Sweet Peace #24: Returning to a place known and unknown

2001 Memorial

In case I’ve ever wondered, I would not have made a good pioneer. Those hardy folks felled trees to build cabins without the benefit of step-by-step instructions in four languages and exactly the right number of screws in little plastic bags labeled 4C.

In the time it has taken me to assemble a wire storage cubby delivered by amazon and held together by ingenious plastic doohickeys, they could have skinned a bear, turned it into a parka and mukluks, and headed out to snare snow rabbits for dinner. My survival skills would have been measured by an egg timer.

I thought this would be an easy move. After three significant downsizings, I was living in an RV. How could moving be an issue when I had so little stuff? The challenge came when I moved from an everything-is-built-in RV to a bare-walls apartment. Even when you have little stuff, if there’s no place to put it, it looks like chaos.

However messy this move has been, I’m here, in the place I never dreamed I’d be able to return to, the place I fell head-over-heels in love with 42 years ago. One interesting aspect of this move is that I moved back to a place I know well (Santa Barbara) but wound up in a neighborhood that’s like a foreign country. Isla Vista is the unincorporated community home of UCSB, population 15,000, mostly university students and employees.

Beneath this tranquil, ocean-front community, rests a history of violence. Five people were killed in a vehicular homicide in 2001 and a murderous rampage in 2014 left six people dead and another fourteen injured. Plus, you could say that the same war in Vietnam which brought me to California in 1968 also brought me to this place where I plan to end my days.

The late 60s were a time of violent protests. In February, 1970, UCSB students began to riot and wound up burning the Bank of America. Governor Reagan sent in the National Guard but the tension continued for two months and finally abated after a student was killed.

During those days of conflict, student population dropped and a recently constructed dorm was sold to a group who turned it into an independent, senior living community … Friendship Manor … my new home. Who knows what new adventures this new life will bring, however, on my morning walk, I heard three different languages being spoken by young students just beginning their own adventures.

I am deeply grateful to be in this place at this time.

Love Letters to My Life: #46 - Is life just pebbles on the beach?

    

The Gathering

   It is claimed that just before he died, Isaac Newton said, “I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself, I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.”

    While these words have not been found in his writings, it is a charming thought and makes me wonder how much any of us know about the great ocean of truth which lies all undiscovered around us as well as the great joy of playing with pebbles and shells on the beach.

    Thoughts of the beach come like waves as I contemplate returning to Santa Barbara, a place I fell head-over-heels in love with in 1980. The combination of mountains and beach was … and is … everything this kid from Kansas dreamed of. In a few days, I will find out if there is an apartment waiting for me in a senior community in Isla Vista, the community surrounding UCSB. It’s an interesting story and one that is offering me a chance to return to the only place that feels like home.

    In the late 60s when protests and riots were inflamed by the war in Vietnam, a new dorm had just been built. One February night in 1970, a riot began, the Bank of America building was burned, Governor Reagan sent in the National Guard, curfew was declared, and SWAT teams were sent in control the situation. Two months later, a 22-year-old student was shot and killed, some say as he tried to set fire to the temporary BofA building; others say he was putting out the fire.

    Anyway, with all the unrest, student population plummeted and a group of people purchased the now-unneeded dorm and turned it into a non-profit Senior Community and, possibly, my forever-home. (It’s not polite to guffaw!)

     In the midst of thinking about this possible move, I found an artist statement I wrote for a gallery show in Reno … in a unique, community-oriented auto body repair shop! I needed a new artist statement, one which matched the humor and outlook of the venue. I don’t remember writing this, but here it is:

Connecting through Art

beauty is not a luxury … 

nor an art,

it is the soul’s breath of life,

infilling each cell, 

moment by moment.

In my electronic art studio, a mystical process begins.

Gathered beauties, stored in a lonely room,

 begin to call to each other,

finding playmates, so to speak,

running through the halls of imagination,

changing frocks or hats,

trying this color or that,

like children in a costume shop.

           This costume play 

     continues as I follow along,

pushing buttons, sometimes suggesting a possibility,

              until a young one squeals in delight,

                    shows me something new.

             Suddenly, a fog lifts, my breath catches,

       as a colorful image, never before seen, appears.

       After that, it’s my job to sweep up the shop,

          rehang the costumes, tidy the supplies,

           and prepare for another day of play.