The real challenge would be to pare down the stories to just ones that have profound impact, important lessons or to choose ones that best convey the deeper messages of freedom and responsibility, compassion and cooperation, commitment and abundance.
One of my stories is about the day I was born. Earlier that same day, my mother had gone to the neighbor's house. They had go-karts and she rode them around the yard, bouncing around and she felt that the jiggling and jostling helped to bring on labor later that day. I still have an unhealthy love for go-karting. Late at night, when my mom said it was time to go to the hospital, she said that my dad was running around the house like Chicken Little, even though they had the go-bag ready with everything my mother might need in hospital, dad had completely lost his composure. The doctor with which my mom planned to give birth was leaving for vacation and had already donned his Hawaiian shirt in preparation for touching down in our newest state. I guess they paged him at the airport and he drove back into town to deliver me. As mom was brought up in the elevator, un-comfortably seated in a wheelchair, to the maternity ward, she said she felt me coming. The doctor had arrived pretty much at the same moment she had and I was crowning as she was wheeled out of the elevator. She said that they didn't even have time to prep her for delivery before I squirted out! Blam! Is how she described it. So, the first person I saw in life was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt. So many other experiences relate to that moment. Coming into the world is such a traumatic story for some, I am very glad that my birth story was not. I think that my experiences with normal and natural birth led me, later in life, to become a certified Bradley, husband-coached childbirth teacher. There are few times in life that nature becomes unavoidable and to be awake and aware of the process of birth is a joy often denied womyn. In my heart of hearts, I have great issues with the way we typically practice birth in our culture, healing that one aspect of our lives has the power to transform society form the ground up.
Perhaps one day, I will recount the letting go of the thousand or so things that meant a lot to me over the years. My complete set of Hardy Boys hardcovers, for instance had brought me many stories that allowed me to escape the boundaries of our humble home, escorting me on waves of prose to realms beyond my own imagination. Letting go of my home made movies, some of which were made in Denver in '76 & '77. Those documents were evidence of a great many hours studying filmmaking and honing my craft. My longest movie used Pink Floyd's Ummagumma as the soundtrack. I remember giving away art and selling some pieces for far less than their value over the years as well. We once had a larger than life size print made from a temple rubbing, The painting entitled "respond" done by my mother, things as mundane as a concrete Buddha, our kick ass stereo and eventually all my vinyl. One piece of art that I got back was an ink and Prismacolor pencil drawing, partly a self portrait, partly borrowed from King Crimson's court of the Crimson King album cover art. The hands stick out a couple inches from the face and it is tremendously psychological and topical even today!
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