Power
One blessing of life's many is the power to ask questions. We humans can go there. Two of my all-time favorites are does the comment need saying, at all, and if so, are the words mine to say? Some or much distance from unfiltered impulse (or what we call addiction neighborhoods), enlivens question asking.
On a road trip now away from my Hawai'i home zone, I imagine what a friendly companion from another planet might ask if she travels with me. For this region where I have arrived feels like a diverse stratosphere, a different planet, yet most likely still on the same earth as Hawai'i, simply feeling far, far away, other worldly.
A congenial traveler at my side might ask, why is there a small space where the color and texture vary so from the surrounding? That color you see is green and stays so with water to foster growth when seeds are planted in earthy soil that evolve into grass. Given her pleasant stare she seems onboard with my answer and I proceed. A shared language we have, against the alien odds, because she looks like a tall brown rabbit standing on hind paws at ten feet tall, red eyes blinking rapid yet wisely. I am glad for her presence.
A canine in her human-gifted domain—when she needs the space.
“Why the fence?” she wonders aloud, walking the perimeter. A small animal relies on the area to discharge water and food, sources of power. The people who own this campground have devoted careful attention to their dog's needs and comfort since the grass is a few feet outside the house. We humans are to park our cars some walking distance from a camp site and schlep our items and no grass for us. We have either gray or beige gravel.
In her red blinking eyes skepticism shines through. Priorities often claim the human experience that an animal meant to bring solace to human days is top dog. Yet campground customers like me are meant to arrive in steady numbers, so an inconvenience here or there can be prioritized away. Makes sense though, I explain, since customers can bring a piece of paper and metal coins called money, a mainstay human power.
Quite good people operate this campground, and the money exchange I have spent here is minimal, yet on earth these papers and coins frame nearly all decision making and complex powers. Perhaps my words make sense because she comfortably saunters over to the green lawn to drop a few pellets, a good thing since rabbit droppings fertilize soil quite well.
Staring at the lawn and a soily bare patch, she asks, “These metal coins, are they grown from the soil, too?” She has been so easygoing and patient, holding to my life credo—does the comment need saying and by me—I go for concise rather than rambling (a possibility given my sobriety life history, so far). We humans don't grow metal in the soil but we do discover metal already existing there, I say.
She nods in understanding and her second nod asks me to continue. For example, on this road trip having departed the airplane after flying from Kailua-Kona to San Jose, California, and then driving in a zip-zip Nissan Versa from Monterey, California to Las Vegas, Nevada—nine hours in sweltering desert heat—we drove past the Calico Ghost Town. Remember, I ask her?
One of sixty silver mines operating in Calico, CA from 1892 until 1907.
Her red eyes sprinkle glee sparks, mild ones, and I'm guessing she does. Long before humans had Nissan Versas, we had carts pulled by horses and burros in this rural Nevada area, immensely strong animals to facilitate mining $20 million of value in the papers and coins once silver had been excavated from the mountainous earth for 15 years. Yet humans often encounter trouble recognizing how short term gain diffuses long term sustainability. So, once the mine didn't turn a profit, the people ghosted their own efforts and left. “But what about the earth, after?” Soil has incredible regenerative powers and ever likely she has returned to her Mojave Desert ecosystem, I offer as comment. She seems in doubtful believing, and I wait.
Pondering and quiet, she eventually turns to me. “What about those glinty black metal podiums a half hour before arriving to Las Vegas?” Thank goodness, an open inquiry. Those several hundreds of acres are earth that support low-lying solar panels—thousands. And three gigantic towers cast a sun-infused radiating gleam onto them. Powerful means to harvest powerful solar energy.
Some probably distributed to Las Vegas where humans choose to stay indoors actively gambling and feasting and partying under endless bright artificial lights. “So humans harvest sun power to stay indoors away from the sun?” she says plaintively, a whisper of irritation present at nonsensical behavior. That sounds like a clear explanation to me, I say, supporting her time to process the irrational called humans living on earth, our methods.
Solar farm a short drive distance from Las Vegas, Nevada.
Obvious doubt on her rabbit face, she tries for hopeful, anyway. “What about you? What is your power source?” Good to go on this topic, a full-circle talking tour with my traveling amiga. That is easy, I begin. In the Mojave Desert, a desert stretch of several hundred miles (and thousands and thousands of acres in total) we drove to reach Las Vegas, is a huge tortoise that holds water in her bladder, thus able to go two months without replenishing. And in Hawaiian mythology, a way to make sense of inexplicable life, we have the amakua, or spirit animal—mine has been the turtle for a long while. Similar to the Mojave Desert tortoise, I hold replenishing energy in focused rituals that restore my consistent power all during the day. Recovery practices these are—a group gathering, literature reading, specific prayers, inquiry meditation, phone calling, sharing life story—that stay humble, or infinite energy. I guess I held true to my credo that the comment did need saying and from me.
Mojave desert tortoises taking a stroll.
**Note: A tortoise carries a wider round shell for land travel while a turtle streamlines her shell to accommodate water environments. Still, each is quite resourceful.