Laundry Day: A Meditation

A lonely, rusting washing machine rests in our cinderblock carport. After feeding it the prescribed amount of overly sweet-smelling detergent, I pull the start knob and it lurches to life. I lift the lid to confirm that water is slowly trickling into the tub. I am transfixed for a moment, wondering how long it will take to wash a load of clothes at this pace. Then I remember that a watched washer does not clean. I close the lid and walk away, dubious.

Ten minutes later, I realize I haven't heard much from the lonely Maytag. I return to the carport and tentatively lift the lid to discover that the clothes are damp, but there is otherwise no sign of life from the machine. 

"I'm not sure this thing works," I say to Greg.

He peers into the tub and suggests I be patient and remain positive. 

I return thirty minutes later to discover that the clothes are still soaking in the rinse cycle. As it turns out, the lonely washer requires prompting. I move the dial to "spin" and it begins to chug and churn. I smile, feeling a kinship. Like me, the lonely washer requires collaboration and encouragement.  

When the washing machine falls quiet again, I return to the carport to discover that the clothes have indeed been spun. Now for the fun part: Drying.

Our "dryer" is behind the house. Blue cord runs between a tree and the fence posts that help keep the free-range cattle out of our yard. We quickly fill the line and Greg retrieves more cord from his tool box and strings up two more lines. Later that day, he returns from the local tienda with a package of brightly colored clothes pins.

"Happy Birthday, baby!" he says. I will be 59 tomorrow and have come full circle. 

I'm hanging laundry on a clothes line again. Living in a house that doesn't have HVAC. Pulling the screen door shut "just so" to keep the flies out. Driving the dirt roads into town to visit friends and buy groceries — and being awakened to the sound of a cow bell as Bossy grazes outside our bedroom window. 

When I was a teenager, I longed to leave the rural world of my parents' home on the outskirts of Little Rock. Funny that today, the boy (now a 59 year old man) who I met back then has brought me back to the country – although it is a different country. We are living in a small fishing village turned kiteboarding mecca, 45 minutes from La Paz on the Sea of Cortez. Although we have fairly consistent WIFI and mobile phone service, I have been dropped into a much simpler world that requires planning, effort, and intention not required where we live in the US. And I love it. 

There is something completely gratifying about having a very limited selection to choose from at the tienda. There is one brand of yogurt — not 25. The produce is only what is in season and readily available — rather than being shipped in daily from around the world. There are no big-box super, mega chain stores — and Amazon does not deliver here.

Our rental house is constructed almost entirely of concrete — and skillfully so. The two cupolas that ornament the architecture are feats of manual engineering genius and create natural air conditioning as heat rises through their domes. There are no closets for storage, thereby encouraging a limited wardrobe. The kitchen is modern, open and generous in size, but outfitted with only the basics: a range and refrigerator, a few pots and pans, random utensils, four plates, four glasses, a set of flatware for four. At first, this is vexing, but we adapt and find a sense of true satisfaction in "making do." 

Our home comes complete with solar-powered dryer..

I'm not sure if this is how my mother felt when she first set foot in the home my father bought in 1952 for $11,000 on Highway 10 on the outskirts of Little Rock. And yet, she did make do. Making do was just a part of life for my parents. They grew up during the Great Depression and never quite left it behind. 

It used to irritate me that my Mom reused bread bags instead of buying sparkling new Ziplocks. Or that she kept using the frying pan with the broken handle rather than buy a new one. "It's perfectly good!" she would say. And she was right. 

I wanted to toss out the chipped plates and mix-matched cups into the garbage, never considering those discarded items would end up in a landfill. I couldn't understand why my mother didn't buy a new vegetable peeler when the handle fell off of the old one. Now I realize that she kept it —even though it pinched her fingers when she peeled potatoes—because,"It still worked." 

Back then, I longed for the luxury of a disposable world. Now, I see the beauty in my mother's conservation. 

As I retrieve the sun-warmed, crisp, clean-smelling clothes from the line, I am grateful for the wisdom they imparted. Yes, I'm a slow learner, but I'm so very grateful to be here now.

Living in the desert takes more intention and resourcefulness. A truck comes once a month to fill our water and propane tanks. We turn out lights before leaving the room because resources are not as plentiful here. We don't leave the water running when we brush our teeth or wash the dishes. We try to not be wasteful. It's a lesson my parents taught me more than half a century ago.  

Despite the limitation, here in Mexico, we have everything we need —and more. We are embracing this much simpler lifestyle. And I'm sure somewhere in heaven, my Mother is grinning. (She was never one to say, "I told you so.")

Losing My Self

How do you get lost just a few miles from your home? If there's a way, I'll find it — or lose it, as the case may be. But getting lost isn't such a bad thing. In fact, some times getting lost is the best thing that can happen to me. 

There's a trail called Hidden Valley. You climb and climb and climb and when you get to the top, the mountain opens up to this unbelievably beautiful meadow. (In the spring it's covered with bright orange globe mallow blossoms.) If you keep walking along the well-worn path, you come to a rise where Native people drew petroglyphs into the rock — perhaps in the earliest form of social media —chronicling their challenges and triumphs.

Hidden Valley is a very popular hike and, when the weather is nice, you'll meet dozens of people on the trail. On this particular fall day, I decided to make the trek all the way up and over the Hidden Valley trailhead and down to the bottom of Moab Rim. It's a 7.5 mile hike up a mountain, through the valley, and across rocky, desert terrain to finally descend 1000 feet from the canyon rim. I'd hiked up the rim many times (they call it the Stair Master with good reason) but I'd never put the full end-to-end trail together —and I'd never hiked it all alone. Today was the day.

Hidden Valley revealed.

Greg dropped me off at the Hidden Valley trailhead after leaving my truck at the Moab Rim parking lot. I studied the AllTrails map and felt confident I could make the hike in about three hours. It was a straight shot due west from Hidden Valley to the Rim. What could possibly go wrong? 

When I began my hike at 11 a.m., the air was relatively cool. I had everything I needed: a jug of water, a pack of Peanut Butter Toasties, my phone, and a little spiral-bound journal for notes. I slung my lightweight blue backpack over my shoulder and began the ascent. 

While hiking up Hidden Valley trail I met a couple of folks coming down. But once I got to the top, I was alone. It is remarkable to consider how few people have walked this trail in the history of the earth. I am always humbled by my good fortunate to be among those who get to experience this beauty. When I made it to the petroglyphs, I climbed up on some rocks, looked out over the valley, and scribbled some notes in my journal. 

As a kid, I loved exploring the stream and the woods behind the barns on my parents' little farm. It was never this remote or this grand, but sitting on this vantage point, gazing out on the La Sal mountains, I felt like that little girl again filled with wonder of God's creation. 

That's what being in Nature does for me. And I need it. I need that connection, both to my physicality and to the natural world. It's so easy for me to forget that I am part of the earth. I live in my mind most of the time. That's the nature of being a writer, I suppose. My thoughts propel me — and often vex me. So exerting myself up a mountain and across a remote trail requires me to shift from my cognitive go-to to my most basic physical self. 

On my first solo hike in the desert, I became more keenly aware of my surroundings. The first leg of the hike was familiar and very well-worn. No way to get lost hiking Hidden Valley! But after I passed the petroglyphs, I was in fresh terrain. The field turned to slick rock. Discerning footprints was more difficult. I had to focus and look for subtle signs to show me the way.

Signs of early adventurers.

The temperature climbed to 90 degrees and there was no shade. I stopped to chug some water and continued down the rocky path. I knew I needed to keep heading west, but when the trail dropped off into a deep gulley, I feared I'd taken a wrong turn. How? How do you get lost in a place where there are no trees? Thankfully, I saw a cairn left by other hikers which showed me the way. I still had a long way to go and now I was in completely unfamiliar terrain. The town of Moab was just beyond the rim, and yet I'd never felt more alone.

The desert leaves you vulnerable in a way that no other landscape can. It is harsh and unforgiving. Creatures that survive there are hearty and opportunistic: rattlesnakes, lizards, spiders, carrion fowl. The Western movies I used to watch with my Dad often romanticized many details, but they got the desert's cruelty right. Did I mention there was very little shade? Thankfully there was some welcome cloud cover and a breeze that foretold an incoming storm to help break the monotonous heat. 

There were a few sign posts for the Moab Rim trail, which I happily welcomed. But, as it turned out, the one I followed was misleading. It took me to an overlook of the city — not the trail that would lead me to the area where my truck was parked. This misdirection added an hour of hiking to my adventure before I realized I'd followed the wrong path.

My destination: Descending 1000' from Moab Rim.

I was frustrated when I realized my mistake, but there was nothing I could do except back-track and continue my hike. I stopped, drank some water and and ate half my peanut butter crackers before starting off again — this time in the right direction. What I didn't know is that I still had a long way to go. 

I hiked for another hour before I made it to the descending trail on Moab Rim. When I finally arrived at my truck, my feet ached and I was sweaty and sunburned and tired, but I also felt a sense of accomplishment that I had rarely felt before. I made it! I did what I set out to do. Not only that, I got lost in the wilderness and found my way home.

How often do we really get lost these days? 

With GPS and mobile capabilities we can find our way just about anywhere. We have immediate access to step-by-step directions. To be in a locale where I literally have no idea where to turn and the only way to determine the next step is to just keep going and find my way through trial and error is a bit exhilarating. I wouldn't want to do it everyday, but I loved that hike and it will always be special for me. I was in a place where I literally had no idea which way to turn, and I found my way. I followed my instincts and relied on my body —not my mind — to get me where I needed to go. 

While being physically lost is rare for me, being emotionally lost is far more common. Almost daily I'm wandering around in my head lost in the the stories I concoct about myself and other people. 

The wasteland that is my mind is far more difficult to navigate than any trail. And can be far more dangerous to myself and others — if I am not conscious. 

Without being aware of it, I can so easily take a wrong turn and find myself unable to connect with the people I love the most. It's a very lonely place and yet — like the Valley to Rim route — I'm never actually that far from civilization. It is only a perception that I am separate, unloved, not considered. Why do I go there? And once I'm lost, can my instincts help me return to what is familiar and loving? I need a different type of cairn to show me the way.

Whether it's God or Jesus or the teachings of Buddha or Mohammed or Allah, or the Great Spirit, I believe there is a power greater than the individual mind that can bring me back to sanity, to presence, and to my path of serenity. 

I don't know why human beings — specifically me — struggle so to remain on the path of conscious awareness. It seems like it would be so much easier, and yet, often the trail markers aren't visible to follow. And yet, there's always a way back. Often I have to back track to find the right way. Typically, I have to get to the point where I am ready to give up in order to see with clarity the path home.