Swan Sanctuary

Back in February as I was planning to move from Wyoming to Arkansas, things began to happen fast. I had applied for my job in late November; but I had not heard anything after the initial phone interview. I did not want to get my hopes up and I had not begun packing because if I didn’t get the job, I had hoped to stay where I was. My daughter had decided, soon after returning from her deployment, to buy a house; however, I knew I did not want to move in with her. If I was going to have to leave behind my flowers and my chickens, I would need to move much further away than a mile or two. 

As her closing date drew near, I became more anxious. I called the botanical garden, where I had applied, to inquire about the status of my application. Apparently, they had sent me an email with a job offer that I had not seen because it went into my “spam” folder. Once I had accepted the position I had to shift into high gear as they needed me there ASAP. I decided it would be best to put most of my things in storage temporarily and drive to Arkansas with only bare essentials. The temperatures had dropped to around 15℉ below zero and there was several inches of snow on the ground. My daughter had arranged for a friend of hers to help us load my heavy furniture into the storage unit. Once we had the first load in the back of my truck, my truck decided not to run. My daughter was convinced this was a sign that I was not supposed to go. She was able to take the truck limping, to a repair shop and they promised to have me on the road in a couple of days, assuring me that it would make the 1100 mile journey. Meanwhile, we borrowed another friend’s truck and got my remaining things moved into the storage. On the day I was to begin my trip, my daughter had her army drill, so I loaded my truck by myself. My former son-in-law helped me to lift my mattress and box spring onto the tonneau cover and strap it down. I was on the road by mid-day with my cat in his kennel, leaving the safety of my “shire” and feeling like Bilbo Baggins heading out on an adventure filled with unknowns. I pushed my fears to the back of my mind and drove, focused only on getting there. 

I had rented a place sight unseen, from a man I found on Craigslist. I had sent him deposit money via Western Union. I trusted my inner guidance, hoping and praying that my way would be made straight, perfect, and successful in every way. That was only the beginning!

Ever since I was a little girl, I seem to attract insects like flies to horses. My parents would pack up my siblings and I, along with a camping trailer and boat, every weekend during the summer to water ski on a private lake. By Monday morning I would be covered with bites from mosquitoes, horse flies, deer flies, and ants. Now that I am living in the south, there are still more insects to contend with. My encounter three weeks ago, with chiggers, has been exacerbated by things I have yet to identify. I keep waking up each morning with new bites. I have even had bites on my bites. I have not been able to determine if they are fleas, or more chiggers, or ants, or spiders – or heaven forbid – bed bugs. Worse still, I do not know where they are coming from. Is it the bed? Are they lurking in my new rugs? Did they hitch hike in on my clothes? I have had some bites from mosquitoes and gnats that have found their way into the house. A few of them met their demise beneath the weight of my hand. 

Clearly, these insects do not discriminate by age or gender. Some people will swear that if you eat garlic and onions, or rub eucalyptus all over your body before you head outdoors, the insects  will leave you alone. I have found the only way that I can prevent (most) bites is to cover myself from head to toe, tuck my pant legs into my socks, and avoid standing water. In spite of that, they will often bite me through my clothing.

Why is it that some people are hardly bothered at all by insects? I have a new theory. If blood was your only diet, might your taste buds be more selective? Human beings can have as many as eight different blood types. They can be A, B, AB, or O. They can also be either RH negative, or RH positive. Would each of these taste differently to a blood sucking connoisseur? Is it possible that people with certain blood types simply taste yummier to insects? Do you suppose that there has ever been a study to support my theory? If my theory is correct, then there is little I can do to discourage insects from dining on me since I am stuck with the blood type that I was born with. We live in a world where we either eat – or we are eaten. Frankly, if I am going to become a meal, I prefer to be eaten by a large carnivore that can finish me off in one sitting, rather than by an insect enjoying a blood tasting.

I have a friend who moved to Arkansas – from Denver – where I am from. She moved here 5 years ago and she is now convinced that it was by “alien abduction”. She says, “This place puts you through this brutal initiation…which seems to go on for quite awhile.” I see that it has worn her down, chewed her up and spit her out. I feel her pain; yet since I have come behind her, I am still filled with optimism. She; however, seems to have sunk to an all time low. We each came here for similar reasons. She had wished to come to a place where she could do the most good. I had simply asked Spirit to, “Use me. Guide me to where my talents and abilities will be recognized and appreciated. Take me to where I can be surrounded by those of like mind.” 

Spirit works in mysterious ways. And, it is still a mystery. I have connected not only with the previously mentioned friend, but with several other women, as well. I feel that my life has been enriched immeasurably by the new friends that I have made. I also feel that we need each other. I know that I am helping them as much as they are helping me, in so many different ways. My new women friends range in age from 18, to around my own age (approaching 70). For the first time in my life, I feel truly valued and respected. Knowing that I can contribute to them in a meaningful way because of the pain that I have experienced – and grown from – in my own life, fills me with peace.

My relationships with my own daughters have grown more precious now, as they are approaching mid-life. I am reminded of the bond we had when they were nursing infants, or toddlers peeking out from behind the safety of my skirt. They are now as butterflies emerging from the chrysalis. Perhaps they themselves do not see how beautifully their souls have been transformed. 

I know not what still remains for me to do. It may or may not be all that I hope for; but I am at peace with what is. Whether it was alien abduction, divine intervention, or answered prayers, I know that I am where I am supposed to be. We have converged together in this place to lift and to hold one another up, no matter how challenging or how difficult the initiation. Deep down, I know that even in the darkest moments, the path ahead of me is bathed in light. I am grateful for my new friends – and I am grateful to be a friend.

I have never had a problem keeping my word. I believe that when you make a promise to someone, it is a sacred agreement. I find it odd when someone begins a conversation by asking, “Promise not to tell?” Often, they rush headlong into whatever they want to divulge without even waiting for the listener to “promise”. If it is gossip, that person probably immediately and “secretly” shares it with someone else.

A wedding vow is a public promise that is given much “ado”, yet more than half of these promises end in divorce. The promise to love someone “until death do us part” is rarely made with a true understanding of all that it implies. This promise is often made by the very young who have “fallen” in love and who see through rose colored glasses. When this promise is made, more often than not, it becomes a broken promise sooner or later.

I believe that the most important promises we can make are the ones we make to ourselves. When we keep our own promises, we are more likely to keep those entrusted to us by others. I made a promise to myself earlier in the week, to write this blog every day. Admittedly, it has been written late in the day and with eyes half closed, fighting to stay awake. This kind of promise, after a few week’s time, becomes ingrained as routine. Routines can change over time; but we can remain committed until such time as we replace them with new ones. 

A promise, just like everything in our experience, is temporary, regardless how sincerely it was made. We should hold ourselves and others to the promises we make, expecting them to be kept; but we must also recognize our human propensity to error. We should always strive to keep those promises that we make to ourselves and we must take seriously those promises we make to others; but we must have hearts filled with compassion and understanding when they are broken.

I have learned over the years to ride the waves on this ocean of life. I have not had the privilege of living near, nor visiting the ocean  more than a handful of times. I often feel though, that life’s challenges, like waves, continue to roll one after the other, almost endlessly. Sometimes these waves are large and ominous. Other times, they are gentler; but they never, ever cease completely. 

Over the past couple of weeks, I have been nearly knocked over by three giant waves. (They say that things happen in “threes”; but I would say more accurately, they happen in multiples of threes. While I was working at my new job with the horticulture crew at Garvan Woodland Gardens, I was feasted upon all over my body, by chiggers. At that same time, my cat became terribly ill, requiring an expensive trip to the veterinarian. But, as I have already pointed out, there was a third wave right on the back of those two troubles. My truck did not start on the morning I was supposed to show up for a follow-up doctor appointment, for the chigger bites. I rescheduled the appointment; but first thing Monday morning my cat had relapsed. My truck was scheduled to be taken to the mechanic that afternoon. I found a new vet, called into work to let them know I would be late and raced over to the vet clinic with my cat. This resulted in another missed doctor appointment for the chigger bites. I had to rely on newly made friends and neighbors, and coworkers, to give me rides to and from the automobile repair shop. My truck repair was finished by Tuesday afternoon. I picked up my cat after work today. The vet had kept him overnight for two nights. I have been unable thus far to reschedule the doctor visit; but thankfully, the chigger bites are healing. 

In the middle of all of this, I was transferred out of the horticulture department and moved to a new, indoor position. It comes with a huge learning curve; but again thankfully, there are no chiggers in the office where I am now working. Nor is there any poison ivy, or ticks, or mosquitos.

I have never surfed, but watching a surfer riding the ocean waves looks just like my life. The waves come. They knock me down sometimes. I get up again. I get knocked down again. I get up again. And again. And again.

I had to take my cat to the vet yesterday morning – a story that I will relate more about later. My new veterinarian is a godsend. He told me that cats actually do have nine lives; and that 14 is actually not that old for a cat. 

Looking back at my own life, I often recall events that seemed to have happened “a lifetime ago.” I do not feel that I am the same person that inhabited this body 40 or 50, or even 60 years ago. Clearly, I have not grown a new body. This one is quickly reaching its expiration date; however, this life that is mine has returned from the ashes on more than one occasion. Could I have nine lives, as well? According to numerology, we experience life in nine year cycles.The periods of my life feel less like the chapters in an ongoing saga and more like different lifetimes altogether. I can separate these periods into eight or nine different segments, depending on where I see the most distinct changes that occurred. If my life is like that of a cat, I have no more than one life left. Is there yet another chance to resurrect my life one last time? Can I see my dreams come true before my final opportunity is gone? 

Where and how and when did the belief that cats have nine lives, originate? No one knows for sure, but it is believed to date back to the Egyptian sun god. When I have at last reached the end of my ninth life, will I have attained enlightenment?

Once in a while, I look back and read something that I wrote months, or even years, earlier. I often don’t remember what I wrote, so when I re-read past entries, I am often astonished by the profundity. When I am writing, I become a conduit for a higher intelligence that is speaking through me. I am merely the instrument. I often wonder if Eckhart Tolle is surprised at the words that flow from him, like a river that knows exactly where it is going. He never plans his talks ahead of time and they are not timed. He simply says what needs to be said in that moment; and the audience hears what needs to be heard. Similarly, I rarely know beforehand what I will “blog” about. I cannot explain how this works, though often it is in response to something I have observed, or seen, or heard.

Since publishing Swan Sanctuary’s Guide and Question Everything, I receive emails and phone calls every week from literary agents who want to market my books – for their “discounted” price of only $999, or some similar “deal”. I have been asked if I would prefer to spend anywhere between $1000 to $5000 on a “marketing package”. I was always under the impression that when you had your work published, you would be paid in royalties. What I learned was that there are hundreds of agents out there who want me to hand over several thousand dollars to them, for the slim chance that my book sales will instantly start turning over a huge profit. Writers have been made to believe that in order to become a successful writer, you must find an agent who is willing to represent your work and convince a publishing company that you are a “good” risk. However; even those books that make it to traditional publishing houses often fail to sell. 

Even if I had the time to do my own marketing, I would choose to do something else. There are only 24 hours in a day; and marketing is not the way I wish to use them. It interests me not at all. I would rather be helping a turtle to cross the road, or watching a hummingbird sip nectar from my flowers, or cooking a healthy meal – or writing. I am compelled to write. Whether or not anyone reads what I write, is not my concern. My job is merely to get the message out there and I know that those who need to hear it, will be guided to it by serendipitous means – not because I have spent thousands of dollars to put it in front of their face. I am just a writer. I am an instrument.

In 1999, after I had moved from Colorado, where I was born and raised, I moved to Tennessee. It was then that I realized there is no perfect place. We give up some things in order to have that which we believe we want. The biggest shock for me at that time was the cultural difference. Colorado is progressive, open-minded, free-thinking. I learned quickly that people in the bible belt have a whole other way of looking at life – through the blinders of their religion. I was amazed when I saw rebel flags being flown and I realized that the Klu Klux Klan was alive and well. Since the insurrection on our capitol on January 6th, we have all been made aware that white supremicist groups exist in many areas around the country.

I had never planned to leave Virginia, where I had found real happiness; but “life is what happens to us when we are making other plans”. Back in Colorado, and later in Wyoming, I longed for trees, for green, for rain, and for humidity. I was a fish out of water, drying up in the desert conditions of the arid climate, the brown, shriveled landscape, and the endless winters. Having at last arrived in Arkansas, my skin and my sinuses are loving the humidity. I am surrounded by lush, green trees and enjoying the birdsong of a greater variety of birds. We have had copious amounts of rain; but along with these things that I love, is the ever-present poison ivy, mosquitoes, ticks, and chiggers. I have found it to be colder than I expected. I am often taken aback at the deeply ingrained religious convictions of my new friends and coworkers, so I guard my tongue carefully. I am grateful to be here, in spite of those things. I have been pleasantly surprised by the friendliness and kindness that I have been shown, by nearly everyone I have met. I am awed by the respect I feel from those who call me “Miss Lisbeth”. 

Arkansas is not a perfect place. I have given up the bright living room in which my houseplants had thrived. I have given up my chickens and my flowers. I have given up a truly functional kitchen in which to cook. I have given up proximity to my daughters. I have also given up the loneliness and the lack of income that had begun to feel like a prison. This was the tradeoff. Only time will tell if I can be as happy here in Arkansas as I was in Virginia; but I am content with this moment. I have been guided here for some reason – a reason that has yet to be revealed.

Paraphrasing Eckhart Tolle, between life and death, we are always trying to get past the trouble, all the while creating more trouble. I am remembering the Cat Stevens song, Trouble, that came out in the 1970’s. Today is a new moon and it is high time that I resume the writing of this blog. I have been writing it in my head; but until now, I have not had the time nor the energy to actually write it. I began this adventure in February while I was still in Wyoming. It is now June and the past four months have felt as though I was watching a movie about someone else’s life. Yes, I have made it to Arkansas; but my final destination remains unclear. The one thing that I AM clear about, is my burning desire to have a small permaculture farm where I can build my own home with an attached greenhouse; and hopefully have a pond for waterfowl, and other animals that I can care for. If I am completely honest, I need a companion to join me in this endeavor. This is where it gets complicated. I have now been single for an entire decade. I am comfortable in my aloneness. I question my ability to enter into a healthy relationship since I have, admittedly, become jaded where men are concerned. The fact remains; however, that my dreams have always been too big for one person. Apparently, in trying to get past this confusion – this trouble – I create still more confusion.

When I began writing this blog, I committed to 5 days a week, with a noon deadline each day. I will strive to uphold that commitment as I press the accelerator on my keyboard once again, but with more leniency towards the time frame. I must now juggle my writing with my paying job. My muse is frantically vying for my attention, urging me to get on with the story. She even has me contemplating writing a sequel to Question Everything.

I will wrap up this entry with some more Eckhart wisdom. Once we have achieved our goal that we have struggled long and hard to achieve, the new circumstances that we have created come with their own set of challenges. My preliminary goal was to reach Arkansas. The many challenges that I faced getting here will be related later. Have I had new challenges in the short time that I have been here? Oh, yes.