TIME TRAVEL

 

JOURNAL

Time Travel

Bill Barksdale, Columnist

When I was a young man in the early 1970’s I visited San Francisco from my then home in New York where I had moved to go to school on the first real step of my journey to discover myself.  I soon learned that Mendocino County had a kind of magical, almost mythological quality for many of the other young people of the time.  I was still, yet, to move back to New York City to continue my studies and life experience.  There was more for me to discover, but I would return to S.F. and never live anywhere but California again except for brief excursions to a couple other places.

I lived in San Francisco for some years, the real golden years of creativity in my mind.  It seemed as though every kind of art and creative endeavor was evolving and somehow mysteriously germinating there at that time.  Mendocino County remained that golden place in the mists of imagination much like the island of Avalon associated with the Arthurian legend, the place where King Arthur’s magical sword Excalibur was wrought, a place of healing. 

Perhaps it’s the giant redwoods, the ocean, the somehow sacred grounds of the Native Peoples who inhabited this place for thousands of years before Europeans – and they still do.  We often take for granted that so called “magical things” are nonsense or fairytales, perhaps they are - but are they?  Maybe “magical” is just another word for creativity.

Many of us who have been in the presence of those trees that have stood for, sometimes, thousands of years and are still alive, you may have felt the spiritual wonder of things that have lived since the time of the great masters that have inspired some of  the world’s great religions.  Yes, it’s true that many don’t allow that wonder in, don’t allow themselves to consider that there is a sacred aspect to life and most especially don’t think that something that has lived for a thousand or two thousand years or more has any special significance other than its monetary value, but what if a human or any other animal had lived that long, would they have any monetary value or would they be beings of amazement, like these trees?

Recently I’ve been rereading a book by author Kirt Wentz called A Place We Can Call Home that I read some years ago.  I don’t recall where I got it, maybe The Book Juggler.  Although it’s a novel, it’s based on an actual event – the catastrophic Chicago heatwave of 1995 in which there were an estimated 739 heat-related deaths, most of the victims were elderly people living alone on limited incomes with no air conditioning. 

In this story, five elderly people on fixed incomes who live in Chicago in 1995 decide to pool their money and share a home.  They can live better, help and support each other and move to a better place where they’re not just surviving but really enjoying life.  They choose to move to a place I know pretty well, the Pacific Northwest, specifically Washington State.  Sometimes the story is a bit too “preachy” for me and doesn’t deal with conflict resolution much, but its premise that working together we can create a better life, is very timely.

The characters visit places I know well, they even visit Willits to ride on the Skunk Train on page 294!  They take a driving trip down the Pacific Coast through places like Portland, where I was born, and the Columbia River Gorge where I lived much of my young life.  They mention Multnomah Falls, one of nature’s wonders and a place that I rode past so many times and visited so many times that I took it for granted.

Recently I was looking at an app on my phone called Watch Duty, a free donation-financed app, that lets the user know where wildfires are happening in real time, and suggesting the safest escape routes.  I urge you to download it to your cell phone ASAP.  Right now there’s a big wildfire in the Columbia Gorge called the Whisky Creek Fire.  For a while the area was closed off to most traffic.  I’ve driven up from Hood River Oregon to the historic Timberline Lodge near the summit of Mt Hood.   

Like here, the forests I grew up in are stressed from drought and have not been allowed to burn naturally so there’s a lot of dry fuel there, and it’s burning.  The Indigenous Peoples of this county took better care of the land then most of us European immigrants have done.  They had a spiritual connection with the living Earth. 

In 1871 members of the Pomo Tribe were forced to march from Potter Valley, their home, to the Round Valley.  It’s said that the Eel River ran red with the blood of the Native people who died at the hands of that unmerciful militia, who herded them and murdered the ones who couldn’t keep up.  If you’ve driven on Highway 162 to Covelo, you’ve crossed over Blood Run Creek that memorializes this ruthless event.

There is also an island in Clear Lake known as Bloody Island where the native Pomo and Wappo people were enslaved by Kentucky immigrant Andrew Kelsey and his business partner, Charles Stone, until the Native People revolted because of the horrible conditions they were forced to endure.  Eventually the Native people rose up and killed their enslaver-rapist-torturers and the U.S. Calvary murdered most of the enslaved in retaliation, thus the name Bloody Island. Kelseyville in Lake County is, I believe, named after Andrew Kelsey. 

It seems sometimes that the pursuit of wealth and power knows no crime horrendous enough to temper that greed and lust.

Perhaps I got sidetracked, but we should at least know the history of the place we live in, especially when we see that same money/power lust trying to dominate even those of us that are not native to this land.  Like the characters in A Place We Can Call Home Again, many of us are trying to survive, even thrive - as supper wealthy people, corporations and some “religions” try to dominate our Nation.  Need I remind you how important it is to vote?

In our often troubled world some humans think little of murdering other humans, where war and gun violence is an everyday thing.  We’re forced to think about this every day because we can’t avoid it in our hyper-connected world. Yet, we’re still creative beings capable of problem-solving.  We still have personal power. There’s mortality, the inevitable end to our lives.  There’s still a kind of mystical place called Mendocino County with its ancient life, with its sometimes traditions of reverence for the land and the perfumed air and the ocean that splashes onto the shore.   

Maybe the kind of legend of Mendocino County that I heard about and began to yearn for as a young man, is truly a real thing.  I certainly have grown here, grown old and grown to love this place.  I never take it for granted.  I’m still in awe of this place.  I don’t take for granted the people who were here first and were and still are mistreated.  I don’t know why life unfolds as it does.  I find myself here.  I try to be the best person I can be.  I try to be kind and honest, and I’m imperfect. That’s the best a person like me can do or be.  I have little understanding of “Life” or why it is the way it is.

In the evening I often look up at the sky as I go outside with my little dog for her last pee of the evening before bedtime.  I look up at the stars, the nearest being trillions of miles from Earth.  Some of those distant stars may not even be there anymore given the time it takes for their light to reach our little Earth.  They may have “Earth’s” of their own. Beings of their own with dreams of their own.  Perhaps those beings and their dreams have long-ago ceased to exist, if they ever did.  It’s unlikely we’ll ever know.  Our own Earth will likely be just another barren rock caught in the swirl of the Universe in time. Perhaps some being is looking at the evening sky and seeing the light from our little Sun, that may have burned out long ago, and wonder about time and if there is other “life” out there

We’re tiny creatures it seems, but perhaps part of something much larger and more profound, perhaps always growing and changing.  Are there other “Mendocino County’s” out there?  Other places that inspire dreams and hoped for life-changes.  I believe there are and that there always will be, even when my body is just scattered particles of dust in space that may become part of some dreamer looking for meaning in life as it looks at the stars, with lots of things they want to do and be.

I don’t mean for this to sound like I think any of us are inconsequential.  Some think that every thought, every action has consequence, has “creation” as an elemental component of it. Like waves of energy emanating out and shaping – what? – existence.  If so, then one might consider their thoughts and actions.  This may sound naive, but what’s the best I can be or do? It’s always a choice. Not always the “biggest” thing.  After all what is “big” anyway? 

It's Today

 

JOURNAL

It’s Today

Bill Barksdale, Columnist

It’s Farmer’s Market day in Willits.  It’s a hot day, high 90’s.  I’ve walked downtown with my market basket even though I’m only intending to buy a loaf of that wonderful bread.  My favorite is walnut-cranberry sourdough. 

Walking past all the stalls I see some other things I need – tomatoes, eggs, lasagna for dinner, a freshly harvested organic cabbage  - I’ll make coleslaw later, cabbage is also great just steamed with butter m-m-m-m love that!  I still have to walk home and the basket is getting a bit heavy so I pick up a copy of The Willits Weekly from Mathew, and I’m on my way home after hugging my way through the crowd of shoppers.  Willits is a town of huggers.

The sky is that amazing deep cornflower blue.  I can just stare at that sky and get lost for a minute. It’s almost intoxicating.  The heat doesn’t seem so stifling. Guess I’m getting used to it.  I look for the shady parts of the sidewalk.  Well, there’s enough time to drop into The Book Juggler for a quick browse around. I can set my basket down for a few minutes. Can I handle a cone from J.D. Redhouse?  I decide “yes”.

 I stop to chat with Mary on West Mendocino.  She gave me a stationary bicycle the other day which I use when it’s too hot out to go for a walk. Mary and her mother, also Mary, are always good for some stories about Hawaii in the old days or her daughters or her latest redecorating project – and a few good laughs. 

The lavender bushes along the way are full of bumble bees, those improbable, beautiful bees that I’ve heard should not be able to fly – but do. Improbable doesn’t mean impossible obviously. There’s a squawk from a Stellar Jay in a tree. He’s not flying around in the heat.  Smart. I pass a cat sunning itself. What is it with cats?

There’s a bit of a breeze coming up.  Ah, feels so good.  I notice quite a few canna in full bloom in some of the front yard gardens. Canna seem to love it here.  There’s a garden on North St that is lush with tall flowers in full bloom. This garden is so beautiful every year. Rich with color and those huge blooms.  Magnificent. My friend Gail Richards would have loved this garden. I miss her. There were few things she loved more than a beautiful garden. Some people have the grace of a blessed spirit, here for a while to remind one of the good things of life. 

Finally home.  Rosie is here to greet me, almost crazy with her wiggly dance as if I’ve been gone for days. I just have to laugh from her enthusiasm. She’s tiny so jumps on the back of the sofa to be taller. I have to set down my basket full of stuff to give her a noogle and a kiss.  She’s as soft as silky satin with her big floppy ears and smooth coat.  Thank goodness for the Humane Society where we found her, rescued by her foster mother, Henrietta Simonson, who slyly showed me a short video on her phone one day at the bank. I couldn’t resist that sweet little bundle running toward the camera, now every moment with our Rosie is a moment of pure unconditional love and joy.

What brought us to this place anyway? The caprice of life. There is that sweet fragrance in the air as the forest heats up. You notice it as you drive up the grade from Ukiah.  The air changes. There’s the golden meadows with those grand, elegant oak trees with their branches reaching out, always green even on the hottest days. The structure of their branches is a marvel of nature’s engineering and art. Each tree is an elegant creation. 

Local artists, Judy Hope and Tom Zephyers, have a talent for capturing the beauty that so abundantly surrounds us here.  Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a work of art – I suppose I am really.  We all are. We can taste, smell, see, and feel it – breathe in the art of living here.  It’s everywhere.  This is truly wealth, and it’s ours for the enjoyment of it.  True wealth is a simple thing.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, American philosopher, once said “A man (or woman) is what he thinks about all day long”.  Emerson who lived from 1803 to 1882, was a great influence on American great thinkers like Henry David Thoreau, perhaps best known for his book on simple living Walden – Life In The Woods.  He also influenced poets Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson and many others. 

Emerson believed in the intelligence of the individual.  In his essay Self-Reliance he says “Your conformity explains nothing.”  He goes on to say “…man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future.  He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present above time.”  In other words, real life is in the present moment.  What one thinks about in the “now” is what determines what happens next in one’s life.  Moment-to-moment is how life, in fact, proceeds.  One thought leads to the next.  One act, leads to the next. 

Joseph Campbell, the great American professor, mythologist and writer (1904 – 1987) said “Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.”  It seems to me that in these days we sometimes tend to let media like TV, “social media”, other peoples’ propaganda and ideas – blur out our own critical thinking, our own inner knowing right from wrong.  Ignoring one’s own intuitive path can lead to a dark place, and unsatisfying dead end.  One of Campbell’s books, The Hero’s Journey, talks about the human architype of The Hero, woman or man, who goes on the sometimes perilous but rewarding journey through life to find the bounty of a life well lived. 

The simple pleasures I get from noticing and enjoying what’s in the here and now of my daily life here in Willits, or wherever I may be, helps to keep me in “the moment”, that powerful place where I can choose the thought that feels better.  I know I hound on that phrase often, and it’s not always the easiest thing to pivot from a fear-thought to something a bit better, but it works.  Life is, after all, lived moment-to-moment.  One thought at a time.

We live in a place that is rich in better feeling thoughts if we just look for them.  What one thinks about all day long is what that person is and what they become in the next moment.  Can you wrap your head around the fact that you are a creative being, always creating yourself?  I know I’ve made plenty of poor choices.  That’s part of it.  As humans, we have a great gift, the gift of creation.  This is what all of the great and wise teachers have taught.  Let go of the crap. Just let go. The next moment is Yours to create.

“Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain” and perhaps, like the bumble bee in the lavender flower, you will find a more nurturing and joyful life.  Something to think about.

 

 

 

SALLY MILLER GEARHART

 

JOURNAL

Sally Miller Gearhart

By Bill Barksdale, Columnist

My dear friend, Sally Miller Gearhart, died on July 14, 2021.  She wasn’t only my dear friend.  I think by the end of her life, pretty much everyone she knew was her dear friend.  That’s where she had grown to in her life, unconditional love for each person.  The last time I saw her was at her 90th birthday party held at her little cabin in the woods up Sherwood Road.  She greeted me as she had always greeted me during the years we had known each other, “Mr. Barksdale!”, then she would smile and laugh.  It was how she expressed affection to me.  We would then kiss and hug each other. 

I was nothing more special to Sally than others in her life.  She had a few fortunate “special friends” like her beloved Jane Gurko.  She and Jane had worked together at San Francisco State University where Sally had started one of the first, if not the first, university Women’s Studies class.  She was a university professor, a novelist and a trailblazer, that was just her way.  She stood with Harvey Milk at a very challenging time in civil rights history.

Bay area filmmaker, Deborah Craig, and her crew recently completed her long awaited film called SALLY which premiered to sold-out standing ovations at the Frameline48 film festival at KQED in San Francisco recently.  Deborah’s film is a long overdue tribute to a great and historic woman who lived most of her later life right here in Willits.

I spoke at Sally’s memorial in Recreation Grove Park on September 20^th 2021 – one of a number of speakers.  Following is what I had to say.

“My husband Joe and I are married today because of courageous pioneers like Sally Miller Gearhart, Harvey Milk and Jim Geary. When I think of what I’m grateful for, I think of them.

I remember I stood in a crowd of a few thousand angry queers and other friends, in front of San Francisco City Hall all those years ago at what became known as “The White Night Riot” after that sad, misguided assassin, Dan White, was sentenced to just 5 years in prison after methodically murdering Mayor George Moscone & Supervisor Harvey Milk – I could see police cars exploding in flames at the corner of McAllister & Polk St as their sirens screamed.  Their blazes, were a metaphor for the rage of all those people – gay & straight – who needed to let the world know, and feel our outrage and terrible pain.  Years later as I was chatting with Sally about that night she confessed to me she was one of those people rolling over the police cars and setting them on fire. 

Sally could be a Warrior when she needed to be. That was a part of her.  She also had the tenderness and caring of a best friend, and the innocent audacity of the Tarot’s Fool stepping off into the unknown, not always sure where she would end up but wanting the adventure.  She was always hungry, it seemed to me, to learn and to grow. 

She stood should-to-shoulder with courageous Harvey Milk, unafraid to lead to defeat the Briggs Initiative as that misguided man tried to ban non-heterosexual teachers from the classroom.  He lost thanks to their efforts.

Sally loved animals, and the forest where she lived.  She loved women – and in my experience reached out to all people.  I’m here today because Sally invited me.  She welcomed me as a friend, always calling me “Mr. Barksdale” with a sarcastic laugh and that smile – that famous smile.   

I don’t know what Sally’s legacy will be.  That’s still unfolding.  I feel sure she won’t be remembered as a “Lady”, even though her favorite default character to play when we did improv theater together was “the Southern Belle”.  Somewhere deep inside, that was Sally too.  She reminded me once that she had been a “separatist lesbian” which is how the New York Times remembered her recently.  I never experienced that part. 

I knew her as friend to discuss spiritual philosophy with.  To share meals with.  To play games with or just sit and chat. She was an academic, unlike me. She was always the most flexible one in yoga class. A contortionist.  She would bring her beloved dog, Bodhi, who would visit each one of us by plopping down on our mats as we balanced on one foot, or he would curl up with whomever he chose as we lay on the floor.  Sally would call to him loudly and annoyingly and apologize while we tried to relax. This was a weekly event. All of us loved Bodhi and enjoyed his affection, never bothered as he snuggled next to one of us.  Bodhi’s favorite food was the upholstery in Sally’s SUV.  She happily drove it around sitting on just the springs and metal frames which was all that was left of the interior.

After Yoga a few of us would go to Ardella’s for breakfast.  Too often Sally - along with Emmy Good & Marilyn McNair would recall some silly childhood song and the three of them would belt it out - silencing the other diners as I slid as far down in my seat as possible, trying to disappear as people stared in our direction.  She had an almost perverse fondness for men’s legs and when a guy in shorts would pass by she’d have to remark loudly, “look at those great legs, m-m-m”!

Her favorite, and only breakfast at Ardella’s was “Sally cakes”.  Sally cakes was a plate heaped with small, child-sized pancakes literally flooded with butter and buried in a mountain of powdered sugar.  She never had to order.  When she walked through the door a server would just yell to the kitchen “Sally’s here”!  Within minutes that dripping plate of artery-choking sludge would arrive, to her delight. 

When she was still teaching at SFU, she once asked me for any books I had on channeling, knowing that I have a large library on spiritual, philisophical and religious matters.  She informed me that she was planning to incorporate the channeling of spirits into her course at SFU somehow.  Don’t know how she did that but Sally was always opening doors.  The more taboo, the wider she opened the door. That was her way.  She was adventurous and daring - an explorer – and beneath it all a river of love.

I last saw Sally at her small 90^th birthday party at her cabin in the forest.  She was welcoming and warm, but she was tired.  When she passed out of this physical life a few weeks later I was teary-eyed for a moment but ultimately - I felt happy for her as I imagined her reunited with her dearest Jane Gurko, the two of them embracing, laughing.  Sally’s aged body had finished its work and she passed on to - whatever comes next – pure positive energy.  That was a belief we shared.

Sally grabbed onto, and treasured life.  She loved her privacy, yet she shared herself with the world.  She left the world a better place than she found it.

I’m sure Sally often spoke these words and won’t be offended if I say goodbye to her with Horatio’s blessing to his friend Hamlet.  “Good night sweet prince – and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”  

 

Dearest Sally, like your driving, it was a wild ride.  Thanks for the lift.”

After a small memorial at Sally’s cabin each of us was given a small vial of her ashes to keep or distribute as we saw fit. I walked into the woods near her cabin and as I walked under a huge oak tree that she loved, the vial literally fell from my hand as if it had been pulled as it dropped to the ground.  I knew that’s where she wanted to be and that’s where I scraped the leaves and soil and planted those few ashes to nurture her favorite tree. That’s how she wanted it. 

  photo by Emmy Good