Housesitting and Home and Dogs

Winter California hiking

 

The first half of 2024 has been a mix of housesitting and staying home at our casita. At home, Dave loves to garden, I like to hill hike, we enjoy being close to the beach, and we like our community. So why not stay put? Because we like exploring. And we like living many different lives.

California coyote

In January we housesat in California, in a home I first stepped my size-10 foot in more than 30 years ago. It belonged to Gabriele Rico, my other-mother and mentor, whom I've written about in Call It Wonder. She died a decade ago, and the last time I stood in her house was for her celebration of life. 

Bath with a view in Cupertino.

Her former husband asked Dave and me if we'd come care for the home for five weeks--a book-and-art studded place in the Cupertino hills. All we had to do was feed the koi and haul the garbage cans to the bottom of the driveway once a week. He sweetened the deal by letting us use his car. It's always good to see friends and to nestle into the familiarity of the area (until the reality of traffic and prices hit).

Happy to get some Stacey time.

And some Sally & Kelly time...on the deck of the house.

Much of the home is the way it had been when Gabriele lived there, including her office. She taught me so much about writing, and she helped my creative soul come alive. I pulled off the shelf several books I'd given her over the years, including the first literary magazine that published my poetry. As I sat at her desk, I could feel her energy as I worked on planning for my forthcoming writing retreat. 

Fast-forward a few months to that, back in Mexico:

Revolutionary Writers!

Seventeen revolutionary women gathered in Baja Sur for Angela Yarber's and my Reimagining Writing retreat, where we wrote, beach walked, swam, got massages, rode horses, did yoga, ate incredible food, played music, experienced the eclipse and a sound bath--and most importantly, created a community of writers we will never forget. This retreat had been in the making for a year--and it surpassed my dreams in quality, heart, and intensity. Afterward, I slept three 10-hour nights!

Dave, Miles & Jude 

At home, we got some magical hang-out time with our friends Jude, Melissa, and their son Miles who visited Todos Santos. We enjoyed our regular lives of cooking, reading, and yoga--and I borrowed my friends' dogs for walks. 

walking with Sierra

walking with Deva

Whenever we're gone I especially miss Zumba. The Todos Santos class makes me feel like a teenager dancing in the chorus of the spring musical. The whole thing is so positive and uplifting.

I'm in the back in pink, flashing a peace sign.

Even though I love to  move my body, I discovered my cholesterol had soared. So I cut off the half-and-half that had slipped back into my mornings and finally and happily quit alcohol for good (that one's been coming on for 9 years). I also began eating oatmeal with flax and fruit every morning, dates for dessert, and cut back on portions. In just over two months, my cholesterol dropped 100 points! Eating this way makes me feel great, so that's my motivation now.

Another housesit opportunity came along: two weeks at a big house with a pool and jacuzzi and darling dog named Ollie, an hour south of us in Cabo. 

It was nice to have our own pool and jacuzzi for a couple of weeks.

The owner said we could have a friend come stay. So we got to celebrate Dave's birthday with one of his best friends, Craig.

Dave and Craig in Cabo.

with Craig in San Jose del Cabo for a taco feast

Also, lucky us, one of my BFFs Nancy, with her husband Andy, happened to be in Cabo for the weekend--and they took us to a local soccer (futbol) game. The stands were packed and when Los Cabos United won, the celebration began with people drumming and singing and dancing. I loved seeing this side of Mexico.

Futbol in our new jerseys!

The Cabo homeowner asked us if we could come back in June for a few days. I was tempted since I'd fallen head-over-paws in love with Ollie, who followed me around like he loved me just as much.

Ollie  with me, the jacuzzi, and the mermaid.

But I wanted to suck up every moment at home until we leave in early July (more on that in a moment). So here's a first: she's bringing him to me for a few days in June. I can't wait to take him on my hikes and beach walks.

I'm realizing there are lots of DOGS in this entry. I casually said to Dave the other day that I might be ready soon to get our own dog. He looked at me cross-eyed, trying to register that I said this on the eve of our leaving to travel for 8 months. Would I really want to leave my own dog for that long, even if it was with loving sitters like us?

Hm...okay, maybe I was jumping the pistola. Who knows how I'll feel when we return after traveling to:

England

Wales

Portugal 

Paris

Spain

Cape Verde

Brazil

Argentina

Peru

Colombia

and ?

Our itinerary isn't completely set, but we know this will involve housesits, rentals, visiting friends, flights, trains, a rental car, and at least one boat.

A nice couple with, yes, a dog, will be in our home during that time. Why won't that be us? Because over a decade ago we decided we wanted to see the world. And we're not done yet.

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PS: I've been talking about nomadding and housesitting on podcasts lately. Check these out:

How to Write Freely (hint: Befriend Your Mind)

 

Years ago—via the work of Gabriele Rico, NatalieGoldberg, Anne Lamott, and Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi—I learned about the right brain vs. left brain, the creator vs. the critic, the writing of the shitty first draft, the generative power of flow. These concepts helped me a lot as a writer. They helped me surrender to the stream (the dream, the trance) of writing. Writing unharnessed, I could feel my unconscious do its work. When I was in the flow, words poured onto the page; patterns and meanings emerged.

And yet there were competing voices. Voices that said writing is hard. Really, really hard. The boot camp voices: You must be disciplined. You must keep your butt in the seat. The existential voices: You have to open a vein and bleed on the page. You must kill your darlings. The masochist: If you don’t suffer, you’re doing it wrong. If you don’t sacrifice your life to your art, you are a poser.

These competing, contradictory voices fought inside me. As I result, I’d experience stretches of flow and confidence, followed by expanses of scarcity and deep doubt. I wrote numerous short pieces, but I stopped several books fifty pages in.

One day I came across a book called Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey. In his examination of the working lives of famous writers and artists from the 19^th century to the present, I saw that the most prolific artists do work most days to take advantage of momentum. 

But not all day, every day. 

Generally three or four hours a day—with a day or two off a week. For many, more work than that becomes self-sabotaging, leading to burn-out. This four-hour pace is about creating a body of work, of living a sustainable life as an artist. Their focus is the process, not an attachment to the product. But what struck me the most was this: They adjust their thinking to their benefit.

While writing or painting or sculpting wasn’t always easy, many of these artists foster the attitude of Willa Cather, who said: 

“If I made a chore of it, my enthusiasm would die. I make an adventure of it every day.”

The word “adventure” popped off the page. Adventures can be arduous. They can have scary moments. But we love them! We choose them!

The book I wanted to write was, in part, about the adventure my husband and I embarked upon: leaving our jobs and home to live as nomads. It was a memoir about how life is an adventure. How we transformed when we stepped into the fertile void. Suddenly, the plot and the process of my project felt interlinked.

It had been six years since I’d written a book. The stakes felt high. I’d retired early in order to focus on my writing.

We were staying for four months at a house in Tahoe. The house had extra rooms, and groups of our friends would be coming and going. I decided that no matter what, I’d write two to four hours a day, with my earbuds in playing music to inspire me, to make it fun—and to block out the noise of all those people. When I took off the earbuds, I’d be living my balanced life: we’d talk, make food, go hiking and snow-shoeing.

 

The first day I sat to write, I turned on my computer and, with my hands on my lap, took a deep breath. Spontaneously, I closed my eyes, and listened to my inner voice say something like this:

I’m writing today because I choose it. It’s an adventure! It’s about allowing, not forcing. It’s about being curious and joyful. I am doing this because I love it. I’m willing to make a mess, like a finger-painting kid. I trust my instincts. My unconscious will guide me. I’m willing to get lost in the dream of writing.

I opened my eyes and was off and running. Every day, I closed my eyes and gave myself what I began to call a “Meditative Pep Talk.”

Never before had I written so prolifically. Words poured out like water. If I hit a speed bump, I’d close my eyes, breathe, and tap into thoughts served me best. Thoughts like, It’s okay to be unsure. It’s okay to not know. You’re doing this because you love it. You’re not suffering, you’re adventuring.

In four months, I wrote 160,000 words. That’s about five or six double-spaced pages a day.

When it came time to revise, I knew I’d have to cut. I decided I wasn’t killing my darlings; I was pulling weeds so the garden would thrive. Every day I appreciated how all those extraneous words were instrumental in forming the essential ones. I thought about Michelangelo, who said: “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.”

I have a choice. I can believe my fears or I can believe my assurances. As though my process and my product wove together like a Moebius strip, I ended up titling my memoir: Call It Wonder, from OSHO who said: 

“Don’t call it uncertainty—call it wonder. 

Don’t call it insecurity—call it freedom.”

L.A. Living

Nomadic living is a life of contrasts. After housesitting for two months in a large, custom built house in a Pacific Northwest forest, we are now house- (or I should say apartment-) sitting smack-dab in West Hollywood. Instead of bird sounds and trees swaying in the wind, we hear sirens, car alarms and blaring rap. Instead of running two huge golden retrievers at the beach, we walk a sturdy little pug named Duke down city streets and on canyon hikes.

Runyon Canyon with Duke and L.A. skyline

After the slow life in a small town, we were both a bit rattled by the L.A. traffic and noise. But as usual, a few days in and we--adaptive creatures that we are--were buzzing around town by car and on foot, checking out quirky stores and restaurants, and letting everyone from children to homeless guys pet the adorable Duke, who is a people- and dog-magnet. 

Santa Monica Blvd.

Oh, and then there was Halloween. It just so happened that our stay here corresponded with one of the largest and craziest Halloween gatherings in the world. 500,000 people in elaborate costumes and six stages with bands. It was such a wild scene it felt like another planet. And all we had to do was fashion costumes from our scant suitcase belongings then mosey down the street.

Some of the tamer costumes.

Girls just wanna have fun!

Prior to our housesit, we stayed a weekend with L.A. friends and a week with other friends in Ventura County. We boogied down at two Raw Oyster Cult shows and a Phish show, surrounded by a  love-krewe.

Phish at the Forum

If this wasn't enough, we watched several World Series games with our friends' three boys (twins age 9 and a 7-year-old), all big Giants fans. And we saw the WIN at Barney's Beanery, an L.A. institution, which we walked to from the apartment.

L.A. has turned out to be a haven of connection. One of our friends just happened to be in town from Phoenix with her girlfriend who is Cambodian. We met in Chinatown--my first time there--and ate incredibly delicious and inexpensive Cambodian food, ordered by our resident expert. We then walked the streets and popped into some other food places to get super-cheap pork buns and baked goods to-go.

Five people, and we ate almost all of it!  (photo by Chhoun Chan Rasmey)

One evening we went to Suzanne Rico's house, the daughter of my beloved mentor and other-mother Gabriele Rico. She and her hubby made us a fabulous meal, and we enjoyed hanging out with them and their boys. Suzanne and I both have the wanderlust and writing genes, so we had a lot to talk about.

Suzanne's son Ado checking out the treats from a West Hollywood Russian bakery.

Then this morning my longtime friend and her husband revved up the Maserati (another first for me!) and drove us to Santa Monica for breakfast at Patrick's Roadhouse--a super-charming place where we ate phat food on the balcony overlooking the ocean.

All of this feels like a kind of extended bon voyage since in a week we will be driving down to our new pad in Baja. Every day is the turning of a page. A new chapter awaits.

Guardian Angel

My guardian angel.

Since so many of you wonderful people are asking:  My surgery is Thursday August 8 at 7:30 a.m. at Dominican Hospital in Santa Cruz. All loving thoughts of healing, ease, and flow accepted!

I'm clearer than ever that it's not only the living who are looking out for me. As I mentioned before, when I awoke to a seizure last week, I'd been dreaming that my recently departed friend and mentor, Gabriele Rico, had been talking to me. She was telling me that the veil between life and death is thinner than we think. This was a comforting conversation. She was saying there's nothing to be afraid of. She was saying that moving from one state to the next is like lifting a gauze curtain. She was saying if we relax and allow it, we can experience more of the mystery than we might imagine.

These reassuring, beautiful sentiments resonated with me even as my body was seizing, even as part of me was thinking I was certainly dying.

A hummingbird, one of Gabriele's favorite creatures, at her bird feeder.

Fast-forward a week. Dave and I are not in Hawaii as planned, but in California for my medical treatment. Because of this change in schedule, we are able to attend the gathering to scatter Gabriele's ashes.

Gabriele's family and friends are assembled in her magnificent house in the Cupertino hills, a place imbued with her loving energy and creative spirit. I'm talking to one of her daughters about my brain tumor, when a women standing right next to us says, "Did you say you have a meningioma? I had one of those!"

With Eddi Lynn, wearing scarves made by Gabriele.

Turns out her name is Eddi Lynn.  She's also a longtime friend of Gabriele's and a writer. Her tumor was diagnosed when she was 50, just like me. She had the tumor removed five years ago and quickly was able to get back to her normal life.

Watching Gabriele's ashes being buried
from the deck overlooking her beloved canyon.

So there I am, reeling at this synchronicity, when Gabriele's husband, Rich, pulls me aside.  He asks me if, as part of the evening's ceremony, I'd read a poem. I say I'd be honored, and here's what he hands me:

Let Evening Come (by Jane Kenyon)

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

This poem is like another version of Gabriele's message in the dream. When the night comes, the stars appear. Allow the rhythms of life to unfold. Do not be afraid.

She told me this in my dream, right before the seizure. She told it to me in her home, on the day of the scattering of her ashes, through her longtime friend. She told me through a poem. If those aren't the actions of a guardian angel, I don't know what are.

"Let Your Soul and Spirit Fly..."

Last time we were in L.A., Dave got to test drive our friend Andy's Maserati.  This time, I drove the new BMW of our friend Jude.

Melissa and Jude, and his bro Brent

Cars are like citizens here.  They have their own personalities.  The BMW propelled itself down the road, smiling slickly at the Escalades, Jaguars, and the occasional Honda.  

I was driving the car because we dropped Jude and Melissa off at the airport.  They are generously letting us stay two days at their place while they're off to the East Coast. 

Marina del Rey

But first we spent a wonderful Thai-take-out-and-wine evening with them.  And we watched the video of our Australian friend Mark playing the piano.  

Jude was impressed with the love and commitment it takes to play with such skill and emotion.  It inspired him to take out his guitar.  As he often does, he played his sweetly gravelly rendition of my favorite song:  "Into the Mystic."

Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly
Into the mystic 

And when that fog horn blows 
I will be coming home
And when the fog horn blows 
I want to hear it
I don't have to fear it

Sea air drifted in through the open sliding glass door, the ocean ambiance reflecting this mariner song.  And suddenly I realized the lyrics were speaking to me about my friend and mentor, Gabriele Rico.  It would have been her 76th birthday that day. I'd just read an incredible piece by her daughter about how as she was dying, Gabriele said she was experiencing an "awakening." And that she felt no fear. (I want to hear it, I don't have to fear it...)

These thoughts still resonated with me today as Dave and I rode bikes through Venice Beach to Santa Monica.  

I was thinking about how living isn't possible without dying.  And while we're alive, shouldn't we let our soul and spirit fly?  

Isn't it all about being in this moment?

I thought about how often we humans wriggle out of the present by drumming up thoughts about the past, by worrying about the future, and by harshly judging ourselves and others.

I wondered if riding a bike had any meaning--if that moment in life was really just about pushing my feet onto the pedals to move the bike forward and feeling the sun and sea air on my skin.  

I thought:  Is this really enough?  If I'm not going back to teaching, or raising kids, or going to therapy, or introducing bills to Congress...does my life have purpose?  Do we have to have purpose--other than to let our soul and spirit fly? 

Venice Beach

Later, as Dave and I soaked in the pool and jacuzzi, I also soaked in thoughts of the abundance of loving friends and shiny cars and blue water and vast stretches of white sand, and wacky, colorful Venice Beach characters.  

And I realized that on our journey of giving up home and job to travel the world, I'm digging around into this seemingly banal but bottom-line question:  What is life about, after all?

And I'm learning more deeply about what it means not to do, or to have, but to be.

Writing on the patio.

How to Write a Memoir

Image from one of my favorite books of all time.

Dear Dr. Kate,

What do you recommend to writers who are working on memoirs?  I’ve been putting down ideas for some time but feel like I don’t know how to continue.

Sincerely,

Neophyte Writer

Dear Neophyte Writer,

1.  Read a bunch of memoirs.

Read them not just as a reader but as a writer.  Pay attention to the variety of ways these writers linger on the most important moments, dig into scenes, reflect, move from chapter to chapter, and organize their stories.  You’ll see there are so many ways to do these things.  Books are your best teachers.  Here are a few of my favorites:

Just Kids (Patty Smith)
The Journal of a Solitude (May Sarton)
The Cactus Eaters (Dan White)
Wild (Cheryl Strayed)
Tales of a Female Nomad (Rita Gelman)
Another Bullshit Night in Suck City (Nick Flynn)
She’s Not There (Jennifer Finney Boylan)
Persepolis (Marjane Satrapi)
Death in Slow Motion (Eleanor Cooney)
The Birdhouse Chronicles (Cathleen Miller)
Jesus Land (Julia Scheeres)
Paula (Isabele Allende)
This Boy’s Life (Tobias Wolff)
Little Princes (Conor Grennan)
The Glass Castle (Jeanette Walls; I recommend you read her “true life novel” Half Broke Horses first)
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (Dave Eggers)
Any book by David Sedaris

There are a zillion more.  With a brief Googling, you can find ones you’ll love and can learn a lot from.

Also, some books about writing that you might like:  Writing Down the Bones(Natalie Goldberg), Wild Mind (Natalie Goldberg), and Bird by Bird (Anne Lamott).  If you feel “stuck,” read Writing the Natural Way (Gabriele Rico) and do the exercises in each chapter.

2.  Keep writing.

Find the juiciest moments, the most important scenarios, the meatiest stories–and dig into them.  Linger in them, and write and write.  Develop full scenes with sensory detail.  Help us feel like we are there.  Riff on connections to other memories, thoughts, reflections, feelings, mixed feelings, desires. Memoir is a rich combination of scene and reflection.  Help us see the locations and people keenly,so we can experience your life through your eyes. Also, whenever there’s an important moment coming, build up to it; develop the tension and conflict fully.  USE the books above to pay close attention to how all these writers do these things.

3.  Consider joining a writing group, or create one of your own.

I’m part of a writing group that meets once a month.  We share pages we’re working on, giving each other critical feedback and support.

4.  Consider starting a blog, in which you post short segments.

This way, you can “test drive” portions of your book.  And then you’re also building a readership for your book when it’s published.

5.  When it comes time to think about publishing, have a look at what I’ve said about:

Publishing a Book

Self Publishing a Book

6.  Enjoy the process. 

As Anais Nin said, “We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection.”

Affecting Eternity: Thoughts Upon Leaving Teaching

Teachers affect eternity.  They never know where their influence ends.  - Henry Adams

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When I was student teaching high school in the mid 1980s, a student asked me to the prom.   That's how young I was.  (I told him he had to wrap his mind around the fact that I was his teacher.)

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When I was student teaching in a middle school, I was so baffled about how to fill up a 50-minute class session that I read aloud all of Call of the Wild to the students.  That took at least a week.  (Who knew one day my sister would marry Jack London's great-grandson?)

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When I was teaching in Japan and my six little charges couldn't sit still another minute, I'd do one of two things:  1) Turn on Madonna's "Holiday" and dance with the kiddies around the room, sing-shouting the lyrics together, or 2) Take out a long rope, tell each kid to hold onto one of the knots interspersed down the length of the rope, and then take them on the three-block walk to a convenience store where each could pick out one snack item, as long as they asked for it in English.

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"I aspire to try to be a teacher to my young fans who feel just like I felt when I was younger.  I just felt like a freak.  ... I want to free them of their fears and make them feel that they can make their own space in the world." - Lady Gaga

In one of my frosh comp classes, students were writing about important events in their lives.  One guy wrote about going to a Lada Gaga "Monster's Ball" concert wearing exactly what he wanted to:  a sparkly blue dress.  He was scared at first, but then dancing to her music made him feel more and more brave until he felt, bursting with happiness, that he was one of her "little monsters."

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In my Queer Arts course, one girl in the class talked about how she came out as a lesbian as a sophomore in high school, and then was elected homecoming queen her senior year.  We loved looking at her yearbook pictures of homecoming:  the homecoming queen, escorted by her girlfriend.

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Last August, on the first day of the semester, I checked my phone during class break.  My sister had called to tell me my mom had passed away.  I knew it was coming.  Mom had Alzheimer's and hadn't spoken in over a year.  Two days prior, I'd spent the day with her.  Lying next to her on her bed, I massaged her, I played Hawaiian music (her favorite), and I talked to her about all my good memories of my childhood.  I also told her the new semester was starting.  A retired school nurse and writer, she liked that we had in common educating and writing.  Perhaps that's why, after the break, I finished teaching my class.  I was kind of numb but I couldn't think of what else to do.  I didn't have my car with me (I'd taken the bus to work), and Mom was in good hands with my sisters 45 minutes away.  I told my T.A.--a graduate student--what had happened, just in case I needed to step out.  I made it through the rest of class.  Afterward, my T.A. said, "I'm so sorry about your Mom, Kate."  I looked at his young face and thought about how sweet he was, and how being in your twenties is a different animal than being in your 40's.  Then he said, "I understand what you're going through.  I lost my mom when I was ten."  As we walked across campus, he told me the story of her illness, of his taking care of her.  What a gift he gave me that day--a reminder that we all have losses in our lives, and that some of us have our mothers longer than others. 

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"It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge." - A. Einstein

My mentor Gabriele Rico--the woman who sparked a flame in me for teaching, for writing, for poetry--died last week.  Everything I do is "stitched with her color."  My office is in the building where hers used to be.  I often feel her presence in that building, and in the classrooms where I teach.  Especially when I'm having my students do clustering or re-creation to awaken their inner geniuses. Gabriele believed everyone had powerful potential.  Her life was devoted to inspiring people to let their unique creativity shine. 

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I'm retiring from teaching this year.  It feels like such a fitting time.  Recently I came across this "Love Letters" website and thought about how I would use it in a writing class.  This is how my mind has worked for years:  everything I encounter gets sifted through the how might students respond to this filter.  I sent an email to a group of my teacher friends telling them my ideas and giving them the link, and several wrote back enthusiastic about this new teaching idea.  One wrote:  "Oh Kate, you'll never stop teaching, a very good thing."

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During my first year of teaching high school, I saw a former English professor of mine who had been so enthusiastic and knowledgeable about Hemingway and Fitzgerald that I couldn't help but fall in love with them.  In fact, I had just taught "Hills Like White Elephants" and felt like I knew how to hook students into the story because of his teaching.  I had an impulse to run up and say something, but I wavered.  And then I thought, what the hell and did it.  I could tell it took him a minute to remember me.  And then I told him he'd had a big influence on me, which had enriched my teaching.  To my surprise, his eyes misted.  Then he said:  "Well, this is interesting timing.  I was just going to sign my retirement papers.  And before you stopped me what was going through my mind was this:  I wonder if what I've done all these years has really mattered."

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Here's an email I received last week from a former student:  I hope you remember me. ... I haven't seen you in quite some time, so I would like to offer my congratulations, as I know you were recently married! ... I am thrilled for you! Kate, you may not realize, but you have taught me so much about what it looks like to be an individual, to be unique, and to be comfortable in my own skin. My growing process could not possibly have been complete without your encouragement along the way, so thank you from the bottom of my heart.

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