What am I doing in this beautiful little town, nestled in a wide Irish-green valley custom-made for grazers? Honestly, I’m on the run. Not from the law but the world itself. I’m on a self-imposed, solitary writing retreat/mind wash. When I first drove into the majestic Wet Mountain Valley a few days ago, filling my lungs with soft, humid air, I observed how slow the cars were moving on Main Street, and I thought, “I can feel good here, immune from pandemics, war, mass shootings, mass distraction and the climate crisis at least until Wednesday when I have to go back.”
I followed Main Street to the edge of town where more than fifteen snow-capped peaks commanded miles of wide-open landscape. In the distance pastures were dotted with ecstatic, tail-swishing cows and horses, and in the park kids ran and parents walked dogs. Everyone seemed grateful that Sangre de Cristo mountains seemed to have our backs. Grander than we are, the mountains mentor us about patience. We are collectively ill at ease, buried under fake news, climate change, pandemic and bills. The truth is, every one of us – even the dogs – was knocked off-balance in the last few years. Ready or not, there’s hard evidence that the entire global civilization is shifting. We should be so lucky, right?
I checked into my Airbnb walled-off wing of a house, discovering it was far darker and less well-supplied than the photos had shown. I’d planned to do my own cooking and had brought a large cooler of good ingredients. The idea was to recapture momentum, hunker down, and finally get some work done. But there was no stove, only microwave and hotplate, and very little tableware. As I unpacked, my sense of resolve burned like a trusty little candle, yet I could feel the world trying to blow it out. Remember why you came. Outline three writing projects you want to focus on this summer in addition to working the one-acre garden. Free-flow ideas onto a writing tablet: A lengthy essay about three life-long passions, a science fiction short story about a settlement on the moon, and an essay about saving a million dollars by living a moderate, joyful lifestyle.
I scribble a few ideas, but it’s not exactly Old Faithful, not yet. Maybe I’m tired from the drive. Maybe take a nap, go for a walk. Outside a loud garbage truck beeps and groans. I start feeling hungry. The world is leaking in again, I can feel it. All of a sudden I trip and fall off a cliff of futility. I was the Obsolescent Man, wasn’t I, my best writing behind me? Who was going to publish my work now, fifteen years after the radio interviews and plump royalty checks? Then there’s climate change, dismantling our ecological niche, a cozy location where we’ve thrived for ten thousand years? Were we really going to snooze while our fellow species – our cousins – were making a last, desperate stand, no place to go?
The world delivered another low blow: isn’t everyone a writer these days, a blogger, or poster? Who would take time to tune in my signal in such a noisy way of life?
I called Anne, telling her about the pretty drive, the amazing way it felt in Westcliffe, the steps the town had taken to be certified as a dark sky location where stars and galaxies are at arm’s length. Then I confessed to her that I still felt like a punching bag. Typically buoyant, I was having hard time shaking the blues. She reminded me I was taking a prescription drug that might alter my mood and also that I’d accomplished so much in my life. Maybe I should just go for a refreshing hike in the mountains. I was grateful to have such a level-headed wife, realizing that many are not so lucky. Still I felt wounded, like I could cry if I remembered how. Really, shouldn’t we all dissolve the anger and anxiety we are feeling with a humbling, global, cathartic cry? Shouldn’t we pull the plug on our collective confusion – a sink full of soiled rinse water – and let it all drain out? Admit that the castle we’ve built is just gaudy papier Mache, then pass emergency laws, make instinctual changes in personal behavior, and for some, ask forgiveness for our sins? Isn’t this the right time for taking off our masks, laying down our guns, cancelling our vacations and making “home” a sacred word again? Isn’t this the right time for new insights about what we value, and for fundamental changes in the way we think?
After a decent night’s sleep I decided my first priority should be this piece you’re now reading. I want you to know that I care and that it hurts sometimes to care, but we have to do it anyway. On the upside, maybe we each are carrying little puzzle pieces of a future that makes far more sense than the present. Maybe we’re acknowledging as a species that we can do the work that needs to be done, to save ourselves. Not in the next election cycle, not after we retire, not after we find a better job or finish our back patio, but now.
