There’s a beautifully written book entitled, Housekeeping, in which author Marilynne Robinson’s radical hero, a vagrant, estranged aunt, moves into a rural house to be the guardian of two teen girls. What could be seen as her neglect of housekeeping allows nature to slowly take over the old house. What’s really happening is a breakdown of the barrier between the outside world and the inside world, not because this train-hoping wanderer has an agenda, but because she does not. She doesn’t see a barrier between nature and self, so where she frequents, any barrier devolves.
At least that’s the way I remember the book, and I could be wrong. But bear with my conceit here. I could have started this entry with, “Our trailer is dirty!” Isn’t this a more interesting way to look at that? Before I break from the book, though, it’s a gorgeous look at loss, and grief, and radicalized memory, as well as a lack of housekeeping. I recommend it.
To my point here: We hope to spend almost all of this summer boondocking out in the West, away from civilization, and already we’re at day 20 of living off the grid (although we took a welcome 2-night break with laundry and showers with Melanie and Doug). With all the dust and dirt and wind we’ve been hiking in and parked in, my housekeeping has grown lax in these 20 days already.
We’re careful with water, only because it’s a bother for Tracy to fill the trailer tanks from the portable tanks in the back of the truck. And we’re careful with electricity, even though the New Mexico sun fills our batteries to capacity each day. My feeling of being cut off from the practices of civilization is strong though, and it includes a slow creep of reconnection to the land. Literally.
Banjo gets dirt from the desert embedded in her layers of fur when she’s outside for even a short bit. I swipe at her with a towel and then let her in. That brief snowfall, then snowy sleet, made the desert dirt into a clay-like mud that’s caked on our boots. We bring them on in. My hair has so much dirt in it that my pillowcase is brown, despite me wearing it tied tightly against the dirt in the wind, always with a hat on against the sun. I try to change sheets every two weeks, but why bother when we’ll put more desert dirt on them? My skin is dry, but I have to remind myself to use lotion and chapstick, since the dry air is a constant you get used to. Each morning I put on the same dirty clothes I’ve been wearing since we left Doug and Melanie.
I’m dirty, the land is made of dirt, the windy air has dirt in it. Why fight that?
This business about housekeeping is subservient to the point here, which is getting a feel for the land. People talk online about the “real” wherever, Colorado or New Mexico. I get the point, a feel for the local culture, the landscape, away from tourists. If that’s the real, we’re in the ultra real.
Which is ridiculous. We’re just parked on government-managed land with no one around. All this talk sounds silly, but—when I’m wandering under the piñon trees, looking at tracks in the sand, watching Banjo smell the presence of animals I can’t see, holding my hat brim against the wind and sun—I do feel closer to the land, like the barrier inside myself, between me and it, is breaking down. Thank goodness.
Tomorrow we head to Bandelier National Park, and, because it’s near Los Alamos, our Starlink signal will be blocked, and we might not have cell service, either. So, if you don’t hear from me for a while, I’m still here! Just not there.
The top pictographs are less than a mile from where we’re parked, just there on the rock for anyone to find and wonder their meaning. The tracks in the dirt beside Banjo are coyote, wild burrow, and javelina. The piñon trees all around us are dropping their nuts easily; we crack their bitter, hard shells and eat them each day. The round kiva is on top of El Morrow. The owl carcass Tracy found while walking behind our campsite at Gila Cliff Dwellings. In the very up-top photo, our trailer is in the distance at left.
I love everything about where you are… random hieroglyphs rock!… except the dirt. Not sure I could stand that without a daily shower.
You do not want to know how many showers I’ve had in these 20 days.
🥴
Isn’t it clean dirt?
I’m not sure what you mean by clean dirt. That dirt has briars and bits of weed in it, plus manure from elk, deer, burro, coyote. And plenty of pine sap. And anything that gets up and stays up in your sinuses and ears and eyes for that long is unwelcome, in my book.
Shelly this is just a fabulous post. Congratulations. I love it. What a life you and Tracy have chosen to live, and thanks for honestly sharing both its fabulousness and challenges. I also think about the border between human and nature, usually in the context of weeds in gardens, tracks becoming overgrown, fences rotting and falling down, and machinery rusting away to nothing.
Thank you so much for reading and commenting! When it comes to landscaping, I sure do appreciate a well-ordered garden and yard, in some cases. I once lived in an apartment complex kept up beautifully, but I’ve also lived where nature was allowed to take over, and that was a different joy. It’s fascinating, isn’t it?
I so relate to this post! We have finally made it out of the desert and are in northern Texas. But the desert hasn’t made it out of us yet. I thought I had gotten rid of most of it, and then noticed the hatch on the inside is still covered in the desert dust. Our white dog looked quite brown for a while. We are by a lake, so he finally was able to get a good swim and de-desert himself. We are finally at a campground with full hookups, and I can not tell you how glorious my first real long shower felt!
It’s wild how you forget what super-clean feels like, isn’t it. And to think we used to be that way all the time! Life sure changes in unexpected ways. So worth it, though!
Totally worth it!
Incredible post. Get almost feel grit between my teeth!