The barn looks like a barn. Tim makes the frames for doors and windows. All the wood is there. I love how you can’t see the barn until you are almost upon it, yet it has that lovely and inspiring view of Hermit’s Peak. Yay ravens!
This is for me the first major endeavor where the ideas and actions remain. As a dancer, all my work disappears—a performance that I prepare three months for is over in twenty minutes. The same with dances that I choreograph on others. My memoir was better. It lingers as do videos, but both of these are projects that are consumed rather quickly by others and which once I’ve completed them, I rarely look into afterward. The barn however is there. I will be going in and out. I see it again and again as I walk the winding dusty track between the pinions. I think back to the moment when the ravens revealed that spot and think how in just a few days, the Wilson crew is evolving the insubstantial into substantial. Not six months, or a year or two years. No. It is happening before my eyes. Like a pre-digital photographs in a dark room. The edges sharpening, the form filling, timbers, metal sheets coalescing into a barn!
A seed that has found ground and does not blow away…
I watch them continue steadily on. Very zen-like without any zen to their self-concept. Tim leans intently over the saw horses to trim a piece of 2X4 for a window frame. Every frame he has made fits perfectly. He didn’t finish high school. Never saw the need. None of the three have much use for college—didn’t go themselves and can’t see how it would have made much difference to their lives. If their kids want to go, they shrug, its up to them. On day #4, I hear more detail about their lives and opinions as they chug down orange soda (Tim), 7-Up (Juany), and Coke (Steve).
Steve has been married twice. He is wise. He has gentle sotto voce advice for impetuous young Juany, who, at 29 , knows it all: is so decisive, his wife spends all his money!, she wants him to make more money but she wants him home. Juany wants to get home soon cause he loves his little girl who misses him, she wants her daddy. Yes, he loves his wife BUT… And there is always the “I love my wife, but,” in every break-time effusion. Steve listens, off-hand, dropping a bit of succinct, calm advice here and there which is mostly ignored.
A dramatic day. I watched in awe for an hour as the guys erected the rafters. First, the pre-fabbed trusses were laid on the ground inside the barn parameters below where each would be hoisted aloft. Tim climbed up to one south-most corner, and Steve to the other corner. They perched 12 feet up, like gargoyles, chatting while Juany tromped below getting things ready. He threw one end of a rope up to Steve and attached the other end to the first truss lying on the ground. Steve hauled the truss as far up as he could, then Juany lifted as Steve continued to pull until his end was up and leaning on a top brace. Then Juany to the other side where Tim hauled up. Now the truss hung upside down, its ‘v’ pointing to the ground with its wide edges at the top corner of each wall. Juany then nailed a 2×4 to the tip of the truss pitch and, on a teamwork “Go”, swung the point upward to vertical, bracing it from the ground while Steve and Tim nailed their sides in. There was a bit of nailing to do along the face of this truss and some pitch boards to secure it. Steve and Tim, relaxed, poised acrobats, danced and balanced beautifully on those top beams. Juany had the grunt work below as they continued in sequence down the line until they had all ten trusses up.
I was totally enthralled. Smooth, experienced, elegant. they worked quietly, just the sound of hammers striking the wood. No nailguns, no power drills. I felt their energy going into the nails, into the boards, into the large, sturdy poles. This is a human barn made by men who are seasoned artists. Now I understand Steve’s impeccable posture. In perfect balance, he trots around on the roof beams, sure-footed as a high rope walker.
By the end of the afternoon, the barn’s bones were there. I can now see the entire skeleton and have only to fuss in my dreams over where the doors and windows should be placed.
I couldn’t focus on anything else much today. Excited, I ran back and forth from cabin to barn site, called or emailed a bit here and there. A dream is coming true.
I drive into Las Vegas to get their payment sorted, ready for when the barn is done in case it is done by Sunday when my bank isn’t open. I hate to go in. The sun is out but I know the road is not yet dry. And sure enough it is still horrible. I have to go off-road in a couple of spots, nearly getting lost on Trigg land and leave telltale tracks in the grass. But I finally get off the mesa, dash into town, to the bank and post office, and back up the mesa, fearful of the clouds blowing up fast over the land. I make it back. The crew has finished digging the holes and now set the poles, standing them upright, filling around the base of each. They are deep in the ground.
I brought them some Trader Joe oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. Juany returned my container later. “We et ‘em all up!”
At sunset I stand on the road and look into the site. All the poles are set, standing vertically now, every ten feet. They ring the full footprint, like Stonehenge. Like a temple. I feel a surge of joy. I walk into the site. The 2X6 lumber that will form the wall supports lie along the ground delineating where the walls will be. Jackhammer, sawhorses, shovels, hammers, saws litter the enclosed space. Despite this, I see the dance space; it is a beautiful dimension. I can see that the shed will be perfect for a sleeping room on the SW corner and a summer kitchen with a long wooden table toward the NW for people to eat and prepare meals, or just sit and talk. I see where the slide doors will open in the back, and which tree I will prune a bit so it grows into a shade tree like the one on Rocky’s land beside what used to be the stone schoolhouse form the Depression era. I turn and look and pace around in the golden late afternoon light. A home for my work.
Heavy fog. I can’t see anything outside my ring of trees. Dripping wet. Quiet. The clock ticks. The wood stove ticks as it cools after I burn the paper trash. Outside is the piquant scent of juniper and pinion. I curl up in my pink chair and sip my tea, getting ready to watch the crew, though I wonder if they will make it up the wretchedly muddy road. I decide I’ll finally set up the 60 gallon blue rain barrel under the downspout from my top cabin roof. Can’t let the rain escape.
The guys made it up thew mucky road in their 2-wheel drive truck! I’m impressed. They are digging with the auger then jackhammering the limestone in the fog. Inspired by their labor I feel industrious. I make a platform for the blue barrel, get it positioned and, right on cue, the heavens open up with a gushing downpour. Such an orchestra of sounds—thunder booming down the canyon, and once the storm leaves me, the rain pummeling the land fifty miles away. At the end, that barrel is full—60 gallons in a half hour.
Then I slog up, my boots twice their size with heavy clay mud, to see how the crew is doing. They took shelter during the rain but are out again, digging, jackhammering. By the end of the day they have half the poles in.
Late night. So still. The canyon has captured the fog in its stony arms. I remember chatting with Steve, the foreman. He’s my height, lithe, with beautiful posture, terrible teeth, and a twinkle in his eye. He is soft-spoken. He emanates kindness. I like standing beside him, saying little, gazing at the barn site, happy with it, happy with the fog, the day, the men, the project, with my life. I tell Steve about the ravens choosing the site. He nods, but who knows what he thinks.
“Now it is the time to know that all you do is sacred.”
I read that the night before the barn was scheduled to arrive when I was very very blue, very alone, very unsupported. No one was going to be here from my world to celebrate, to cheer me on. To be excited with me. Of course I have been keep this somewhat secret so how could I have had that support, but I guess I thought Ric should drop everything and fly out. Then I read the Hafiz, realized I was being childish, and settled right down. I was able to get out of the lonely child head and see that this project will be the source of great joy, peace, deepening, beauty and Beauty for years to come, for me and for others. Read more
Yesterday morning my ravens showed me the right site to build my barn. I walked the track along the top, heard them making a racket in some pinion trees, turned my head and there is was. It was higher up on flatter ground and more secluded that the one I’d been measuring, yet still looking out to Hermit’s Peak. It felt absolutely sweet and right. I went about my day then decided to check again closer to sunset. Would the spot still attract me? And there they were—three ravens hanging in the wind above the clearing, soaring and soaring, calling out from time to time. Read more
My night reading of Koran verses was surprisingly refreshing. I used to find them judgmental—all that ‘do the right thing or be in hell’—but with a new perusing and the leavening of age and experience, that they are right. They just are. The question is understanding what the ‘right thing’ is. Each sura drops a tiny clue in its bed of poetry to what a right thing is. Read more
I sit on the deck bundled in a sweater after a late afternoon rain storm. Fans of sun rays burnish the land between the humps and banks of clouds. The mesas and canyons all have names, have had many names over time. I don’t know any of these yet. And most names aren’t contained in the hard edges of language, the sticky net of thoughts. The mesas approach and retreat in the play of light like a line of country dancers. Long shadows spill over the crest and slide down the slope into the shadowy floor. Read more
I sat on the deck with my neighbor Tom Walker last night. He had come over to help refine the downspout to my cistern. Tom, a young 70, is lively and strong. He likes to chat. Though we spent half an hour mulling the downspout, conversation reliably and continuously digressed. (The major aspect of doing projects with neighbors is to hang out.) At last we sat on the deck. The sun was declining, tossing a glorious rosy light across the canyon. Tom, scruffy from a day’s work, ignored the view and relating to me in detail about constructing his septic line—hitting soft dirt, then rock, then soft dirt, then rock. Read more
Letters are the best! The best. Proper letters, on paper with an envelope and a stamp tempered by time nestled up against other letters traveling across country in trucks or vans or airplanes. Depending on the interlocutor, its like a journal, but witnessed. You toss down your burdens. You aren’t alone with the head buzz of ‘stuff’ (no matter how legitimate), and the time it takes to run a pen across a page slows down expression just enough (to catch a breath?),; as well, there moments of marination between writing and posting the letter. Its a beautiful process. And I felt all that as I read your letter. I felt how different it was from talking with you on the phone, or reading an email or your blog, all of which are equally authentic yet each bounded by different ‘rules’ of time. Read more