Where the Earth Remembers Me

There are many reasons to come home. The clues are everywhere; in crisp blue skies, lush grassy hills, cool shady woods, clean clear water and the blissful twilight chorus. When I inhale; the sweetness of all that grows wild makes me a bit lightheaded.


Last summer, I spent many nights sitting on the front porch watching fireflies and rapidly floating clouds against a dazzling moon. Now, bundled in a warm fleece jacket, I sit on the steps and wait for winter. Trees creak and sigh in the north wind. Branches – no longer cloaked in soft leaves – click against the other, while remnants of last years garden rattle. Throaty owls and barking coyotes remind me of the plentiful wildlife surrounding me and how I am at ease in their elusive presence.


As I plant, nurture and harvest many flowers, herbs, berries and ground nuts, I am filled with unending gratitude, validating my Abenaki roots. I celebrate each time I spread one of my homemade jams on an English muffin or when I burn candles adorned with vibrant leaves and delicate petals. There is nothing more satisfying than sipping tea made from red clover, rose and mint that I plucked daily and hung from the kitchen beam to dry.


Today, I walked down the footpath in the woods. As the multihued leaves swished beneath my feet, it suddenly occurred to me how significant it is to return to where the earth remembers me. As a child I played and wandered through these woods, playing house within a cluster of tall pine trees and navigating the ‘big rock’ – my ship. Many times I dug my heel into the fresh earth to make a hole for playing marbles, picked daisies for making chains and climbed into the thick, crooked arms of a timeless apple tree, resting and daring to dream while taking bittersweet nourishment.


Until I returned home, I didn’t know that the wild pleasures of my childhood, wonders of keeping it simple, and ways of Our Mother imprinted in my DNA, were lost somewhere deep inside of me. The stillness inside is enough to quiet the chatter, remove me from the chaos and reclaim all that matters then and now. It is so quiet here. Rejoice.

Thinking Inside the Backpack: Traveling Kids Part IV

After a period of desperate silence, I attempted to contact people who may know the whereabouts and state of my daughter. I sent a message to a young man who I had met the previous summer in Vermont. I expressed my worries and asked what he knew.

He responded immediately and told me that he heard that she had gotten the medicine that she needed for a throat abscess, and that she was doing better. He also said that every person from her original circle of Vermont friends had returned home.

The previous summer I raced (3.5 hours one way) to Vermont to pick her up from the hospital after she had an abscess on her tonsils lanced and drained.

This young man and I wrote back and forth a few times and we finally spoke on the telephone after his last message stated that he wanted to meet me in Florida and go get her. He warned me that there was a strong possibility that she didn’t ‘want’ to be found.

I had such a difficult time with that statement and thought. We were so close. Even during the teenage years when communication was a little sparse at times, we maintained a high level of mutual respect and a certain openness that I believed would carry us through a lifetime.

Meanwhile, another friend of Anna’s heard that I was trying to contact her, and she picked up her cell phone and called me. She had a job and an apartment in New Orleans; she was from Vermont and knew Anna. She mentioned that she had a very close relationship with her own mother and could not imagine how upset her mother would be if their communication ended abruptly with no explanation.

Without asking, she told me that she would find Anna and offer the use of her cell phone to call me. She also gave me her mailing address so that I could send a cell phone or money or whatever a desperate mother thinks that she can send at a time like that.

Then random messages started trickling in on my facebook from people who assured me that they knew that Anna was fine and that they spotted her here and there playing her cello. It reminded me of a “Where’s Waldo” book, or back in the days when we used to stand on the sea wall in front of our house in Maine, listening to WRKO for the updates of where “Andre” the seal was on his journey from Rockport to the Aquarium in Boston. Only this wasn’t exciting or fun in any way.

Anna’s friend sent me text messages indicating that she had ‘just missed her’. One night my cell phone – which had become a physical attachment by then – rang. It was her earthy yet melodic voice on the other end of the phone as if nothing was different or unusual. She immediately burst into laughter as she explained how she walked into her favorite bar and the bartender hollered, “Anna, call your mother!”


I told her that I was deeply concerned about her. I asked her many questions, such as where are you staying? Who are you staying with? Are you eating? Warm? Dry? I wanted to scream, but I maintained a level of outer calm while tears streamed down my cheeks. Was this really my daughter, the beautiful little girl who was so innocent, creative and bright who had turned into a fearless young woman who cares so little about the basic comforts and gentleness of life, who cares so little about the chaotic society that we live in, that she has made a deliberate choice to take risks by living on the edge, shedding any and all possessions to take to the road without a care other than her next meal? Of course I ask myself where I went wrong.


That question brings me around and around on the great mother – daughter wheel of intense parallel opposites. Are we so much alike that she could not stand it? Does society suck so much that she wants nothing to do with the status quo? Is it because loving her as hard as I could did not make up for those who hurt her? Or are all of these questions simply mute?


I envisioned myself driving around New Orleans asking vagrants and street performers if they had seen my daughter. I shuddered at the thought of not finding her, finding her, or having to sit within the dingy pale yellow cement walls of a tired police station. I imagined seeing her – a flash of youthful sweetness wearing blue and purple silk faerie wings – running up to kiss my cheek. I dreamt of embracing her and whisking her off the streets and taking her back into the safe, gentle cocoon woven of a mother’s love.


She apologized for causing worries. ‘Worries’; such a lame word for what I have experienced. It was traumatic. Not knowing what your daughter is doing, if she is even alive, if she has a roof over her head, has been taken into a sex slave operation, or whatever other scenarios a terrified mother creates while laying in bed every night staring into the darkness, trying to pray her way to sleep.


I wavered between relief and scolding while being cautious, letting her know that I deserved sleep. She said that she understood. We had agreed that she would call or text weekly just to let me know that she was okay. I learned quickly that weekly was way too much to expect, so bi-weekly would do. I needed something.


I felt an odd sense of calm after we hung up. I pushed away “my dreams” for her…dashed away thoughts of Julliard and the long elegant black dresses that she wore on stage when performing Paganini, Haydn, Bach and the others since she was five-years-old and deemed a gifted cellist. I squeezed my eyes shut and embraced the beautiful young woman sitting on the street corner wearing a patched flannel shirt, cut off jean skirt that she made herself, with hiking boots, playing a mixed bag of music with a jar half full of change and a few dollar bills beside her cello case. The roaring applause from the concert hall faded into the crackling fire that burned in the rusted barrel in the alley.


It’s weird how a mother’s mind works under this sort of pressure. I had a short window of time to send a small package to her at her friend’s apartment. Because the only belongings that she has she carries in her backpack, I had to think ‘inside the backpack’. It’s instinctive to want to give her everything that I think she needs; toiletries, food, vitamins, new underwear, socks, and cute hair scrunchies. I loved shopping for her – my only daughter. If I could have crammed homemade cookies and a week’s worth of food in the small Priority Box, I would have.


I sent her money to buy a new cell phone and a few very small tee-shirts (Pink Floyd and something else), underwear and socks all rolled up. I hand wrote a personal card and planted lipstick kisses on the envelope.


At that time I was not meant to completely understand her need to separate dramatically from society, old friends, a gentler, safer world, family and most importantly, from me.


I cannot and will not speak for fathers; I have a lifetime of trying to be both. I had a hunch then – but did not stop loving as hard as I could for two people to actually accept that it does not work. Well, not completely. Believe me when I say that it is entirely possible to raise a child or children as a single parent, I have done so with success. Like I said earlier in this series, my daughter is not doing something wrong. She is gutsy, creative and smart; she is reacting to the world in a way that suits her. I would be excited to learn about this if it were someone else’s daughter. It is a complex statement at this point, but will fall into place as the writing unfolds.


The optimum situation is for a child to have love and guidance from both the feminine and masculine in their equally important ways – role models, self esteem, validation and the complete package (so rare).


Some of these kids on the road have mothers who don’t care, or mothers who do not love them or do but don’t know how, or have never been there, have addictions, are abusive and other very sad stories. Anna is loved, always has been and always will be. She knows this. Is it enough?
(Continued)

Sleepless Nights – Traveling Kids – Part III

Anna told me that all she wanted for Christmas was a soft cello case. Not common, but easy. I tried to stall her. First she was scheduled to leave in November, and then December; I think she finally left some time in January.


Every time she called and told me about the latest flaw in the plan, I cheered secretly in my head. I found that the more I asked, the less I got. I went over and over all of the events and times in her life that would give me clues as to why she was doing this. I mean I can understand so much of it. She is ‘my daughter’. I instilled individuality, strong will and standing up for your beliefs. I provided my kids with a classical home education, exposed them to a vast cultural world and made sure that they were aware of global affairs, politics, environmental accountability and social justice; they were not sheltered. She is the only one of my three who did not home school all the way through. She went to an alternative private (day) school. I wrote about this in a previous blog, but as her mother, I will say that this experience catapulted her into a world of extreme rebellion, anti-disestablishmentism, as the severing of communication between us suffered greatly for some time, although we always maintained a deep level of love for one another.


Anna is following her free spirit code to the letter. It is frightening to think that she is doing exactly what she was taught to do; only I never imagined that this would be the end result, so extreme, so appropriate yet inappropriate, so secretive yet transparent, so brave yet so frightening, so painfully difficult for me to accept. I came up with a few theories, but it does no good to root around in the past; you cannot change it. However, you can understand, have some reasonable explanation for the present and vow to refuse to own guilt that has no place in the present. That seems easy on paper, to read or write, but to actually let go of past mistakes (in child rearing in this case) is challenging.


I found myself thinking that if I had done this or that, or listened to my inner voice, or stood my ground in certain situations, that everything would have gone according to the blueprint that I had crafted in my head, starting from her birth. I drove myself crazy piecing together the past and rearranging the possible outcomes. I know my mistakes, my weaknesses and my imperfections, but there is not a damn thing I can do about what has already happened and in my own defense, I am pleased with the majority of my actions and intentions. Yes, I am wildly imperfect, understanding the beauty in it and leading an organic life.


Unfortunately, many of us allow the negatives to overshadow the positives when assessing the past, especially in times like these. That seems to be prevalent in times of trouble. Maybe these unsavory events are offshoots of the negative elements and emotions from the past; the roots of a gnarly, weedy, unattended garden. So if a person dwells on and sows those little toxic seeds, they become the foundation of the future. I shifted from the damaging events and recalled the numerous positive, healthy and genuinely good experiences that unfolded yet somehow diminished from the big picture of my daughter.


A few years ago, I did something quite significant. I acknowledged my misjudgments that resulted from some challenging circumstances and apologized to my three grown children. I didn’t whip myself into submission; I let them know that I understood how my decisions affected them and gave them an opportunity to address them ‘after the fact.’ We transitioned together – my three children and me – and we learned and grew from negative life altering situations. We all agree that it made us strong and enhanced our character development. I simply wanted them to know that I honored and respected them a few years down the road and in retrospect offered them a chance to iron out any wrinkles left in the fold. We had a ‘stronger than usual’ tie that bound us because of our meaningful home education experience.


I had three kids in three and a half years. I did the diaper thing for a long time; home educated them for nine years, performed together as a musical family, farmed chickens, goats and (heaven help us) bunnies and I experienced three teenagers for a while. So far, they were the best years of my life. Because of our honest communication and my willingness to be open to their process of blossoming from acorns to mighty oaks, it was positive and enlightening.


When I talked to my daughter on the cell phone before she left, she assured me that she was traveling with a male friend and a girlfriend. They were in a vehicle, stopping in Asheville, NC first. Each time I considered calling her, I was like a smoker trying to quit, reaching for a cigarette, and I had to have restraint and fight the urge. Sometimes I even hit “send” and “end” quickly before it rang. If I called her too much, it would create more distance. I could not be desperate. It was sort of like being in high school and staying cool, not answering the telephone on the first ring, when you knew that the cute guy on the other end was calling.


I relied on her facebook status to make sure that she had made it from one point to another. The problem with that is that you are only getting a glimpse or fraction of the whole. Snippets from her reality; a line from a Grateful Dead song or one of her own songs or poems, which left me in a detective mode with my vivid imagination filling in the gaping holes.


While in Asheville, she played in café’s and stayed with another friend I had never heard of. I was relieved when she called me. She told me about a “weird” dream that she had. The main strand was about me dying. I’ve studied enough about dreams (Jung) to know that in her unconscious she was balancing the breaking away from me and all that I taught her in the way of maintaining a certain level of groundedness. She was asserting her independence on yet another level.


By the time she reached New Orleans, I too was in the Deep South in the Gulf of Mexico. Last winter on the Gulf of Mexico was colder than usual with freezing temperatures killing tropical fruit trees, vegetation and sea life such as manatees and fish. New Orleans was damp and raw and 10 hours north. I had no real idea where my daughter was staying. I knew that she was using the term “with friends” loosely. I continued to read her facebook status, look with horror at photos that she was tagged in and lay awake every night. I gave up on making deals with God many years ago when my children used to fly every weekend with their dad in his private plane. Making deals with God is exhausting and unreliable, there has to be another way.


I have discovered that the other way to cope with being gripped by fear in situations, in which you have absolutely no control, is to let go. I have been trying to apply this practice now for some time, not only with Anna, but with my son in the military and my other son who was then struggling to stay in graduate school on a shoestring (I am happy to report that they are both doing well).


The past year has been the most dramatic for me in the way of letting go. I knew that I had to take my hands off the wheel or be willing to accept the oncoming suffering of my health and the complete deterioration of even a shred of inner peace. I wrote a blog about letting go a few weeks ago; I guess I am still in the process and honestly may never be able to completely let go, because of the workings of my heart and the wiring of my soul.


The few times that I talked with Anna afforded me one or two nights of semi-peaceful sleep when I reveled in a sense of false security. In the gentlest way, I asked questions pertaining to her well-being, careful to avoid alienation. Sometimes I caved in and reminded her of all of the dangers that lurked amongst many desperate lonely souls roaming the dark streets of New Orleans. She assured me that she was aware and in fact she was having a wonderful time and that New Orleans was busker friendly; she was making good money. Intuition told me otherwise.


After a few weeks, she called using someone else’s cell phone to tell me that she lost hers. That break in communication was the beginning of a long, dark period of nothingness. She stopped her facebook postings. Silence. I watched the news during Mardigras, hoping to catch a random glimpse of her or gain insight to her world. I texted the phone number that she used to call me, “Please tell Anna to call home.” No response. This is when carrying my cell phone with me at all times became a panic situation. I didn’t hear from her for well over a month.


I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake and prayed every night for God to keep her safe. I even asked my father’s spirit to watch over her and protect her. I had never done anything like that before. In life, I didn’t ask a great deal from Dad, so requesting his services after his death was over the top. I didn’t want to become addicted to sleeping pills but was beginning to feel the effects of sleep deprivation; I took a small dose of melatonin every night so that I could sleep.


I continued to fill in the blanks with my imagination, coming up with dreadful scenarios concerning the whereabouts and state of my daughter. I had nowhere to turn, because I didn’t know any of her friends.


I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown when I read posts on her walls from friends who were pleading with her to contact them and when I saw that the girl who she traveled with had returned to Vermont without her. One post stated that everyone had returned home except for Anna; she wanted to stay. The young man who originally accompanied them on the journey took a detour and went to another state after Asheville. Poppa N. and his infamous raft project were never mentioned.


For the first time in motherhood, I was completely helpless and defeated. Tears constantly threatened to spill, and I was afraid that if I let them surface, they would become a raging waterfall with no end in sight. I could not erase images of my sweet daughter with her radiant smile, rosy cheeks, thick French braids adorned with apple blossoms and wearing her simple blue checked dress. I had difficulty conjuring an image of her at her present age. I refused to watch movies or documentaries that might remind me of the violent society in which we lived. I became reliant on long walks on the beach and collecting shells for solitude. Sadness and despair mingled with fear and then anger. How could she do this to me? I made her promise that she would text or call me weekly to let me know that she was okay and in return I would not keep her tied up on the telephone for long. She broke her promise, or she was not okay.


I started planning my trip to New Orleans to find her. Unimaginable questions started to bombard me; what if I couldn’t find her, what if she was hurt of worse, what if I found her and she didn’t want to come with me? I took a melatonin and went to bed to have my conversations with God and eek out a request to Dad to watch over her one night at a time.

Traveling Kids – The First Leg of the Journey Part II

Last year around this time, my daughter told me that she was going to spend the winter in New Orleans busking on street corners. I felt a jolt in my solar plexus; the same jolt that I experienced a year before when I went to New Orleans and witnessed the deep collective grief, depression and PTSD from Hurricane Katrina as it hung in the sultry air like a heavy, anguished fog.

Even if one did not feel that heavy hand pressing down, the obvious physical signs were everywhere; buildings with watermarks up to the roofs, boarded up windows and doors, dead body counts painted on buildings, piles of rubble and cemeteries with heavy chains on the gates to keep grave robbers out.


After a lengthy career as a successful trumpet player, I felt flat in the wake of the storm. Signs of death and destruction littered the city as far as the eye could see. Crowded tent cities were jammed under highway bridges, but as soon as you turned the corner onto Bourbon Street, it was business as usual. Outrageous Jazz and Dixie riffs that I spent countless hours either listening to or perfecting on my own trumpet drifted out of bars and shops. It was mid afternoon and for the first time in many years I felt like I truly ‘needed’ a drink.


My head pounded. Was it the swirling frozen drink machines or the fact that it was May of 2008 and very little had been done to rebuild this city? I don’t know. I ordered a too big, wonderfully pink and white ‘frozen hurricane’. Was I mad? I don’t know. What I do know is that I felt the rum in short order, and after looking beyond the fallen bricks on the streets other than Bourbon Street, I too got used to NOLA being in ruins. It was Jazz fest and although I did not make it there with one of my own bands, I was there at that time and needed to shake off whatever was freaking me out and enjoy the music and heritage that lingered about.


The partying goes on and on and on in New Orleans. People puke and urinate wherever; business owners must hose down the sidewalks every morning, sort of like Paris without the attitude. The murder rate in New Orleans is one of the highest in the country. Why on earth would I be happy to hear that my beautiful, talented – still wet behind the ears – daughter would be going there without a true plan, with other traveling kids, with her cello and backpack to spend the winter?


When she set out for NOLA, I had never heard the term, ‘traveling kid’. I only knew that some old man who goes by the name, Poppa Neutrino* was encouraging young people to go to New Orleans for the winter to help him build his next raft. I met Poppa N. the previous June when I dropped in to visit my daughter after a writing conference in northern Vermont. He was sitting in front of his old beater van in the driveway of her house in Burlington. I thought it odd to see someone of his age just hanging around with a bunch of college age kids. I didn’t hesitate to get as much information as possible from my daughter regarding this old man. I figured out that he was a guru of sorts. He rejected the status quo back in the sixties by taking a stand against paying rent or mortgage and being a part of the system. He built rafts / houseboats out of recycled trash and raised his family as gypsies – sometimes living in cars – and entertaining people from town to town in a circus type fashion.


His method is to scoop up young, disenchanted people and teach them his ways of dropping out of the system. He is a hero to them; someone who has successfully traded in a lifetime of working tirelessly to make ends meet, while only keeping a corrupt government in place for a life of owning and owing nothing. How wonderful is that?


I can see where this way of thinking is appealing to many, especially in these times, however, there is an extreme aspect of this lifestyle that is not at all as glamorous as it seems. When people are out hopping trains, sleeping in abandoned buildings and eating from the dumpster behind Applebee’s, they are susceptible to diseases, long term health issues and likely victims of crime. (Not to mention that they are not living to their fullest potential).


Of course, as one young man firmly pointed out to me one night as we sat in an outdoor café, “Don’t knock dumpster diving until you try it.”


That shut me up. He is right. How can I say how horrible something is, if I have not even tried it? Many establishments throw away unopened cases of food the same day as the expiration date. Okay, so yes I agree that there is a pitiful amount of waste in this country. We could be using some of this stuff for soup kitchens which brings me to my next point.


These young travelers rely on soup kitchens. One of the first things that they do when they arrive in a new place is check out their resources. So the scenario is that there are wonderful, young, brilliant minded college age kids who have so given up that they rely on dumpsters and soup kitchens. They claim to be happy and unaffected by their families’ objections. I suppose that there are many families who do not know the truth of their grown child’s lifestyle; ignorance is bliss.

To be continued...

*If you wish to learn more about this man, google him; he has made a name for himself.  I am not going into detail of how I feel or what I believe concerning him or his efforts.

So Your Kid is a Traveling Kid – What is a Traveling Kid? Part I

The series that I am about to write is about a new, fast growing, subculture of kids in our society – our offspring – who ‘by choice’ are basically off the radar. They are kids who may or may not have grown up in decent homes; some have a college education; many are college drop outs or never went to college at all; they may or may not have been from broken homes and may or may not be substance abusers. Like any culture, there is a cross section of society representing a vast array of our youth who have chosen a lifestyle that many are not aware of or even know exists. They are easily recognized with their huge frame backpacks, multi-patched clothing, the look of needing a good hot shower and a meal.


The following is an article that I recently wrote in Wikipedia Notes regarding Traveling Kids. I was prompted to write this in response to another article/thesis written by a graduate student at Florida State; a sociology student who portrayed Traveling Kids as deviant and criminal. I have the inside scoop and have been studying them for the past year.
-------------------------------------------------------

It is vital that I comment on this very subjective and inaccurate article. I know many young people who are part of this rapidly growing sub culture known as "Traveling Kids." They are not deviant. They are not criminal. They are not drug users. Of course, like any sub culture, you will find a cross section of many behavioral types. This includes the GOOD as well as the bad. This article/thesis is grossly one sided, not based on factual information and misrepresents the movement.

Because these kids do NOT want recognition and have gone off the radar, it is more difficult to get an accurate description of their actions, philosophies and motives. They "like" it that way. It is not sinister and they are not an underground "mob". In addition, since this is a relatively new movement, there are fewer people who have retired from that lifestyle who are available to comment and shed light on the movement.

It is understandable to me as to why these kids have chosen this path. First of all, with the downturn (crash) of the economy, going to college and staying in college is more challenging and literally impossible for those without parents who foot the bill. This is because student loans are capped well before the necessary expenses are met. Also, Pell Grants are fewer and of lesser amounts and work-study programs parcel out the work to many, making the amount earned peanuts. I know of many young people, including two of my own offspring, who have faced this unimaginable situation. The older one had an easier time obtaining funding for the first two years of music conservatory, and then halfway through his undergraduate work, funding was obsolete and cut off from him (and many others across the country). The financial aid advisor simply stated that he had "maxed out his student loans." What? He was only halfway through the program and he had a few scholarships. I discovered that this was a national crisis that affected a majority of students. He was a Dean's List student, and with his scholarships, and the meager amount of money that he had to work with (student loan)...there was not enough money for living expenses or books and few options for employment. He literally blazed his way through it and did not leave his path, but he suffered greatly. He experienced poverty in every sense of the word. So, he can be categorized as someone who refused to give up, he was driven and actually one-step away from eating from the dumpster.

How fair is that? (Sociology Student). Is the possibility of obtaining higher education in the United States is now tailored ONLY for the rich? Yes. Many students couch surf and DUMPSTER DIVE and share books in order to continue attending college alongside of their WEALTHY COUNTERPARTS. Are they getting a fair crack at their education? No. The deck is stacked. Under these circumstances, the constant worry about paying rent, getting food and EVEN BUYING TEXTBOOKS claims their energy and focus, leading to dropping out or getting lower grades.

Another of my children started college a few years later, and was faced with these impossible financial barriers from the first day. She did not have one or two years of college under her belt to lean on or as a foundation when the lack of funding became in issue. It was nearly impossible from the start.

I know of another young man who recently completed his second year as a very successful student at Berklee School of Music, and he is now working every angle to find a way to continue to get student loans. His resources have been "capped." I told him of some of the private loans available so that he does not have to quit. These private/personal loans have a much higher interest rate than student loans, government loans and Pell Grants! When these students finally graduate with an undergrad degree, they will owe enough money for a small house in today's market. If they go to graduate school, they will have borrowed enough money (with interest) for a bigger house.

I see this all of the time. KIDS WITHOUT OPTIONS.

And then there is the JOB MARKET! Do I have to go there? I will try to make it short. Zero jobs. The jobs available are chopped up into part time jobs so that the employer will not have to provide benefits. Everyone from the student, the young non-student, the older population of unemployed and underemployed, college grads unable to find jobs in their fields....ALL COMPETING FOR THE FEW JOBS OUT THERE. This environment enables employers to under pay employees and abuse their power of authority because if "you don't like it, there are 100 people who are willing to do it for less...whatever "it" is."

The other option is THE MILITARY. How convenient. With recruiters hanging around, dangling debit cards and promised bank accounts and free education, who wouldn't jump on it? War is the alternative. Really? Not everyone is a warmonger, but sometimes-desperate measures call for desperate actions. The Traveling Kids choose not to participate in the "Military Industrial Complex." I have a son currently in the military; I support our troops; it is the integrity of the leaders, the corporations and war itself that is in question.

With little or no options for youth in today's society; horrific corruption, loss of fragile eco systems, extinctions resulting in local and global devastation amidst the longest war in our country's history, why would anyone question the emergence of a growing sub culture of kids (young adults) who opt to remove themselves from the madness, travel and enjoy their lives without the twisted rules of a rapidly crumbling society slapping them around?

There is a code amongst these kids. (Most of them are educated with some college; some actually graduated). They DO NOT STEAL OR PANHANDLE. They do something for their money, such as busk (play music), sell handmade jewelry, knit hats, and juggle. Many follow the harvests and planting seasons as migrant workers. They stick together and are not much different from those (hobos) who travelled during the challenging eras of the Dust Bowl and Great Depression. These are tough times.

There are many cities, counties and states on board – aware of this growing sub culture – that offer resources. The "kids" know of these centers, which have become hubs around the country offering showers, food and a place to stay the night. Many "kids" have friends across the country and open their homes to people passing through. Traveling kids are easy to spot by their oversized framed backpacks.

I was appalled when I read this article. In order to understand the true nature of this sub culture, you must be part of it. To somewhat understand it, you must have contacts, family, friends – someone who you know well and who will take the time out to explain it in detail. These kids are not slouches, nor do they expect to get something for nothing. They do not consider themselves "homeless"; they refer to themselves as "houseless". They choose NOT TO BE A PART of this warped out society at this time, since many of them have run out of options.

There are a few different types of "Traveling Kids" that I know of.

Old Timey kids who are modeled after Woody Guthrie, many play the banjo, accordion, spoons, etc.

Crunchy Hippie Types, the ones you will see with dreds carrying guitars or ukuleles and selling their beadwork.

Bicyclers; they ride their bikes all over the country.

Of course, there are many other "types" if we were to categorize them. They are a microcosm of their generation on foot or bicycling around the country. Are they better or worse than the "kid" who sits around mooching off Mom and Dad? I find the fact that they are NOT freeloading, a higher form of character.

I needed to write this, because I do not want the general population to get the wrong idea when they see these kids en route to their next organic farm harvest or music festival. They are not homeless beggars; they are not criminals; they are not druggies. No more than anyone else. Most of them are gutsy, resourceful and open to change and evolving.

With such sparse information available, I was quite troubled that this is what people get when they Google "Traveling Kids".

I am betting that you received an "A" on your thesis, because there is no point of reference. I hope that more people respond to this one sided article.[[Link title]]

[[Editing Talk: Principles of Sociology / Traveling Kids]]~~~~

Brown Eyes to Brown Eyes : Letting Go

Beware of falling into the trap of thinking that these days will last forever, or even longer than you know that they will. We get caught up in the excitement of daily activities and often cannot imagine a very different life.

Let me be more specific. I remember the transitioning of my being and thoughts as they occurred at the moment of the birth of my first child. In many ways, I too was born on that same day. I looked at my beautiful newborn son and thought; I will protect him with my life and make sure that he is happy, healthy and unharmed. It was a time of truly putting someone else before me in a way that I had never experienced. It was the miracle of life.


I looked at him when he slept, when I nursed him and held him close to my heart. He was unmarked, innocent; a new life starting out as a fresh, unmolded piece of clay. I wondered what shape he would take. Being a potter had taken on a clear new meaning.


Sometimes, in the wee morning hours, I would think that we were the only two people on earth who were awake. Being a first time mother, I had not figured out that it was okay if he was awake, that he didn’t necessarily need anything. He wasn’t fussy, just wakeful. Exhausted and hormonally stirred, I mentioned the lack of sleep to my father. He smiled and told me that we were getting to know each other.


I never expected that kind of maternal wisdom from my father, but I got it; a gift that I continue to cherish. From that day on, whenever anyone complains about lack of sleep because of a newborn, I smile and tell them that they are getting to know each other. This way of thinking took away the edge when I sat up at night with my other two newborns. Celebrate.


When I discovered that I was pregnant again, I panicked a bit because I thought it impossible to love another like I did my son. Sixteen months later, I learned another valuable lesson in motherhood; yes, your heart can handle loving another child as you do the first. That was undeniably remarkable to me then. I loved my two sons unconditionally and knew that when my daughter was born two years later that I had the capacity to love yet another child.


I continued to think that I somehow could keep all three of them safe, loved, nurtured and happy. I have no regrets regarding my love for them then and now. Many of our experiences could be taken from the pages of “Little House on the Prairie.” We played music together, had a farm on a pristine mountaintop and I home educated them for many years. I must add that we were not religious fundamentalists hunkered down waiting for the feds with our guns cocked. We were involved in what I term a “Classical Education.”


The days were filled with laughter, learning, music and discovery. I remember thinking that this was my life and I couldn’t picture it any other way. I was too deliriously busy to entertain the thought of an end. There was always tomorrow.


Of course we had some serious obstacles to face together. Our life was far from perfect and we endured certain traumas that many people would not have escaped unharmed. The hardships themselves were not the issue. How we navigated them was what mattered. They were seeds waiting to be found, gathered and planted for a defining and bountiful future. I am pleased with how we conducted ourselves and the bond that we forged between us; a mother and her three children.


Today they are grown. My eldest is in the Navy and will be married within a year, my second son is in the beginning phases of a solid career violinist and my daughter is a Bohemian gypsy whose choices keep me awake every night. All have chosen a very different path in life that suits them. Like all of us, they are the result of their choices and actions.


I was proud of myself when my first son left for college, I told myself (and others) that I did not suffer from the ‘Empty Nest Syndrome’ because I was careful to nurture and cultivate my own interests and passions. Now I see that it was simply untrue. I did not feel the actual impact of loss because the other two were still at home. The nest was not empty.


I thought that there was something wrong with me because I was handling it so well. Of course I felt a sense of loss when he went away, but it wasn’t as intense as I have seen it in other mothers.


Then a few years later my second son went off to music conservatory. At that point I had sold everything that wasn’t nailed down to afford his music training, so I was relieved that he finally made it. We struggled financially right up until the day before he left.


I wasn’t sure how I felt. The empty nest syndrome was starting to peck lightly into my psyche but it was faint and I could ignore it. I thought that it was the perfect time to really focus on my daughter, who was like that person on the end of the ‘crack the whip’ game that we played on the skating rink of my childhood.


She was sixteen-years-old, had her first boyfriend and went to an alternative private day school. I worked four days a week and attended a low residency graduate school. As much as I wanted to have that special mother – daughter time that seemed to fit so perfectly, it simply didn’t happen.


We enjoyed each other when we had the opportunity, but she was entrenched in the teenage social scene and was anything but typical. Being blessed with an extraordinary amount of creativity that oozes out of each pore can often equal being misunderstood.


As appropriate for a natural, healthy teenager, she needed to separate from me to establish her identity and independence. We are so much alike that it is scary to me in a way and then it was frustrating for her. My mother was not an artist; I grew up as the artsy one in an athletic family. I knew what it was like to be misunderstood. But I get my daughter all too well. It was this almost oneness that drove a sort of wedge between us.


Both of us are cellists, writers, painters, melancholics, naturalists and activists. She published her first book when she was seventeen. When reading it, I was stunned when I read a section of poetry that was unmistakably familiar, yet I had not seen these particular poems before that moment. It was then that I discovered that we used to sit by our windows looking out at the same night sky writing poetry. She was in her room upstairs while I sat in my room below hers. We looked at the same moon, the same apple trees, and the same mountains and wrote very different poetry. Unlike the years of playing cello duets and being in orchestra, we did this alone together.


She went to college for two years and quit so that she could travel around the country playing music with kindred spirits. Her heroes are Jack Kerouac, Woody Guthrie and a host of others who travelled this vast country of ours.


Now I must take time to learn the language of letting go. Last winter she was in New Orleans. When she was there, she lost her cell phone and did not contact me for months. For the first time since she left the safety of our home, I was consumed with fear. It is the unknowing that is too difficult for me to accept. The pecking of the empty nest syndrome shattered me at that point.


She returned to her home base in Vermont last summer and spent time with me. Then she traveled to Chicago for a while and returned again to visit me. When we were together, I asked her to help me understand. We both did our best. She is a ‘traveling kid’, which is part of a rapidly growing subculture of youth who have pretty much given up on our society and lack of options. They travel around the country playing music and doing migrant work. It’s very exciting for them. They are resourceful and have a code amongst themselves. They do not panhandle; however, they earn their money unconventionally. This has been a way of life in this country throughout history.


If she was someone else’s daughter, I would be excited and climb on my soapbox talking about her courage and determination to stay out of a broken system that has let them down in unimaginable ways.


However, she is my daughter. She is traveling as the wind takes her with her backpack and whatever instrument she is taking on that particular leg of her journey. (She started with her cello, and is down to a ukulele). She earns her living by busking.


For the sake of my well being, I am teaching myself to let go of the fear that has gripped me. It is a process, a time to comprehend that our children are not ours at all. We love them, teach them and give them the best guidance that we know how. When they mature and spread their wings to fly, we cannot fly for them. We can let them know that we are here to catch them, hopefully, if they fly close enough and if you know where to find them if and when they fall. It is the most frightening time that I have experienced.


I became a slave to my cell phone, taking it with me into the bathroom, afraid that I might miss her call. This fear has come to own me. But I decided that it cannot, because it was taking a toll on my health. I cannot control another person, even my daughter. It is a waste of energy. I try to erase the constant images that emerge; images of her as a sweet and innocent child who had tea parties with her dolls and the cat. I try to stay in the present and maintain a sense of balance instead of feeling hopeless, afraid and lost.


She will come to visit me again before she heads west. I will not plead with her to stay, as I did before. I will not offer her the moon and stars. I will not pretend that I do not care. I will appreciate the time that we have together and we will sit outside and look at the moon together. She will promise to call me and I will try not to cry.


I am here. It is now. I cannot sell myself to fear. I can, however, pass this message along to you. If you are a parent of young children now, please cherish and savor every moment, because it will not last forever. They grow up and go away. Trust, love and patience is what will bring them back but never as yours, rather as the free spirited individual who they have become. The umbilical cord is not severed; it continues to grow.

The Death of Technology Awakens Life

A few days ago, my much-loved computer died. Well...maybe it isn't completely dead, but so called reliable sources from the Geek Squad and local computer shop prepared me for the reality of the situation. The hard drive is history. This is the first time since 1998 that I have been without computer access.


I detest "woe is me" stories. I will try to make this brief. I am currently unemployed, so dashing out and replacing my computer is not an option. The crash of my computer was completely unexpected, so I was faced with a certain feeling of disempowerment, or more appropriate; hopelessness.


As a writer, I know the significance of backing everything up, which I do on an external hard drive and I have a few flash drives kicking around. The good news is that I did not lose my novel, memoir and many photos. Although the latest drafts of the novel are not there, fortunately they are not major and I guess I was meant to revisit those areas.


I must admit, I was spiraling into a deep, dark pit. I hadn’t felt like this for a long time. This came on the heels of releasing my two younger (grown) children back into the wild, after a good solid month of being together. It’s a healthy thing, a part of life that surely every mother must face and sometimes that means more than once. It had been a long time since I was blessed with the sounds of Mozart and Bach and the others being played brilliantly on the violin at all hours. No matter how logical and balanced I am, I knew that the nest would be empty once again, and that is the way it’s supposed to be. I expected the separation anxiety and know that to be a mother (for me) means that I will experience the maternal joys and disappointments associated with the process. Like all of life, it ebbs and flows.


So, how did I deal with a seemingly dead computer? I allowed the whole thought of being cut off from the internet and Microsoft word to sink in. I went to the “Potholes” up the road and dove into the ice cold water. Sure it was breathtaking, but somehow I thought that by immersing myself without inching my way in safely, that the shock would miraculously wash away the impending doom. Maybe it was a dive into a fresh approach to everything in my life. My inner world had been rocked; nothing like a plunge into a pristine river to gain clarity.


When I went under, I opened my eyes. The rocks were vibrant; some were huge and smooth. I started to dive down and pick up the ones that caught my eye. Then my son went over to an area that appeared to be a simple rock in the middle of the current. It was about a foot high and water gently cascaded over it and meandered into the deep pool where I swam. He called for me to watch as he disappeared under the water. It was like watching a magician. He came up laughing. In front of that rock, is a somewhat narrow hidden pool. He is about 6’3” and the water was about to his chest.


I could not believe it. I have been swimming in some of the most amazing rivers, lakes and oceans my whole life, but never seen this. He climbed out so that I could give it a shot. I slid into the hole and pushed myself down with my hands. It was an entirely new world. Before going into the hole, I noticed that there was a deeper voice in the river chorus. Being an artist over a scientist, I chose to marvel at the various pitches in the water flow rather than dissect the cause. However, descending into the underwater hole explained it. While I was under water, I looked up at the water pouring over the surface of the small pool. It was deafening. The sky and trees wavered through the lens of the untamed rush of water. It made me laugh and I swallowed a bunch of water. I came up choking and giggling madly. God, I needed that. I went down again. This unusual hiding place in the river was a miracle; a miracle that I needed that day.


Refreshed and relieved, I went home to realize that in order to capture that moment, I had to resort to a pen and paper. I was edgy. This sucked. I needed to fire up my computer and start wailing on the keyboard as fast as I could. But hold on. Was this really so bad? Was my dependency on modern technology so intense? Yes. It was. I faced the hard truth; I was addicted to the ease of writing on my computer.


This was something to ponder. What about all of those who came before me? Am I that removed from them?


I needed to check my email. Because I am a perennial hermitess, it is a requirement for me to live in the woods; therefore, I was suddenly at the mercy of the local libraries and their random hours. I opted to drive forty minutes one way in the morning so that I could combine my computer time with going to the grocery store.


I sat on the porch and looked at the stars. Can I go to the library and write my blogs and queries and op eds and letters and all of that stuff that consumes me? Even chocolate wouldn’t help with this one.


I lay awake and thought, this was meant to happen, I have to spend more time making jewelry and candles to sell. I have to catch up on my reading. I need to play my cello.


When I woke up in the morning I walked into my office and stared at the carcass of my computer. It was time to put it in the case. The shock of the sudden death was starting to transform into anger and betrayal. I always did updates and virus checks. I never took chances of it being zapped by power surges. I kept my drinks far away. I pampered it like a baby and this is what I get?


It was a sweltering 97 degrees. I had to go into that secret hole in the river. I needed a head change.

I practically ran over the rocks to plunge into that magical hole when I hit a wall of pungent smoke. A rather self important, white haired man sat right next to the magic rock reading the newspaper and toking on a fat cigar. Sigh.

I wasn’t in the mood for small talk and certainly was not ready to divulge my secret. I would return to the hole another time.


I spent the evening detaching from my son who was leaving for Boston in the morning. My daughter left a few days before. I have to scream at myself not to be overly doting. I asked him to please, please, please pick up the “bunk room” so that I did not have to go through it. If I go through it, I will be sad. Plus, I have other things to do than pick up after people.


I did well; I gave him some of my homemade blackberry jam and fresh herbs and refrained from exposing my true feelings. My eyes filled with tears and I hugged him hard. He was sweet; he knows how much I appreciated our time together.


He left. I sat on the porch and had a huge meltdown. It was cleansing. I wanted to make sure that whatever feelings were raging around were able to be. I acknowledged them. They are a healthy part of who I am. Now that I was sitting there alone with no link to the outside world, it was time to simply be in the moment, ickiness and all.


I walked over to the vibrant pink phlox and inhaled. What joy! I kicked off my well worn flip flops and walked on the wet grass. Walking barefoot was always a requirement for me; lately I had forgotten and needed that connection with Our Mother. The dragonflies were thick. I noticed a large green one hovering nearby and a small bright red one on a goldenrod. I attached myself to the moment. The clouds were moving fast; it was muggy and the air was heavy with the scent of pine.


I emptied the well inside of me so that I could take in what was around me in that moment. It was liberating. I would not allow a computer to have power over me. The world around me is life waiting.


I went into the bunk room without sadness or a feeling of abandonment. I was grateful for the meaningful experiences that I shared with Shelby and Anna. What a gift. As I was about to turn around and leave the room, I noticed the old laptop that Shelby had left. I worked on it about a month ago; cleaning it up and restoring it. He wasn’t interested in it. Wow. I went into my office and set it up. At this point it is fine. It will work until I am able to replace mine.


I am not certain of what is really lost as far as documents, but I know that the critical documents are intact on the external drive. It doesn’t matter. A piece of equipment makes life easier and is necessary to navigate my world in many ways, however, nothing replaces life; breathing, living, all encompassing life.


It isn’t the experiences that we go through that matters, it is how we react and turn these experiences into opportunities. Missing possibilities is not an option.


I will catch up on my blogs soon.

Have a safe and glorious weekend.