By

Ernest Dempsey

Tue January 24, 2023

Loving Healing Press author Nancy Wesson has won the 2022 Moritz Thomsen Peace Corps Experience Award Winner for her book I Miss the Rain in Africa.

Initiated in 1992, the Moritz Thomsen Peace Corps Experience Award has been presented annually to a Peace Corps Volunteer or staff member, past or present, for the best depiction of life in the Peace Corps – be it daily life, project assignment, travel, host country nationals, other Volunteers, or readjustment. Nancy Wesson became the latest winner of the prize for her memoir I Miss the Rain in Africa published in May 2021.

Instead of retiring at the age of 64, Nancy Wesson became a Peace Corps Volunteer in post-war Northern Uganda from 2011 to 2013. When she returned home, she embarked on a new phase of revelations about family wounds, mystical experiences, and personal foibles. I Miss the Rain in Africa commemorates that transformational phase in life from volunteering to serve in Uganda to discovering and absorbing the changes waiting for her back home.

Looking back at the writing process involved, Wesson calls this book special for reliving her adventure that brought everything back in hyperfocus, and begged examination of what she’d learned. Although the experience itself was unique, the transformation it set in motion is available to any reader ready for their own exploration of self. At the same time, it was a challenging experience in more than one way.

“I ended up trimming the manuscript by half and it made it a better book,” Wesson remembers revising her work. “But the greatest challenge began when I reached what I thought would be the end and the muse took over, insisting we do a deep dive into the changes that resulted from returning to a life that no longer fit.”

Nancy Wesson’s experience in Africa still contributes to her life as she relishes spending a lot of time with her grandson.

“But I continue to seek ways to share the PC experience and the gratitude it instilled with a larger audience,” she tells as she looks ahead in the future of her creative journey. She is currently writing her next book using her long metaphysical journey to offer others practical ways to use their own intuition.

Visit 222.NancyWessonAuthor.com to learn more about Nancy’s books.

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I Miss the Rain in Africa won the 2022 Silver Nautilus Award in the category of World-Cultures’ Transformational Growth & Development. The category, which falls in the general readership division, includes books that offer insightful perspectives on possible futures and how Humanity embraces its next steps.

Published in May 2021, Wesson’s book gives an autobiographical account of the author’s service and life as a Peace Corps Volunteer in post-war Northern Uganda. Her journey spans living in a radically different culture and environment and then returning home to reconcile a life that no longer “fits.” While the book took about a year to complete and was written in full by the fall of 2020, the pandemic delayed the release a bit.

The standard serving time as Peace Corps Volunteer is 27 months, but Nancy Wesson stayed longer to help a child she was sponsoring in school to get through his end-of-year exams. She lived in Uganda for a little over two years.

“My enduring takeaway remains living with gratitude and being fully present for life,” Nancy comments on her life in the African land.

I Miss the Rain in Africa summons the power of stepping into the void to reconfigure life and enter the wilderness of the uncharted territory of our own memories and psyche. The journey through the social life of personal foibles and family wounds synchronizes with the inner journey of mystical experiences. But what is special about the rain in Africa to make it into the book’s title?

“It is the most thunderous, monsoon-type of rain, eclipsing all else – bringing life to a halt,” says Nancy Wesson. She describes how rain in Africa is usually accompanied by the loss of electric power, and being cocooned in a dark house lit only by candle light, enveloped by the sound of the rain and thunder, creates a mystical, introspective experience.

Nancy Wesson’s books and articles are all online at her website https://nancywesson.com/.

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I have renewed sympathy for Humpty Dumpty, and huge appreciation for the fact that there was an ankle specialist in the practice that gave me a new hip two years ago.

It started out innocently enough…

I’d thought with the end of the proceeding event of a lumpectomy and five weeks of very targeted radiation therapy for a fairly benign form of breast cancer, I was over the hump. So off on a lovely family trip to the coast, as we say here. If I’d gone to the coast in Texas, Louisiana, Florida – or any number of other places I’ve lived, we’d say we went to the beach. I think on the Atlantic side, it’s called going to the shore. Here it’s going to the coast.

Within half an hour of arrival, we set off on a trail that took us over the dunes and that’s where the mischief started – mischief that ended up putting me totally out of commission for two months. No walking. No driving. No nuthin’. I’m just beginning to walk again, and feel like a clumsy, oversized toddler. This, too, is humbling.

But… I’m getting ahead of myself…

As luck would have it, after a nauseating couple of hours round-trip in the back seat of the car, and a few hours in the ER, I returned with what Colton, my grandson, called a huge bandaid. Splinted and wrapped in enough layers to keep it safe in an atomic blast, it remained thus until surgery a week later. The next morning, a balloon-tire wheelchair was commandeered from the Visitors’ Bureau and these two hunky sons, got me on the beach.

Killin’ Time

During the endless down-time, someone suggested I fill my time with poetry. So – with Dr. Suess as my muse – I did. Here’s a sample. Please don’t throw tomatoes at me. Turns out I wrote it without realizing the form actually has a name: Narrative Poetry! Who knew. Well – now you do, too.

Have a chuckle – and know that this is just what transpired!

Once Upon a Sand Dune

Once upon a sand-dune slope
The kids below were waiting.
The sea ahead, its spume afloat
The dune, its secret waiting.
One way down was straight and steep,
The other mildly sloping.
She stood upon the mighty heap,
And did her best at coping.
Don't be a weenie, said she to self,
Never one for slopes.
Just slide on down that sandy shelf!
She screwed up all her hopes.
She scanned the dune for flatter ground,
But none was there in view.
How hard could it be - she looked around
Then planted her stance askew.
And then it happened, left foot down,
The slide, it did unfold...
The uphill foot did twist around,
And thus began the roll!
Legs and arms akimbo,
with Colton down below...
The two began to roll as one
Wound up like a bow.
Laughter all around was heard.
As a pratfall it was perfect!
But then there was a cracking sound,
Kim's the one that heard it!
Her ankle was a lovely hue
And move it she could not.
Purple, red, and slightly blue -
Move it she WOULD not!
How to get her off the beach!
Discussions did ensue.
Airlift, coach, or ambulance?
Were options to review.

The cavalry came on wheels of four -
Two firemen, they were conjured.
How best to get her through the door
Of the chariot, just yonder?
They settled upon the life-and-hop
and jostled her to the jeep.
Th ride to town was bumpety-bump,
The language was bleepety-bleep.
Off the beach the bumbled,
Bouncing all the way.
And to the house they rumbled,
Where a chairlift saved the day.
Three big cracks and dislocation -
The ankle was a mess!
Colton noticed the big band-aid-tion
And said it was the best!
But wait! The drama is not finished!
Once at home, she kept it up.
Her balance much diminished...
she fell and landed on her butt-
Then broke her hand to finish.
The surgeons, they did fix their dates.
Urgent, it was hailed.
Then COVID reared its ugly face.
What fuckery doth prevail!
Still, we had the best of times,
Played games and ate a pile.
Found a balloon-tire wheelchair
And rolled to the beach in style
The laughs we had were just sublime!
I wouldn't change a thing.
And though I have run out of rhyme,
I can't wait to go again.

Almost without exception, my mystical friends have asked, “Why do you think this happened?” And while I can give a million different possible symbolic reasons – or admit that stuff just happens – I can say that being totally dependent on others for the most basic needs, is humbling. It’s also an opportunity to ask for help (not an easy task for a stubbornly independent woman), receive help with grace, gratitude, and humor and enjoy (yes, enjoy) the down time to visit, form deeper friendships, explore new aspects of self, and just develop a greater appreciation for basic freedoms like driving, walking to the bathroom, making your own coffee, and getting outside.

So once again, here’s to celebrating good health, mobility, freedom in all its forms, and doing so in deep gratitude.

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By Nancy Wesson Nov. 3, 2021

When I talk about my Peace Corps experience, people are often surprised to learn I entered at the age of 64. When most of my friends were planning for retirement, I was packing water purifiers, solar chargers, and a French press to sustain my coffee habit in Uganda. I’d shuttered a successful consultancy, leased my house that wouldn’t sell, and taken a leap of faith. I trusted my instincts and the toolbox of skills I’d developed over a lifetime, and hoped they’d serve me well in the Peace Corps.

Entering Peace Corps later in life after multiple careers, kids, and husbands was a life-changing experience. It stripped away at the veneer of ego and a lifetime of boundaries accumulated to navigate loss, business life, divorces, single parenting, and other transitions. The resulting vulnerability allowed both fears and strengths to surface and the gift of a rediscovered self to blossom.

I was asked if being divorced influenced my entry into Peace Corps, and the answer required a dual response. No, because by the time I joined Peace Corps, I’d been married a total of 24 years, but divorced for 15. But also, yes, because marriage to each of these brilliant, technically-minded-but-emotionally-stunted men forced me to take responsibility for my life and fulfillment in ways I likely would not have discovered otherwise. I emerged from the post-divorce dark-night-of-the-soul period as a strong, autonomous woman, willing to embrace change. Those traits certainly contributed to my desire to contribute in a more global context.

In my youth — and youth in general — we all collect data and pieces of ourselves that, ultimately, form a cohesive identity-puzzle. By my fantasized retirement age of 64, you might say I’d become a jumbo-puzzle, having amassed quite a few pieces.

The salient border pieces of my identity — the ones that were easily seen and gave me structure, included being a daughter, sister, student, wife, audiologist, administrator, mother, sailor, intuitive, and energy healer—one who works with the bio-field of a person’s body to heal them, weaver, landlord, UFO-experiencer, divorcee, and single parent. (I told you it was a big puzzle.)

Other pieces of me, the interior ones, were shaped by travel to the Middle and Far East, and experiences like the year I spent cruising the Bahamas with my second husband, living aboard a 29-foot sloop. That year, every storm seemed to know our names. Holding all these puzzle pieces together was a large body of professional work that ranged from diagnostic audiologist and mediator to Feng Shui expert, author, and consultant, with much in between.

My metaphorical puzzle was essentially formed by the time I joined the Peace Corps, and the time away from my familiar life felt like a cat batting the pieces off the table. Ego and any pretense of control were the first pieces to take a hit. Thankfully, the next piece to be jettisoned was the need to constantly reinvent myself in a slightly left-of-field business. Much of my consultancy had to do with bringing spiritual practice into the real world — before it was mainstream and marketable. Selling my skills meant selling me. The Peace Corps offered a boots-on-the-ground opportunity to simply live the work instead of trying to sell it.

After my Peace Corps service, when I returned home, I discovered many of those scattered pieces no longer fit anyway. When I tried to put them back, I found that some of the edges had changed shape, while other pieces were lost forever. Voids had appeared, creating the need for new pieces. Things that had been important to me prior to living in Uganda had lost their relevancy, while those I’d taken for granted had become sacred. I was left wondering how to recreate meaningful work without allowing the gravitational pull of the familiar to trap me. Ultimately, I came to know that fulfillment—my desire to be-of-service, offer compassion and joy as a way of living, and to share what I know— is less about what I do professionally, than the intention and energy I bring to everything I do.

In reconfiguring the puzzle of myself, it was initially hard to pin down what had occurred to create such a massive shift. However, I know much had to do with the deep immersion into a culture where my Western concept of time collided head-on with rain, mud, malaria, lack of utilities, and shifting priorities.

Collisions between time and weather showed up every moment of the rainy season in the form of buses and trucks being incapacitated in the middle of an impassable mud trough that was once a road. There were no tow trucks in the bush. My nongovernmental organization (NGO) was fortunate to have a four-wheel-drive truck named The Daughter of Japan, but even she was no match for rising water or potholes the size of Vermont. Villagers understood these factors, and all life stopped when the rain started. The fact that lightning strikes killed hundreds every year, added another layer of precaution. Only Westerners — myself included — were foolish enough to use an umbrella (aka lightning rod) just to get somewhere on time. Locals understood that being on time was not worth risking their lives.

I learned that time had no relevance in a world where life was about relationships. Family needs came first — and family extended to almost anyone, blood-related or not. As a Westerner, it would have been easy to fall into the trap of thinking lateness signaled a lack of interest or respect, but it was almost never the case. Time and its cousin, waiting, precipitated a lot of internal dialog regarding why we — individually and collectively — interpreted lateness as such an offense.

Around the midpoint of my service, I needed to get a document copied, signed, scanned, and emailed so that I could sell a house in the States. The process got caught in the perfect storm of resources, time, and technology. What might have taken five minutes in the States took a full week in Gulu spent mostly waiting until that moment when electricity, computer, printer, ink, and internet all aligned. The ability to be present helped me appreciate these experiences for the gifts they offered: patience, gratitude, and the opportunity to learn a different way of being in the world.

Cultures like ours in America generally do not excel at “being present,” and we spend a lot of time looking outward for the causes of our discontent. Learning to “be,” as opposed to “doing” is a lifelong endeavor for most. In Uganda, it was a coping mechanism for me that had the silver lining of bringing about a greater sense of involvement and awareness.

Living in Uganda also forced a lot of unconventional solutions — fixing a broken toilet valve with dental floss, using the filthiest laundry rinse water to flush that same toilet or to mop the floor. After all, in Uganda — where a quarter of the population lacks access to even a basic water supply — water was a treasure not to be wasted. It could “be finished” the next moment and not return for weeks. Every drop was sacred.

Another factor that contributed to the psychological shift had to do with the relationships I formed, but not in the casual way one might expect. For example, Geoffrey, my counterpart, and I had built a strong relationship founded on deep trust and mutual respect. The relationship was forged by the intense work we did together during our first year. The strength of our friendship’s foundation saved me when I accidentally sent a work-related email attachment that could have easily destroyed our relationship and gotten one or both of us fired, or worse.

When I realized my mistake, I told Geoffrey, though tears, what had happened. I apologized and offered to call the director to explain the circumstances. I even offered to resign. Geoffrey listened quietly and calmly. He had read the attachment and, as far as he was concerned, my document and the manner in which I’d described the events was simply evidence of my fairness and total commitment to improving the program.

I was aghast — had not expected this generosity, this gentleness, and was so filled with gratitude and respect for this man that I could hardly speak. This humble man, so generous in his praise, had recognized it for what it was — a terrible mistake. In that moment, I learned more about forgiveness and gratitude than I had learned during decades of spiritual practice.

At the opposite end of the continuum is “The Story of the Broken Digit” and the theater-of-the-absurd that erupted when the only way to remove a constricting ring from my broken middle-finger turned out to be an overzealous metal worker wielding a 12-inch rotary saw. (The only ring cutter in Uganda was in Kampala, a three day trip away.) My sons and a girlfriend had come to visit and, on our first day of safari, the girlfriend accidentally slammed the car door on my hand. Ironically, it was the middle finger that was broken and placed in a splint, causing me to unintentionally give an obscene gesture to everyone we passed.

Peace Corps’ medical officials said getting the metal worker to remove my ring under medical supervision should be safe. The reality was a jolly, rotund, Italian man with a 5 o’clock shadow. His button down shirt was stretched to its limit across his belly and held in place by a single button. There was an air about him that indicated a questionable relationship with personal hygiene, but his eyes twinkled and his grin was mischievous. “The Blade Master” — my new name for him — explained that he’d removed rings from “other body parts” with the same rusty, chipped blade. I’m sure I heard several men faint behind me.

He swaggered toward me holding the enormous saw high overhead like the torch on the Statue of Liberty. Cords with bare wires dangled ominously as he approached. In the exam room, a surreal atmosphere unfolded as he grabbed my hand and turned on the saw. He chuckled as he said, “If anything goes wrong, we are in the right place — the hospital.”

As panic escalated, my sons intervened, commanding him to “step away from the saw.” After much cajoling, The Blade Master — crestfallen — agreed to find some diagonal pliers and removed the ring with one strong squeeze. When it was time to attempt to reset the bones, a carnival mood developed as excellent doctors asked, as they injected pain killers, to be friended on Facebook. There were hugs and handshakes, and pictures posted between shots and X-rays. It was “Saturday Night Live” in real time. In the Peace Corps, one finds comic relief and strength in the most bizarre circumstances.

Although my bones could not be rearranged, those experiences did rearrange the puzzle-pieces of my life. They also offered a new context in which to use my skills in ways that I couldn’t have in the U.S. I’d wanted to offer my skills more organically and, as it happened, I used every skill in my toolbox: organizational development, firefighting, grief counseling, writing, marketing — everything.

Who would ever have imagined I would use my brief training as a firefighter to teach my Ugandan compound-mates to use dirt to smother a brush fire in our shared yard. It happened in the middle of the night when I woke up, choking on smoke, to find the backyard ablaze and my Ugandan neighbors standing in their boxer shorts, hemming and hawing. They announced, “water is finished,”— the Ugandan expression for “no water”—as flames tickled the lower tree limbs. After some fairly hysterical language-misunderstandings when I asked if I could borrow their hoe, I finally conveyed that I needed a garden hoe, and used the tool to dig up dirt and smother the flames. We all survived to tell the tale.

Sadly, my experience in grief counseling was needed when one of our group was killed and two others injured by a hit-and-run drunk driver. These stories and others are just part of the larger gestalt that changed the lens through which I view life. That, in turn, resulted in a radically altered view of both my past and my emerging future.

I knew reentry to life in the U.S. would be a challenge, but I did not expect to fall headfirst into the wilderness of my psyche as well, to do battle with the monsters lurking there. Thankfully, the rawness of Peace Corps service prepared me to feel emotions I’d avoided all my life, and I was ready. As it turned out, most of the “monsters” (a fear of impending doom, not being enough, catastrophizing minor events) were imposters. I wouldn’t have known that had I not faced down threats — real and perceived — and learned to thrive in a culture that had encountered real monsters: Ebola; the brutal warlord Joseph Kony, his Lord’s Resistance Army and unfathomable abuses they perpetrated like requiring kidnapped children to identify their parents’ dismembered bodies before they were then forced to become child soldiers or “wives” for Kony’s men. The courage with which these children walked through life continues to astound me and give perspective to my own “monsters.”

Regardless of their stage in life, every returned Peace Corps Volunteer I know has expressed the feeling that they received more from the experience than they gave. Living in a new culture distills life into its most sacred parts and emboldens life upon return. And, while Peace Corps service has a discreet starting point, the experience itself never truly ends. It continues to inform life far into the future — if you let it.

Nancy Wesson is a human potential consultant and an award-winning author of two totally unrelated books. Her first, “Moving Your Aging Parents,” was written after moving her own mother and many others. Realizing she was quickly becoming an aging parent herself, she packed up her house and headed for Peace Corps Uganda, where she served from 2011-2013. Her experience there gave rise to her most recent book, “I Miss the Rain in Africa.” She lives in a small town in Oregon and is enjoying a fourth act as a grandmother, while also restarting her consulting business and continuing to write.

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Lacy pink Corraline algae with an Ochre Sea Star

Gooseneck Barnacles

Meanwhile, back on the beach, volunteering essentially as a Naturalist, I can give myself permission to spend hours at the tide-pools at low tide. That volunteering has turned into a part time job from February through September with a group known as Haystack Rock Awareness Program (HRAP).  We’re there every daytime low tide to protect nesting habitat and educate visitors about the birds and marine life, but I confess – it’s more like play and an endless source or discovery. I’ve become a student all over again:  Above is some gorgeous lacy pink algae and what’s visible of a Sea Star (aka Starfish), with some seaweed mixed in. The cluster to the right that looks a little like dragon’s claws is actually a colony of Gooseneck Barnacles, still a little bit open from feeding.  Who knew that barnacles could be beautiful!

FEED US!

About mid July, I also started working part time at the Visitor’s Center – at least it started as part-time. In a town that boasts a population of about 1800,  summer brings an absolute swarm of tourists that can swell the population to 20,000 on any given day. We are hit with the most amazing array of questions and the occasional calamity and have to think fast.  My favorite inane question so far, from a young college graduate:  “So what time are the tides – I mean – WHO DECIDES THAT?”   Patience and a sense of humor rule the day.  It’s been a steep learning curve to tell people about an area I, myself, am just learning – but that’s half the fun.   Another perk:  this little nest of barn swallows that made a home just to the left of the entrance!   Trying to capture the perfect shot of these little hatchlings,  the mom flew by just as I snapped and all the mouths opened. 

Chicken of the Woods (?) Fungi

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Before leaving I took a detour through Fiesta Mart to pick up Abuelita Mexican Chocolate (fabulous for hot chocolate) and dried Jimaica (hibcus blosssoms) for that glorious red hibiscus tea.  Returning to the car I was dealt a smacking-blow to the left side of my head by something back and soft.  It felt like someone had dealt me a hard blow from a small pillow, which turned out to be a huge Grackle whose GPS has apparently malfunctioned on his glide-path to the nearest perch – a vacant shopping cart.   Since Hitchcock was no where in sight, I am left wondering if this was an omen…  Some people get a symbolic 2X4, in which case  I am thankful for a soft Grackle.  In any case, it was time to leave Austin.

It was misting when I left, making the road slick.  My mother had an expression for that:  slick-as-goose-s**t.”  Apparently, growing up on a farm, she knew a lot about that topic and who am I to argue.  In any case, that was the condition of roads when I left and mist soon turned to a sprinkle, which turned to a light pelting and then to that kind of rain one only sees in Houston and Louisiana.  And coming from Oregon, that’s saying something.  So for 10 hours I drove through a veritable sampler of different kinds of rain until I reached Gulfport.

It was a perfect time of year to do the drive, despite the rain, because Texas road sides are blanketed with wildflowers, thanks to a contest started by Ladybird Johnson decades ago. Districts compete to see who can create the most eye-popping display of wildflowers and the results are just spectacular!

Driving into Louisiana was a stunning reminder of memories from childhood:  lousy roads – STILL.  I had hoped that that particular reputation had changed, but apparently not.  Following Interstate-10 took me across the Atchafalaya Causeway through that long stretch flood-basin with ghostly Cypress trees rising out of  the black water characteristic of Cypress-swamps.  Just plain spooky – and breathtaking – and a death trap…  I passed a six-car collision.  The part of I-10 crossing this swamp is a pair of parallel two-lane bridges 18+ miles long making it the second longest bridge in the US and the fourteenth longest bridge in the world.  Because the lanes going each direction are separated by swamp,  emergency vehicles had to come miles from the other directions, circle back to get on the portion of the bridge where the wreck happened, with bumper to bumper traffic and little way to get through. 

But the swamps are beautiful and produced an old familiar feeling that’s hard to describe –  a combination of haunting, nostalgia and history.  Louisiana hasn’t felt like home for many years, but the melancholy familiarity of it stirred my heart and the spookiness of sparked my fear of dark water.  No way I would cross that stretch at night – I’m sure the Roux-ga-roux (left) of childhood taunts lives there.  So many of my childhood memories are involved with stories of the swamps or memories of pole-fishing from a flat-bottom boat in the bayous – catching catfish and perch so fast my dad hardly got his hook in the water, busy as he was handling our catches.  Even as little girls we could bait the hooks with  earthworms, but our hands were too small to take a fish off.  We’d come home sunburned, smelling like fish, exhausted and happy.

Today took me through Mississippi and Alabama and a different set of memories.  Road signs for Pass Christiane,  Pearl River and Bayou La Batre (right) called up memories of the sailboat trip my ex and I took the year I turned thirty.   We noodled our way east from Galveston, through the Inter-coastal Canal, sometimes off shore and sometime snaking through swamps – anchoring in muddy water with five feet of silt – so deep it was tricky getting an anchor to bite.  Once it took five attempts to anchor, pulling up a foot of sticky slop on the anchor before it would hold, only to be told to move by a concerned shrimper. Seems we’d anchored in  the informal shrimpers’ channel and had we stayed, our boat would have been toothpicks my morning.  I couldn’t leave the area until I left the highway to scope out Bayou La Batre, which my Garmin announced as Bayoo La Battre.

I found the drawbridge and the bayou where I’m sure I amused the drawbridge keeper when I parked my car to take these shots. Travis suggested I was lucky not t be arrested as a terrorist for taking pictures at/near/from a bridge.  Hadn’t thought of that. Stopping at a café near the bridge, I found a group of older men telling fish tales as I chowed down on a huge breakfast for the unheard of price of $4.16!  Home made biscuits, grits cooked by people who know show to do it, eggs and four slices of bacon.   Oh yeah – and that included orange juice!

Arriving at Travis’, I finally corrected the error I made in Austin: missing my Chile Relleno and Chicken Enchilada with Tomatillo Sauce aka Chuy’s Combo #5. Having rinsed down our grub with a Texas Martini (pitcher of Margaritas served with a Martini glass) and polished it off with a shared Tres Leche dessert, we waddled home and caught up on the past one and a half years.  Today Travis showed me the two favorite places he dives… Little River and Ginnie Springs.  Gainesville is an epicenter for cave diving and while I don’t know if I will ever brave an underwater cave,   I certainly got the allure of it after seeing the cave entrances.  They are gorgeous, cool (72 degrees) spring fed waters, with a clarity I’ve not seen outside a bathtub!    

The upward flow-pressure (termed the boil) of the Spring is usually enough to keep the tannins that leach out of the Cypress knees and turn the water the color of strong black tea, confined to the river.  Somehow appropriately the two most popular caves at Ginnie Springs are called: Devil’s Ear and Devil’s Eye.

On Wednesday, I sadly said goodby to Travis and navigated my way to the northwestern corner of Arkansas amid the worst 18-wheeler traffic and wind I’ve met since traveling the eastern corridor around New Jersey.  I love Hissy Fit, but she was tormented mightily by strong cross winds made even worse by the the turbulence created by the big-rigs, outnumbering automobiles 12/1. It was not a happy drive, but the serene route into the Ozarks with roadsides peppered by Redbud and blooming Dogwood almost made up for it.

Eureka Springs’ historic downtown is a mini-San Francisco with old Victorian houses perched on hilly streets.  It’s known for it’s healing waters and ghost stories.  Even the little Swiss Village motel I stayed in had its own assortment of things-that-go-bump-in-the-night and did they bump!  

The weather was beautiful until the moment I left under those egg-carton skies known to produce hail.  Racing to get out from under those before the heat unleashed their bounty, I was relieved when I stopped for gas two hours later only to be told they were under a tornado watch.   Wind and more big-rigs completed the picture all the way back into Texas where skies cleared and traffic thinned.  It was a fine Texas welcome!
 
What brought me to that quaint little town  of Eureka Springs, was the Ozark UFO Conference, now in its 28th year.  In part I came to explore more fully the experiences I have had over my lifetime – and those my children have had in early childhood.  

To the left is one of the paintings that emerged from that period when we were all having experiences and none of us were telling the others.  The kids didn’t know it was unusual.  In Uganda, an enormous silver saucer type hovered over my house and I continue to have related experiences, thus far positive in nature.   This conference offered the opportunity to speak with credible researchers and others with similar background.

I’m whizzing through Austin once more to attempt to pick up a pair of lenses for new glasses.  The lab has managed to confound the process, messing up the lenses multiple times and once again, I am leaving without them – I think.  I’m not gone yet.  And to continue the Grackle story,  sipping coffee at Mozart’s on the lake a few days ago, I was again in the Grackle flight-path and involved in a near-miss as yet another Grackle flew by inches from my ear, screeching his raucous message as he flew by.   Since I don’t speak Grackle, I have consulted the internet and various interpretations were offered:  “things are not as they seem,” “quit talking…  and DO,”  any of which could have relevance.  i.e  Shut up and write the next book!

Getting new tires this morning to continue this epic road trip taking the southern route this time, stopping along the way to see friends in Phoenix, California and southern Oregon.   On the off chance that “get new tires” was included in the Grackle’s message, I would like to say, you have been heard on all levels and it will no longer be necessary to throw yourselves at me.  A simple wink will do.

Missing the beach!  The journey continues…

 

 

 

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Other oddities: a few days ago, I looked out and saw beautiful blue sky with a few wisps of white clouds and thought: “a good time to take my walk.”  By the time I’d garbed myself in boots, hat, gloves,  smart-wool base-layer, vest, and rain  coat (never leave home without several seasons of clothes on) and got to the beach (a 5-minute trek) a cloud had slipped through like a thief,  stolen the sunshine and replaced it with a fierce pelting of sleet.  Once everyone had cleared the beach (a matter of minutes) – the sun and blue sky were back, the squall having moved on down the beach.  This is what they mean by “a maritime climate.” 

These unpredictable weather patterns produce some breathtaking waves and sunsets and with rare exception there are always people with tripods waiting for the perfect shot.  And of course there are birds – lots and lots of birds.  Where is Hitchcock? Seagulls have never excited me that much, but when you have hundreds of gulls, pelicans and ducks all taking flight from a small estuary it takes on a level of drama all its own. Haystack Rock is home to Puffins in nesting season and I can’t wait to see that.

it reads:  Cloudy with a change of sunbreak.  This is an actual word…  See? I am learning how to speak Oregon-ese, which includes conversations that easily drift toward the ups and downs of growing pot, which varieties produces what effects, etc.  No – I’m not considering this as my next career move.  I think the market may already be saturated.

The unexpected abounds. A few days ago I took a long walk – mulling over a decision having to do with pursuing training in Hypnosis Therapy and Regression.  I’ve had some amazing and mystical experiences with that and it allows peeks into aspects of the self and the psyche typically not accessible in normal waking life.  Some experiences are downright magical and I was asking for a “sign” when what should appear in front of me but a white rabbit…  What could be more of a “sign” of magic than a white rabbit? I looked around for either Alice or Jimmy Stewart, and since neither of them were around to claim ownership, I took this as my sign. Of course, I’m taking the course. 

 The day was finished off by this gorgeous sunset.   Against the backdrop of epic sunsets, white-rabbits and warning-cows the presence of magic and synchronicity are palpable.

Permeating this surreal beauty and a level of serenity that is somewhat new in my life, there remains the connection with Uganda – still trying to help one young man pursue his dream of medical school and getting another to understand that school is not just a way to be “off the streets.”  In the process of making these opportunities available via funds from friends, I underestimated the importance of  having the confidence and skill to be able to grasp the prize when it’s right in front of you. It has again underscored how much of daily life and the way we are reared prepares us for making decisions and grabbing “a chance” when it comes our way.   From infancy we are bathed in a sea of possibilities, immersed in pastimes that build skills we take for granted as every child birthright.  Coming from a culture where a sense of entitlement is more common than one of gratitude or lack, it’s has been a wake-up-call to witness how a lifetime of strife can thwart one into dysfunction.  Sometimes the presence of an opportunity you don’t know how to claim is more frustrating than its absence. It’s heartbreaking for all concerned and has added to my own appreciation of the fact that the offer of opportunity or gift is only the spark. The real gift is in being able to accept it and receive it.   Somehow this seems relevant in this “season of giving.” 

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 Just such a pattern showed itself in the hour it took for me to walk part of the beach a few days ago.  The Oregon coast is apparently notorious for its wind and I walked leaning into a gale-force blow, picking up a hefty tail-wind on the return.  I loved it. Just for fun, I took pictures of the progression of the weather during that hour.

  But the season is young.  I’ve been waiting to be as cold and wet as people threatened, but not yet.  I have, however, been introduced the the world of boots, having visited the local Fred Myer store and asked to be directed to “boots please.”  Isles and isles of boots: polka dot boots, furry boots, fancy boots, short boots, tall boots, fishin’ boots, bog-boots, Xtra-Tuff boots, psychedelic-flowered boots – yes – even glittery boots.  Everything but cowboy boots.  I’m not in Texas anymore apparently.  But these boots are made for walking, skipping through puddles, wading through surf and – as I have experienced – surviving a trick-wave with your back turned.  I now have boots and have packed away my umbrella for travel, having been instructed that it broadcasts one as a tourist.   

And so it would seem,  I have at least moved in evidenced by the unloading of a trunk full of boxes at the recycling center, making several runs to Goodwill and one to donate boxes of books to the local library, which is not funded by the city – only donations and volunteers.  Although the town has only 10,000 people, its recycling center is a good indicator of how serious Oregon is about recycling.  I discovered this focus when I waited for my wee-trashbox (yes BOX) to be picked up two weeks in a row.  I discovered that it would be picked up every forth Tuesday, while my HUGE recycling bin is emptied every OTHER Tuesday.  This is an effective training strategy it turns out, not t mention helpful when one is continuing to purge the detritus of three years out-of-the-loop.  

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The first is the view from the street: the three of us: me, the car, the house.  Shake shingle, fun little front yard with lots of Rhododendren and other plants I know yet.  Quiet little residential street a couple of blocks to town in one direction and a block and a half from the beach on the another.

Walking out the front door, turning left and crossing the street that runs through town, then following a path puts one on the beach just in front of Haystack Rock.  A couple of miles through town or down the beach gets you to Ecola State Park.   From that overlook with Brett a couple of months ago before, I had only dreamed of finding a place on this beach.  There’s a lot to be said for “dreaming!”

Left is the attic a.k.a. future meditation room, weaving studio and guest room!   The two beds are included as furnishings.

Now to actually move in a start creating the rest of the scene!

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After three years of being transient and rootless (Peace Corps plus Mexico) the need to put down roots has become almost an obsession, so this part of the waiting has become a challenge. Waiting for Peace Corps to make up its mind was practice for this part.

I finally got a call from the only place that looked promising (a cottage Karla found on craigslist) – having looked at a whole slew of places that were really depressing.   On the 15th I drove the 2.5 hours to the coast and had four places lined up to view.    The first was the little cottage, just what I visualized – with four other people in line after me to see the place.

No choice but the wait and see who the owners would choose… with so many people looking and so few places available, it’s a landlord’s choice.  The remaining three places were like closets – no room even for my thinned down collection of belongings.  The waiting was excruciating because the cottage was in Cannon Beach, my town of choice, famous for its beaches, Haystack Rock, and Ecola State Park near by (view pictured below.)

My stars must have been in alignment because I got the cottage.   Again – waiting – till October 1st to move in.  It’s a precious shake-shingle one bedroom with converted loft, a block and a half from the beach, a block and a half from the middle of the town of Cannon Beach and partially furnished so I don’t have to run out immediately and buy any big pieces like a mattress set, couch, TV…  

• $500 for driving with a hand-held telephone (your’s truly opting for simplicity doesn’t have hand’s free)
• B-I-G tickets for accidentally drifting into the bike lane or turning across it outside the dotted lines…
• Randomly placed flashing (tiny lights) pedestrian walks: when flashing mean S-T-O-P  
• Against the law to pump you own gas – fines for that too! ($200)
• Fine’s double in “safety corridors,” – never mind school zones!

I don’t know if Cannon beach will be my Marseille, or another stop along the way, but I plan to immerse myself fully, discover what we have to offer each other and enjoy the process of continued discovery.  I do know, that – like a painting – I’ve been mentally painting in the details of ach room as I wait to move in.  And there are certain pieces of personality that endure where ever one goes, and other aspects that emerge only when offered an opportunity that’s new enough to bring out latent talents, the shadow, or pieces of coal that needed pressure and time to become diamonds.  

We’ll see what pops up and what falls away…    What I do know is that I am being very selective about what I add back in to this phase of life, starting essentially with a blank canvas.  Choosing a simpler way of living,  closer to nature and as “off the grid” and still being able to do the consulting I love.   Sometimes that’s more complicated that it should be – in the “first world.”

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