The Long Road

There are the ones you call friends
There are the ones you call late at night
There are the ones who sweep away your past
With one wave of their hand…

I can hear your voice in the wind
Are you calling to me? Down the long road…

-The Long Road, by Cliff Eberhart

I have an appointment today to meet with my friend Rebecca, to work on my personal property inventory. This is where you make a list of every single thing that you owned that burned up in the fire, so the insurance company can figure out the “replacement value.” You have to list everything – not just “Clothes” and “Furniture” and “Personal Effects,” but every pair of socks, every shirt, every notebook and pencil and paper clip in your whole damn house.

Not only do you have to list everything you owned, but where you bought it, when you bought it, what it cost, what it will cost to replace, and what proof you have that you owned it in the first place.  I am not kidding. You have to do this for Every. Single. Thing.

Hey, what about those boxes of daffodil bulbs I had in the refrigerator that I was going to plant in the fall? Put them on the list. Nellie’s dog toys and Halloween costumes? Put ‘em on the list. What about that trunk that I had, with the letters my mom wrote to my dad when they were dating, and my old Park Ranger uniform, and my dad’s enlistment card from World War II, and the graduation robes I wore when I got my PhD? Um, put them on the list? How do I document the when, where, how, and how-much of things like that? Replacement value? There’s no such thing.

The insurance people tell you to do this right away, so that you don’t start to forget what you’ve lost.  Forget what you’ve lost – are you kidding?

As I go through my list, I think to myself, “There is no proof of my existence any more.” There are no photographs of me, no artifacts to help understand my own indigenous culture-of-one.  Yes, there are digital records of my life, and documents in cyberspace, made of light and air, but there is nothing in my physical world to prove that Andi O’Conor existed, was a child, grew up. There are no diplomas, there are no transcripts. No passports with stamps that show my travels in India, Africa, Asia, Europe, and the Caribbean. No poetry that I wrote in junior high; no small, locked journals from high school where I documented the ups and downs of my First Love.

There is only a birth certificate that shows that I was born in Boston, on this date, at this time. The rest of my life is now a blank. The past is ash; thoroughly and completely gone.  Where there were documents, things, objects that showed me my past, there is only space, there is only Now.

We Americans are not that big on Now – we believe in The Future. We are a restless lot, and we love to reinvent ourselves, to start over with a new identity, a clean slate. People in other cultures are shocked at how much we move around. I remember reading something a British journalist wrote years ago, pre-9/11. He said,  “Americans jump on airplanes the way Britons get on buses. They are always going somewhere, always looking for something.”

I have reinvented myself many times in my own lifetime, from corporate PR person to Park Ranger to Sign Language Interpreter to Professor, so I know the dance of change all too well.  But when I turned fifty, I felt like I had finally found my niche, my place, my work in the world.  Last summer, just a few months before the fire, a friend asked me if I wanted to go hit the weekend garage sales, and I said, “You know, I feel like I finally have everything – I can’t think of a thing I need.” I was happy being single, with my friends and neighbors and dog for company.  I was heading out to Port Townsend, Washington, to spend August in a carriage house by the sea, working and writing. It was a long-held dream come true, and the pieces of my life had finally fallen into place. Finally.

And then, well, you know. It all Burned Up, and a year later here I am, in a rented house in town, writing. I have a rug on the floor that I got with a gift card from Target, some linens from the Free Store, and a small amount of clothes. The dishes and pots and pans belong to the landlord, as does the silverware and towels and furniture.

I joke to my friend Beth that I am like Jesus, like the Lilies of the Field, that I have only what people have given me. My begging bowl is filled with gifts from passers-by; from strangers, from friends, from the insurance company. Some New Age people say that Jesus was a millionaire, which I find a bit difficult to believe. I prefer to think of him as a refugee, as a Fire Person, as someone who roamed the hot, burning desert, owning only what was given to him, searching, and searching, for that Ultimate Message of Love.

But me? I’m a Modern Human, and I can’t live this way for long.  I can’t float along in my little rental, wearing the same three outfits, for the rest of my life. No long white robe and sandals for me; I have to be in the world. So I will write my inventory, and give it to the insurance company, and go shopping, and reinvent myself once again.

The person that I was is gone, burned away. Who is this person now, I wonder.  Why does she exist, and for whom?  What is the purpose of her life, and what will she accomplish?

The future stretches before me like a wide, open road – expansive, full of light. From here I cannot see where it goes, only that it does go –  on and on.  And so I brush off the dust and the ash from the fire, and God, I hate to say it, Move On.  Down that road, past the suffering and the trauma and the sharp and searing pain, to a new reality, a softer reality, where the worst is, for the moment, behind me.  I set off to find new place, a new purpose, a new Great Love. I take a step, and then another, and then I am on my way.

Wishing you sweet dreams, and a safe and peaceful journey. Thanks for walking with me,

Andi

Andi and Nellie on the Old Foundation

Posted on August 7, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Moving On, Nellie the Dog, Spiritual Experience | 12 Comments
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An Almost Perfect Night

July 5th, 2011 – Ten Months Since the Fire

Dear Friends,

The other night I went out with girlfriends for a rare night out since the fire. It was so delightfully “normal.” We met for dinner, saw a free concert at an outdoor mall, shopped the summer sales, had tea on the sidewalk and listened to more music.  I bought my first skirt since the fire (I now own one skirt!) and it was a perfect summer night.  I relaxed. We all lingered, relishing each other’s company and the warm summer air.

Around ten o’clock we decided to call it a night. I drove home with the windows open, marveling at the sweet smell of summer flowers that drifted into the car. I stopped at a light, inhaling the delicious night air, thinking, “Well, my year in town really hasn’t been so bad…” when the sound of a siren broke through the night and a fire truck raced out in front of me, heading in the direction of my new, temporary home.  I instinctively stomped on the gas, chasing it, my mind racing. “Oh my God, what if my house is on fire? Oh my God, Nellie is home alone. Oh my God, did I ever get that renter’s insurance? Oh my God, this is why I should never buy anything ever again – it’ll just burn up. This is why I should never, ever leave my house…”

I chased the truck and at every turn toward my house I thought, “Please don’t turn here,” and of course it did. I was certain that my house was burning, that Nellie was inside, that all was lost, again…

A half block from my house, on the very last turn, it went the other way.  I pulled over, in a state of sheer panic, all the magic of the evening lost. I was shaking. JesusGodAlmighty. It took a few minutes for me to catch my breath, and start the car again. I drove home, ran into the house and hugged Nellie as the sirens fell away into the distance, off to another burning house.

As you know, I’m not a fearful person.  I’ve hitchhiked around Europe and sailed around the world and done more stupid, scary, risky things in the wilderness than most people I know.  I was raised to always expect the best, not the worst, and to hold the fearless precept that Everything Will Be Alright, No Matter What. When I faced down an enormous grizzly bear in Alaska, after it popped out of a willow grove and trapped us on a small beach in Glacier Bay, I thought, “Well, this might be the end, and if it is, it’s been a really good run.” I was scared, but I didn’t feel the sheer panic I experienced when I saw that fire truck flash by me, towards my house.

There is fear, and there is fear, and then there is the irrational vice-grip of PTSD. It comes out of nowhere and grabs you and shakes you, hard. And no matter what’s going on in your head, your adrenal system takes over, stomps out any rational thought that you might be trying to hold on to, and starts shouting in your ear, “WHOOP WHOOP PANIC PANIC RUN HIDE ALL IS LOST THIS IS THE END OH NO OH NO OH NO…”

Finally you get a grip on yourself, calm down, and wonder what the hell just happened. Was I really just chasing a fire truck? And for God’s sake, how long am I going to feel like this? I don’t know how long, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do about this. There is therapy, of course, and I have a list of people to call. Another list. More calls. More damage control. How long, I wonder, how long?

For most of us, it would have been just one of those wonderful summer nights with friends – great food, beautiful music, and then, a siren that wails off in the distance.  We hear it, we wonder for a moment, and then we shrug it off. “It’s not my house that’s burning,” we think. “It just can’t be.”  And then we go back to our conversation, our friends, our perfect summer night.

I wonder, will I ever feel that way again? Will I ever be able to hear a siren and think, “Oh no, not me. Not my house.”  Not my house. I wonder.

I think that probably all of us who have been smacked by the Great Hand of Disaster wonder, at times, how much we will really mend in the end.  How much are we changed, how deep does the damage go, and will anything ever be the same again? Which scars will be permanent, which will fade, and which will we caress in our old age, with a wistful smile, and think, “Ah, I earned this one…”

When our lives are cracked open by loss, we can only keep going – there is no other choice. But the sirens wail, and we jump at night, and wonder “How long? How long?”

Wishing You a Peaceful Summer Night, Sweet Dreams, and No Surprises,

Andi and Nellie


Posted on July 25, 2011 by Andi
Posted in PTSD | 7 Comments
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Swimming Upstream: A Sunday Afternoon

Today I was supposed to go swimming with my friend Linda, but just as I was about to leave, a friend stopped by.  (In the mountains this never happens, and it is both delightful and wreaks havoc on schedules.) She dropped off a file box full of recipes she had collected; a thoughtful gift to help rebuild my post-fire kitchen someday. (Some day in the future, when I have remembered how to cook. Right now I have not progressed beyond heating things up and making toast.)

Anyway, she left and then I decided to go get the mail.  Inside the box was a small envelope with an address I didn’t recognize.  I opened it up, and inside was a check for $200.  A small post-it that was attached said, “Andi, I hope this helps you rebuild your life.” I turned the check over and over, mystified. The address on the check was a PO Box, and the name was one I didn’t recognize.  Wow. A total stranger sent me money in the mail. Can you believe it? I stood there, tears rolling down my face, awed once again at the kindness of strangers.  How is it that people are so good, so generous?

I finally started down the hill, and went by Columbia Cemetery, the historic old cemetery in Boulder on 9th Street. I stopped at the light, and there was a tour going on in the cemetery.  There were people at different gravesites, and kids running around, and tourists walking among the headstones, learning the history of the cemetery. It was actually quite festive. I chuckled to myself – leave it up to Boulder to make a party out of everything, including death. God, I love this town.

Boulder saved me from my dreary teenage life in Chicago, when I first came to college here at 17.  I stepped off the bus from the old Stapleton Airport and got out at the Country Store, looking for the dorms.  I smelled the mountain air, looked at the Flatirons and the beautiful campus of CU, and said out loud, “I am HOME!” And I have been here ever since.

When I travel, no matter where I go, or how beautiful it is, I cannot wait to get back to Boulder. I drive from the airport (now DIA,) and then up the hill until I crest the top of it and then voila!  Boulder is spread out before me. I can see campus, downtown Boulder, the foothills, and the snowy Rockies in the distance. It is a breathtaking view.  Each time I come up over the ridge and then start to drive down into Boulder, I say, “Hello, my little Yuppie Paradise!  I AM BACK.” Knowing that I live in Boulder fills me with joy.

So today I drove down the hill in another direction, to the Rec Center, hoping I had not missed Linda, my swimming buddy. Sunday afternoons are very quiet at the Rec Center, as most people in Boulder are outside, getting their cardio on. (Hey, want to get your heart rate up? Look at these quotes for rebuilding my burned down house that may or may not be covered by insurance. That’ll get it pumping!)

Anyway, I went on to the Rec Center, and had to stop at the front desk for a conversation I had been dreading all afternoon. I had to tell yet another stranger my house had burned down, and burned up my Rec Center pass, and melted my Rec Center lock, and could I please get them replaced? The woman at the counter was very helpful and matter of fact, and reissued my burned up card without missing a beat.

When it came time to get a new lock, she said, “Well, What color do you want? I have red, green and yellow.” I said, “Definitely NOT red. I’ve had enough of red.”  She chuckled and said, “Okay, there’s a nice, peaceful green, or a warm, healing yellow.”  “Yellow!” I proclaimed, and she grabbed one out of the case for me. It was so Boulder. A “healing yellow” lock for my locker. Can you imagine this conversation happening in Chicago, where I grew up, or in New York City?  Here’s what I imagine;

Counter Person: “Lady, I don’t care if the world ended –  you lose a pass, you lose, period. Got that?  And a new lock is ten bucks, cash only. And no I don’t have any change, so don’t ask. You gonna buy one, or what?”

I would have run crying from that Rec Center, but I am in Boulder, where people are nice and helpful and understand the cosmic difference between red, green and yellow.  I clutched my new yellow lock in my hand and marched off to the pool, mission accomplished.  God, I love this town.

I was so late that I had missed my friend Linda, but I decided to swim anyway. I put my stuff in a locker, got into my suit, and walked out to the hot tub.  It was sunny and warm in the glassed-in corner there by the big, tiled tub, and the jets were bubbling and it was nearly empty.  I picked a corner and sunk in to my neck, and let the hot bubbles work on my shoulders.  Oh, this is good, I thought. My brain is shifting down from fifth gear into fourth, third, second… Oh my God, I am actually relaxing. Whew.

When it got too warm, I got into the pool, and into the empty lap lane.  Swimming is one of my favorite things, but for some reason I felt too afraid to put my head under water. Some kind of strange PTSD had frozen my arms and legs, and made me feel like if I put my head underwater, I would drown. I took a breath and pushed off from the side, and decided that I would just swim however I could, without judging it.

Usually I pound through laps, counting the turns and looking at the clock. But today, I just paddled along like a little frog, feeling the water flow over my body.  It felt exquisite. I could feel that there was actually a small current in the pool, and that I was swimming upstream. I could feel the cold water and the small pockets of warmth where the heaters were blowing into the water.  It seemed like it took forever to get across, but I wasn’t struggling. I was just paddling along, quietly, slowly, barely making a wake, enjoying every small stroke, and the amazing caress of the cold. Water never felt like that before; I had never been so aware of floating, of buoyancy, of the tiny details around the pool.  I was actutely aware of every feeling, every sound, the smallest angle of light on the water.

It’s that heightened awareness, that Edge that I’ve talked about before. When you’re in disaster mode after great loss, the world spins into a strange, exhausting and disorienting place.  And yet that place has made my senses keener than they have ever been.  Life on the Edge is painful, sharp, and piercing, and yet it is also oddly luminous.  I know in a way I will miss it, when the little ship that is my life finally rights itself, and I list back into the wind, back towards Normal.  The edge will dull, the light will dim, and water will just feel like water.  But for now, I am riding the Edge, holding fast to the ropes as I zoom along, almost tipping over, breathless yet excited, listening for its teachings.

After a while I got really cold, and paddled back to the other side, and climbed back into the hot tub. That small swim left me exhausted, so I soaked for a bit and then headed back to the locker room.  As I showered, the water flashed from hot to cold and hot again, and after jumping around, I laughed. Dear old North Boulder Rec Center. Most of my friends who are Serious Athletes go to private clubs, where they can swim in peace, and train for their next triathalon uninterrupted by the Boulder High Swim Team or the Water Ballet Club. But this is what I find most charming about the Rec Center; the high school swim banners that proclaim champions from years gone by, the little kids who squeal with delight at their very first ride down the three-foot water slide, even the overcrowded, hot-then-cold showers. It’s all part of this dance of life, in my town, my Best Place, my Beloved Boulder.

Later on, I sipped some soup at China Gourmet, our local vegan, vegetarian, gluten free, no-MSG, brown rice, no-salt or sugar Chinese restaurant. The hot broth slid down my throat and instantly dispersed warmth and calm to my entire system.  The salty liquid felt like Mom, like nurturing, like an inner hug. I closed my eyes and felt the goodness coursing through my body. Although I usually come here with Linda, it was okay to be alone tonight. There were other single people there, and because I’m in Boulder, they looked back at me and smiled.

I realize I am getting closer to Okay —  I am better, I am not quite Back, but I am getting there.  Eating soup, enjoying the last of the light on an Sunday evening, held in the arms of my friends, my town, my Boulder.  When you are so held, how can you ever really fall?

Sending You Love, and Wishes for Sweet Dreams,

Andi

The Stone Heart in October, 2010

June 21st, Summer Solstice, 2011

Posted on June 22, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Boulder, Good Moments, PTSD, The Kindness of Strangers | 7 Comments
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Seed and Straw

May 20th, 2011
Eight and a Half Months Since the Fire

Dear Friends,

I finished re-seeding my land today, and I’m exhausted. Nellie is stretched out beside me, so tired that she can barely lift up her head. Every once in a while she lets out a big sigh and flops her head on my ankle, and then falls asleep again. I ache all over, but I have a great sense of satisfaction.  I feel like a farmer who finally got the Back Forty all plowed and seeded, just in time for the growing season. Whew.

Rehabbing land after a fire, I’ve learned, is amazingly low-tech. You rake the most burned parts of the soil, then throw seed in handfuls (this is called “broadcasting”) over the area.

Step One - Seed

Then you cover it with straw, to hold moisture and protect the seeds. Then you pray, really hard, for rain. Lots of it.

Step Two - Straw

Since I’m pretty overwhelmed with the details of life these days, I decided I would just let Nature take its course and worry about re-seeding next year.  Then I went up and looked at my land, and got a wake-up call.

It was beautiful in places; there were wide swathes of tender, electric-green grass; more wildflowers than I had ever seen up there, and new buds on some of the surviving pine trees. There’s been a lot of progress in since September.

September, 2010

May, 2011

But the rest of the property was still bombed-out looking. There were big black patches of charcoal and sand where meadow grass used to grow, and many of the trees I thought might survive had died. Yeesh. I realized that Nature needed a little help, and needed it now. What to do?

The next day I heard that there was leftover seed and straw available, so I zoomed up the canyon, loaded up the car with about 250 pounds of certified weed-free grass seed and frantically called my contractor, Jerry, to see if he could bring up his truck to haul straw. He said he was available (my hero!) and he and his daughter Riley and I hauled the seed and  straw over to my property at six o’clock that night.  Jerry distributed the bales around the land, and Riley was a real trooper, helping to spread seed and plopping small piles of straw around the re-seed areas.

In the beginning, it was fun.  We worked quietly as the evening came on, and the sky began to turn a deeper blue, then pink.  It was warm, and the mountains around us were starting to green up.

Jerry and I talked while we worked, about how peaceful it was to spread seed by hand, and how people all over the world have been planting like this for thousands of years — walking across the land, step-by-step, flicking out seed by the handful, then covering it with straw, then moving on to the next patch.  And how in parts of the world, it might be morning, and women might be doing just what we were doing; their aprons full of seed, chatting and broadcasting new life across their land, as their mothers had done, as their grandmothers had done, as their daughters might do.

And then we all got tired.  The straw was sticky and itchy and prickly, and the seeds poked into our skin and clothes.  It started to get dark, and cold. I thanked Jerry and Riley and sent them on their way – time for a 12-year old to get ready for bed. I stayed until about nine-thirty, working alone, trying to get more done. I was amazed at how long it took us to do one small area, and by the time I left, I felt exhausted and overwhelmed. With a team of ten, or a family, or a village, this would take one afternoon. By myself, it would take days, or weeks. God.

The next day, the weather suddenly changed.  It turned cold, and rained and snowed, day after day, without ceasing. Each time I went up to work on the land it was a miserable experience.  Nellie would last about a half hour, romping around in the snow, and then would start shivering so badly that I had to wrap her in my extra polar fleece and bundle her into the car. The straw was wet and heavy to haul, and the work was going slower than ever. I had to keep going, to take advantage of the wet weather.

So I plodded along, grabbing a few hours here and there to run up the mountain and scatter seed and straw, and then drive back down sodden and frozen. The burned area seemed to get bigger each time I went up. It started to feel impossible, like I would never get it done. Then my friend Cheri sent me this beautiful email in answer to one of my requests for help:

Hi Andi,
I will do my best to come help. It would be healing, I am quite sure. With my eyes closed I am picturing emerald spears of life, unstoppable, pushing their way into this world, thirsty for sunlight and for Nellie’s welcoming paws.
Best, Cheri

Cheri came up, and we worked in the freezing cold and pouring rain, with her dog and my dog taking turns running around, and we made a lot of progress. The next day she sent me this note;

Andi,
I had the most magnificent time!  Thank you. I’m so glad it was helpful for you as well. When I left your land there was this holy moment, swinging together the gate halves to make a whole, while a thick, silent veil of snow fell to merge heaven and earth. I was filthy and happy, out of my head, deliriously living in my heart and everything around me was pure poetic metaphor… I am still grinning.
Big Hugs, Cheri

What a gift to have friends like that – who celebrate cold, hard work as a holy moment, who revel in the joy of service.  We were getting there, inch by inch!

Straw Dog!

Then today dawned grey but not snowy, with clouds and 50 degrees; balmy compared to the last two weeks. I threw on my gear and drove up the mountain.

Inspired, I raced around the land, scattering and raking and mulching like a madwoman, and was almost done when lightning flashed overhead and I heard a loud BOOM! of thunder.  I grabbed Nellie just in time, and we jumped in the car as rain began to pound down.

The storm passed quickly, and then suddenly, the sky cleared for the first time in a week. The clouds were puffy and white, with blue sky peeking through, and in the distance, the peaks of the Continental Divide were dusted with new snow. I inhaled the sweet, damp air, shook off the rain, and walked over and spread the last of the seed, and the last of the straw.

Then Nellie and I walked the land, while I admired our work.

Looking Good!

I let out a long sigh. I did it – I reseeded my land, a couple of acres, by hand, mostly by myself.  I’ve never done anything like this before, never cared for a piece of property so tenderly, so intimately.  I love my land, but like me, it’s mostly taken care of itself over the years. This is the first time it really needed me, and you know what?  I showed up.

Tonight I’m going to take a long, hot bath, and celebrate my success.  Then I’m going to watch a movie and order a decadent pizza, and maybe even a big bottle of Coke, heaven forfend.

I’m going to relish this moment of stewardship, of caring for the land. I’m going to drink a toast to my own persistence, to Jerry and Cheri and Riley, who walked with me, through the cold and snow and dying light, who were there for me, and whose work will show up as New Life in the form of green grass, and a new meadow, that with luck, will renew itself year after green year, all the years of my life.

Sending You Love, and Wishes for Joyful Renewal,

Andi and Nellie

My Heart's in the Mountains

PS: A Little Slide Show…




Posted on May 22, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Friends, Good Moments | 7 Comments
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Migration

May 1st, 2011
Eight Months Since the Fire


Hello Friends,

Today is my last day in my little cottage in Chautauqua. We’re moving to a temporary rental for the summer, and then are lucky enough to be moving back here to another cottage in the fall. We have a very nice sublet for the summer, but today I’m exhausted from packing and cleaning and taking care of the myriad details of moving. I realize that I am not migratory by nature.

The other day I was at my friend Beth’s house, and as I left, a small flock of Canada Geese flew over in a lovely “V” formation, going north for the summer. I thought about how humans began as migratory beings, going north for the summer and south for the winter, over and over, from place to place, always on the move.  I imagined that one day long ago, a woman (I like to think it was a woman) faced with the prospect of packing and moving again, finally put her foot down. “Enough of this!” she said, looking around. “I’m done with all this moving. Summer hunting grounds, winter hunting grounds, meh! How bad can the winter be?  I’m staying put.”  And thus, villages, towns, and civilizations began. All because one woman was tired of moving.

I used to be much more mobile. After college, I moved twenty-five times in ten years. I had places to go, things to do. I was busy being a Park Ranger and traveling the world. Then I got tired of it, went to grad school, bought a house, and settled down. After years of looking for “home,” I finally found it – on top of a mountain, in a wide, peaceful meadow.  Which then burned up, and sent me on this recent migration.

I feel bad about complaining. After all, I’m a middle-class woman with an advanced degree, homeowner’s insurance, and a job. I get to rebuild my house; smaller, but smarter. There are many, many survivors of disasters who are not nearly as fortunate. And yet, as I’ve said before, this is not a pain contest; there are no “winners” here. And today I feel as I do on most days – totally overwhelmed by my life, and yet grateful, so grateful, for all the help I receive each day.

On Saturday, my Army of Angels came over to help me pack – Priscilla, Deborah, Betsy, Cathy and Barbara.  They showed up and dug in, taped together boxes from the liquor store, and started packing up my possessions and piling them up on the porch. We worked for about four hours, and I was amazed at how much stuff I’ve already accumulated. I have a couple of boxes of kitchen stuff, some big plastic bags full of clothes, and then all the odd miscellany that makes up a life.

At one point, Cathy held up a big black plastic bag full of stuff and said, “Where do you want me to put this?” I asked, “What’s in it?”  She said, “Nellie’s toys!”  And we all cracked up. Yes, Princess Nellie’s toy collection filled an entire gigantic garbage bag. Sheesh!

Yesterday, Beth came over to help me clean, and then last night I went to a small potluck in Denver. After the party as I drove home on the highway back to Boulder, I could see the mountains, spreading out to the West. I saw the Continental Divide, covered in snow, and tucked in among the Indian Peaks, my mountain, and my meadow.  I could see the burn scar, stretching across the canyons.  And as I drove down the highway, tears began to pour down my face. I said out loud, “I just want to go home, and it’s going to be a whole year before I get there. I’m just so, so tired of this.”

I cried all the way from Denver to Boulder, and then as I came down the hill into town, I saw the big green open space that surrounds the city, and the pastures full of cows, grazing in the sunset.  Among them were dozens and dozens of baby calves; adorable little black and white furry babies, tottering on new legs, curled up in the grass, snuggling up with their moms. “New Life,” I thought. “There is always New Life.”  And I wiped away my tears, and drove back to the cottage to finish packing.

Today my friend Deborah is coming over to help me do the floors – the last thing on my long “moving” checklist. And then Nellie and I will migrate north for the summer (no kidding, the new rental is north of here) and then back south in the fall, like geese, like primordial Humans, looking for better weather, better hunting, or perhaps, temporary refuge.

And I know that in the end, it will be all right.  We will move a few more times in the coming year, and then finally, Home. And then I will look around and say, “Enough of this! I’m staying put!”

Wishing You and Yours a Good Night, and Sweet Dreams,

Andi

Nellie at the Site of the New House

Posted on May 2, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Boulder, Chautauqua, Friends | 10 Comments
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Happy Spring!

Happy Easter, Spring and Passover Everyone!

It’s a quiet, misty morning here in Chautauqua. Nellie and I took an early morning walk around the Park, still damp with rain…

There’s a dash of snow on the Flatirons, and flowers everywhere amidst the snow and rain. It’s so quiet, so peaceful – everyone still snuggled in bed.


Today I’m so grateful to be here, in my own little corner of Colorado, with such loving friends and neighbors. We never know what tomorrow will bring, but today, Nellie and I are well and happy and looking forward to Spring.

May this season bring Joy and Renewal to your life, and New Hope to your Heart.

Sending Love and Blessings,

Andi and Nellie

Snowy Cottages at Chautauqua


Nellie on the Land

Jerry the Contractor with Nellie at the Site of the New House

Posted on April 24, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Chautauqua, Good Moments | 2 Comments
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No More Toys for Nellie

Wow, that title sure makes me sound like a Mean Dog Mom.

Ahem. Well, here’s the deal. Nellie LOVES toys. Every time she gets a new toy, she is ecstatic. “THIS one,” she seems to say, “Is the best toy EVER!” She throws it in the air, leaps around, rolls around on it to make it squeak, and then joyfully prances around the room, holding the toy high in the air and chomping on it so it goes “squeak! squeak! squeak!” Then she marches over to her bed and lies down with the new toy in her mouth, squeaking away, happy as a dog can be. She seems to say, “Now that I have THIS toy, my life is complete.”

And because she loves toys and lost her extensive Toy Collection in the Fire, people love to give her toys. Squeaky toys, big toys, little toys – she loves them all. My neighbor Judy brought me a cool barn jacket that she found at the Free Store, and she stuffed a toy for Nellie in each pocket. Nellie was wild with gratitude.

She’s gotten so many that I tried to bring some of them to the Humane Society, so other toy-less doggies can enjoy them. The trouble is, Princess Nellie is also the Queen of “Mine.”

I went over to her bed, where she keeps her stash of toys, and picked out a selection of the least-played-with toys, and put them into a plastic shopping bag. Nellie sat and looked at me disdainfully, with her head tilted to one side. “What are you doing with MY TOYS?!” she seemed to say. I explained that she now had plenty of toys, and that other less fortunate dogs might want them. She tilted her head in the opposite direction and stared at me, as if to say, “OTHER dogs? Want MY toys?” I told her Yes, you can share, because you have plenty.

I put the bag by the front door and went into the bedroom for a minute, and when I came out, Nellie had her head in the bag and was rooting around, her tail wagging wildly. As I watched, she carefully pulled out the toys that were in the bag, one by one, and put them all BACK in her bed. Then she dug around and pushed them all together, and then laid down on her pile of toys. “Ahhh, all MINE,” she seemed to say.

Well, since Nellie has been displaced and disoriented and has had to put up with her crazed and moody mom, and now has to be a City Dog when she is really a Mountain Dog, I’m going to let her keep ALL her new toys. Even though there are Way Too Many toys.

So I am declaring a Moratorium on new toys for Nellie. No more ducks, bunnies, or bears. No more hippos, hedgehogs, frogs, skunks, or elephants. No more squeaky balls or squeaky birds or big stuffed parrots. No more… oh, heck. Who cares. Life is short and Nellie is a Princess, after all.

Bring on the toys!

Wishing You a Good Night,

Andi and (a very happy) Princess Nellie

Nellie Happily Asleep on her Pile 'O Toys

Posted on April 19, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Good Moments, Nellie the Dog | 16 Comments
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Disastrous Times

March 22nd, 2011
Six and a Half Months Since the Fire

Dear Friends,

There are fires burning all over Colorado today. About ten miles away, the Indian Gulch fire is still out of control, and has consumed 1,200 acres so far. There’s a fire in Longmont, just north of me, and another in Evergreen, to the west. Not too be overly dramatic, but I am literally surrounded by wildfire.

I stood in my kitchen this morning and thought about the fires, wondering what to do. Some girlfriends have invited Nellie and me to join them on a Spring Break getaway – a trip to the hot springs over on the western slope, where they’ve rented a cabin. They’re going to spend the week knitting, eating, and soaking in the hot springs. I desperately need a vacation, and I really want to go.  The only hitch is that to get there, I have to drive right through the Indian Gulch fire.

As I made coffee I thought about this, and it made me catch my breath; a clutch of fear in my stomach. Facing down fire. Facing down fear.

One of the conscious practices of my life has been to face down my fears.  At one point I even made a list of everything that I was afraid of. My goal was to face each fear, crossing it off, until I reached a state of fearless equilibrium. I think I was in my thirties, and didn’t know yet about the vague, nameless fears that can crop up as we age. How do you face down mortality, aging, and loss? Those dragons are a bit harder to conquer.

As I stood there I thought about my years as a Park Ranger, and those times when I faced terrifying and truly dangerous situations in the wilderness – spinning down an ice-filled stream in Alaska in a kayak, out of control and surrounded by icebergs the size of Volkswagons; nearly falling off a cliff in Yosemite, saved only by the guy above me who grabbed my backpack and hauled me up over the edge; crawling down an unmapped cave passageway in South Dakota that got narrower and narrower until I was pressed like a piece of cheese between two layers of rock.

At fifty-three, I don’t crawl around in caves anymore, and when I kayak, it’s close to shore or in lovely, calm lakes. My battles with fear these days are more personal, more internal.

I decided that I could face my fear and get out of town at the same time, and started packing the car.  I found a box on the porch and started throwing in all the insurance paperwork, the few pieces of jewelry people have given me, my pearls, my hard drive, my birth certificate… Oh God, I was packing a Fire Box.  Just in case, just in case… Deja Vu all over again.

I put Nellie and my suitcase and the Fire Box in the car and started driving south, towards Golden, Colorado, and as I came up over the hill, the wind shook my car, and there was a wall of smoke.  I was driving right into the fire. A mile from the road I could see trees aflame, and twists of grey smoke shooting up from the grass.  Nellie peered out the window, and I took a deep breath. “Into the Teeth of the Beast,” I thought.

And then I realized I didn’t have to face this alone, so I called my friend Terri. “I’m driving through Golden,” I said, “through a wall of smoke.” “Oh God,” she said. “I’ve been thinking of you. How can I help?” I said, “Just talk to me. Just talk me through the fire.” As I drove through the smoke, I wondered aloud if this was becoming my standard operating procedure – packing up what is precious, fleeing from fire, being surrounded by smoke and flame and feeling like there was no safe place left anywhere. “So many things going on in the world right now,” said Terri, “Earthquakes, tsunamis, political upheaval – These are such disastrous times.”

I told her that even though things seem particularly grim right now (the economy, weird weather, floods, droughts,) my friend Matthew says it’s always been like this, all through history. He likes to say, “The world situation is…desperate as usual!”  When he says that it gives me perspective. Homo Sapiens have been facing down fear and dealing with disaster as long as we have been conscious – stalking the saber tooth tiger, riding into the untamed West, exploring the New World.

In truth, we all live on our own personal fault line; there is a tsunami waiting for each of us. We must face the upheavals of aging parents, chronic illness, loved ones who pass on before their time, the loss of a spouse, home, career.  The great tide of grief will roll in and wash away what is precious to us, and sometimes that grim tide seems to go on and on and on, like a giant wave. But at some point, the tide ebbs and the wave recedes, the ground stops shaking and we must pick up what’s left.  And then, there are the hands of friends who reach out and say, “How can I help?”

I made it through the smoke and the fire, up into the mountains and half way to the hot springs, to my friend Barbara’s house, where we stopped for the night. I am miles from the fires now, and Nellie is curled up beside me. It is peaceful here; so peaceful.

Tomorrow we will drive to Buena Vista and meet up with the other gals, and camp out in our little cabin, and soak in the hot water and knit, and I will try not to think about these Disastrous Times.  Instead I will revel in the love of friends, and listen to the sound of Cottonwood Creek as it bubbles by our cabin.  Maybe I’ll knit a hat.

Sending you Love, and Wishes for Peace amidst these Turbulent Times,

Andi

Posted on March 28, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Friends, PTSD | 6 Comments
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A Funeral For My House

March 17th, 2011
Six Months After the Fire

Hello Dear Friends,

I’m planning a funeral for my house. I know, another woo-woo Boulder thing, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since the house burned down. I’ve been picturing a gathering of friends up there in my meadow, where we eat and drink, and talk about the good times we had in my wonderful mountain home. We’ll put flowers around the land, and dance on the foundation.  Then we’ll tie some prayer flags in the trees and give our blessings to the land to help it heal. I know, pretty woo-woo.

But I’m Irish, after all, and we are rather fond of making a party out of death. When my younger brother died, my father read a quote called, “Life is a Party,” at his funeral, and then later when my father died, my Irish priest uncle, Father Peter Carey, gave a eulogy about my dad and brother and grandparents “mixing drinks in Heaven.”  Jesus, Mary and Joseph.  Like I said, we Irish like to party, even in our grief.

I think Americans in general are lacking in ritual, another reason for the funeral for my house.  We like to move on, to look forward, to get on with it. We don’t wail at funerals, we don’t wear black for a year when someone dies, we think it’s morbid to fill our homes with photos of dead loved ones.  We give people about three months to “get over it,” and then expect them to be their Old Self again. Our Old Self – when will people realize there is no such thing?

It is six months since the fire, and the grief is no longer fresh, but it is strong, and lingering. As my mother said, “Honey, each day you’ll reach for something that isn’t there.” And she is so right.  The other day I was talking to a friend who said she’d never seen Mel Brooks’ movie, Young Frankenstein. I said, “Seriously? That’s a great movie! I’ll lend it to you… Oh, wait…” Then we both looked at each other, silent and crestfallen.  I didn’t have cable up at my house, but I loved watching movies and had over 300 of them.  I used to hunt through bins when I was traveling, looking for bargains, classics, hard-to-find Indie films. The 50th Anniversary edition of Gone With the Wind. French films.  Everything Mel Brooks ever made. They are now, as friend said, “melted.” (She said she got tired of the term “burned up” and prefers “melted.”) Sizzle, splat, poof. A lifetime of collecting, gone.

These days we have Netflix, and Hulu, and a bunch of places to watch movies on line, but it’s not the same. It’s like the difference between an e-book and a real book.  You can touch the cover, read words on real paper, and there is something soothing about that. As the world converts more and more to digital, how do we preserve what’s “real” –  those things that don’t disappear when the power goes out or the internet fails?

In my new house, I probably won’t even have room for a movie collection, and who has the time to replace it?  The years I spent combing through bins at Blockbuster and small, independent video stores are a thing of the past. I will most likely get on the digital bandwagon, and stream movies, or rent them, and sadly join the 21st century. I may not even buy a DVD player; we’ll see. It’s just another change in this great Sea of Change since the fire.

So I will have a funeral for my house, even though the foundation was condemned and torn up (yes, the metaphor is not lost on me,) because of the excessive heat. Even though right now it’s just a patch of dirt on a burned mountainside, some day it will be my new home. And it is still my Beloved Land. Because I’m Irish, you know, and we are just a wee bit attached to our Land. (“Land, Lassie. Always hold on to the Land!”)

The land endures, and I endure, and my friends and I will bless each other, and put flowers on the grave site of my old house, and envision the new. The Buddhists tie prayer flags at sacred sites to invoke healing, strength, and good fortune, and we will do just that. And in a year or so, when the flags are in tatters, and the prayers are sent out into the world, like wishes on the wind, I will have a new home.

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day to You and Yours, and Céad Míle Fáilte (A Hundred Thousand Welcomes.)

Andi O’Conor
(Feisty Irish Fire Survivor)

Posted on March 17, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Friends | 26 Comments
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Our Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Hello Friends,

Nellie and I were in the New York Times last week!  A thoughtful and talented journalist named Caroline Dworin read about Burning Down the House in The Faster Times, and then contacted me for an interview.  We talked for two hours, and Caroline did a great job of capturing my thoughts and putting them together in a lovely article. You can find it here.

The Times sent a kind and patient photographer, Jamie Schwaberow, to do the photo shoot, and he was amazed at how Nellie sat still for pictures for over two hours. “I’ve never seen a dog just sit and pose like that,” he said. Princess Nellie, unlike most dogs, loves the camera, which cracks me up.  Mexican Street Dog turned Diva – who’d a thunk it?

I was also interviewed for a piece about the fire on NPR, which you can find here, and Nellie and I are in the Winter edition of Boulder Magazine, in an article called, “Trial by Fire.”

As a friend said to me the other day, “Andi, I think your fifteen minutes of fame is becoming more like an hour. When do you go on Oprah?” I laughed and said, “You know, I think Oprah would just love Nellie!” Oprah loves cocker spaniels and shelter dogs, so Nellie is a shoo-in. I wonder if she could sit still on that couch while she’s interviewed. I can just see it now…

Oprah: So, Princess Nellie, in your honest opinion, salmon treats or chicken?
Nellie:  Definitely salmon, Oprah. Those essential fatty acids are so important…

Sigh. Let’s hope all of this attention doesn’t go to her little furry head.

Thanks so much for reading, and for all your love and support.

Take good care,

Andi and Nellie

Nellie photo by Kristin Gerlach

Posted on March 16, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Good Moments, Nellie the Dog | 6 Comments
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