My Blog

Spend the summer in MAUI? Seeking the perfect somebody to sublet room in our home

renegademaven — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 00:43:19 GMT

So Solomon is off on his summer adventures and Plush and I are looking for the right person to move into his room from the middle of May until the middle of September. The rent is $400/month; this is a very good deal for Maui. The house is in a beautiful location in Makawao, 7 miles upcountry from the beach. We have a great view of Haleakala and a garden that you are welcome to play in. The room is furnished and very nice. We have parking, a washer and a dryer and lots of other sweet amenities. The rent does not include utilities which are about $80/person/month. We are looking for a human who is responsible, friendly, clean, who can communicate clearly and share this magical space with two creative, positive people. We are open to renting the room to multiple people for less time too so let us know if you need a place to stay anytime during the summer. Look forward to hearing from you! Heron (Helen)

As Luck Would Have It

renegademaven — Thu, 18 May 2006 20:00:15 GMT

You make your own luck. That’s what some people say. I say keep your eyes open and luck will find you. You just have to be ready to catch it. Sometimes it’s slippery and you have to really be on your game if you want a piece of it. I now live in Maui. That sounds pretty lucky, but it actually took quite a bit of work, a little bit of angst, and a healthy dose of faith. More than anything, I am here because of an orchestrated gypsy freedom from mainland attachments that led me to one of the most beautiful places on the planet with no real reason to leave. I don’t really have everything all worked out yet. I don’t have a job. I don’t have a permanent place to live. But I don’t have those things anywhere. After traveling for two months I’m more or less used to it. Plus, everything grows here, so I am going to follow the pineapple’s example and trust that my roots will find the nutrients they need. This is a Gemini Island: two faced. It’s really two islands that are barely held together by a strip of land just a few feet above sea level. Someday, when the icecaps melt and the sea level rises, the valley that separates two enormous volcanic landmasses will sit underwater. The tourists will rush to the West, the locals to the East. The cultures are physically and socially separated. There is the culture that cycles around tourism, a culture created for and consumed by the millions of people that come here every year. The money tourists spend here is absolutely essential to the economy. One thing that is sold to the mostly Mainland American tourists is the exotic culture of the native people of the USA’s fiftieth state. Native Hawaiian culture is currently in a critical stage of flux. Some Hawaiians meet every week in community meetings, talking about political independence and reclaiming Hawaiian culture. There is racial tension and racial violence behind, despite, and perhaps because of the well marketed, laid back “aloha lifestyle”. And then there is me, and some other howlies who don’t fit into either one of these categories. I am especially sensitive to this qualification because I am just in the beginnings of shifting from tourist with mummy and daddy’s money to spend to poor beach-bum bohemian. Still white, without much money to spend and waitress skills to sell, I’m walking a line and it seems like I’ve got company: another culture to explore from the inside. Pa’ia is my chosen piece of paradise, a Hawaiian town with blueprints direct from my wildest dreams. With no hotels and fewer tourists, Pa’ia is known for its big waves, nude beach, natural food grocery and is a Mecca for new-agers. I’ve found housing at an abandoned school turned into temporary work/trade commune run by an eccentric herb-friendly “Jesusonian.” I’ve also found the most beautiful dance/yoga fusion studio I’ve ever seen and a community of fire performers. Last Sunday at the weekly drum circle and fire show on the beach I watched a naked man body surf while triumphantly carrying a flaming torch high above his head. Inspired, I striped of cloth and shoe and danced with the waves under the heavy moon. My hunch was confirmed when my animal spirit guide, the slug, came out by the thousands the day I had to make my decision: for the first time in months, the world within and the world around are both telling me that I am home. Despite myself, I can’t help but feel rather lucky.

Just 'Bout Back in the Saddle

renegademaven — Fri, 28 Apr 2006 05:43:28 GMT

News travels quickly and in circles...I seem to be following a similar trajectory. So here I am ready to Tell You What Happened to Helen in New Mexico. Hopefully you haven't been worried sick or perturbed by week long silence on the issue. I simply needed to settle down, so the story could bubble up. I'll give away the ending right now and tell you that I am on Pender Island in Canada, pretty much healed up. If you don't know what I'm healed from, well that's the climax. I can't give that away quite yet. In the two days following my departure from Chinle, where I last updated you all, I moved east. I left my new friends, the Navajo Reservation and Arizona behind. I climbed the Chusca Mountains and the little air I had left in my lungs at the top was whisked away by my first view of New Mexico open like a grand book beneath me. I didn't know where to look. The Rockies rose intimidatingly in the background (inclines take on an annoyingly mocking personality when you are traveling on a bike). Hills of fantastic reds and pinks slid down the skirts of the mountains. Every once in a while the earth jutted up in shockingly dramatic formations. The huge rocks had names like "The Thumb," "The Mitten" and the iconic "Shiprock." They landscape suggested a giant toddler, scooting around the desert playroom, dropping his toys, sticking his fingers in things and getting them stuck. I spent the night on the side of the mountain, eager to see the view below me in the morning light. I paid for the impulse by playing host to the uninvited mountain windstorm. I realized what a good sail my tent can make. I learned that playing paperweight is not a pleasant way to spend the night. The next day I made it to Farmington and was pleased to find not only a bike shop with the replacement part I needed but a brewery with Oregon quality microbrews to boot. The town of 30,000 was a dizzying metropolis after 9 days on the road. I camped in Mom and Pop's RV park and made friends with two Burners from LA. I had no idea that leaving Farmington would be the last day of my Southwest Bicycle Tour. The vast majority of the day was extremely uneventful. The most exciting thing I encountered was pizza sized Navajo fry bread for a dollar, a cultural delicacy reminiscent of elephant ears at the Portland Zoo. My destination was Chaco, the archaeological ruins that had made the canyon famous and the only campground in the vicinity. The last 17 miles leading to the site were unfortunately a winding, unpaved road. I have a road bike and had already ridden 70+ miles that day. I decided to hitch a ride in. No luck for a couple of hours and then finally a Navajo woman told me to get in. She could take me half way there. While in her truck I encountered the first truly hostile reaction to my adventure. She told me that I "shouldn't go places I don't belong" and that I should know better and "stay at home." I tried to explain my motivations but decided to just laugh it off when she said, "I wouldn't understand, I don't have an adventurous bone in my body." She dropped me off with about seven miles to go and the sun getting low. I decided that my road bike was just going to have to adapt and figure out how to mosey along on the dirt road. Most of it was pretty packed down and it wasn't too bad going. After cresting a small hill I actually gained some speed going down the other side. Perhaps it was bad luck, perhaps I was paying a karmic debt that I had unintentionally racked up. Maybe the Navajo woman cursed me for being meddlesome. Maybe it was the aliens. I was in New Mexico after all. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise. What I do know is that going fast down a sandy hill with a road bike and 55 extra lbs on you bike will cause you to crash pretty hard if you hit a patch of sand. Actually, I don't know that, it's an assumption. I actually can't remember the crash or the moments on either side of the impact (this is why I haven't discounted the alien theory). The next thing I remember, I was just standing there looking out across the desert with a broken bicycle helmet dangling mysteriously around my head. I looked around me at the desolate beauty, I felt the earth cling to the last of the sun's rays. I turned to the sun, the friendliest entity around and felt a pure light move up through me and shine back in it's direction. I was calmly and utterly aware of my own soul burning brightly and unencumbered. I knew that I was alive and well. I was grateful. The world ended at the horizon line. There was no time other than the present. I was the only human on the planet. Every sense was heightened, everything glowed. I had absolutely no idea where I was or how I had gotten there. Unaware even of my own name. I was amused at my own blank mind. I smiled to myself and thought "I'm here!" There was only one thing that could bring me out of my elated and unexpected clear mental state. The smokey fingers of grim circumstance. I saw a bike on the ground and was taken aback with the thought "what the hell am I doing alone, in the middle of nowhere with a bike?!" I was suddenly shocked by the realization of my own trauma. I wanted my memories back so I could figure out what happened to me and how to get the help that I sensed I needed. I got out my maps and diary and started reading the two together, putting things together by instinct. There were bits and pieces but the steady of ribbon of memories that usually lead to the present had been shattered. I was damn confuzzled. Laughing at my own predicament was the syrup I used to suppress the acidic fear and panic brewing somewhere down deep. Out of nowhere, a minivan and a family rolled up. I flagged them down and asked for help. They left and sent angelic Ranger Mike to help the confused biker. I was a meager two miles from the destination I would never reach. At that point my rescue was pretty much out of my hands. I was whisked away in an ambulance. I felt defeat in each of the 80 miles I returned in ambulance that a few hours before I had passed on bike. I spent the night in the Emergency Room in Farmington. It was determined that I had a concussion and some nasty road rash, but other than that, was pretty much good to go. But go where? I was okay, but okay to spend a couple of days recuperating my bruised brain in bed, not okay to get back on the bike. I realized I had nowhere to go, my closest friend was 300+ miles away in Fort Collins, CO. My vulnerability was suddenly naked and center stage. My bull strength and gut determination telling me to pick myself up, dust myself off and forge ahead fought my little bird instinct to fold in half and let someone nurturing and motherly smooth out the wrinkles. My brain refused to plan, my body refused to move forward and arms to the north opened wide enough for me to fall into. The bull was confined to a corner as the little bird took flight on trembling wings. Within 24 hours I was on a plane, and then three more and then a boat and then in a pretty little nest on Pender Island. As I curled up amidst the tulips, my bruised but breathing bike rested peacefully in a box in the garage. Kind friends and family, I admit, you told me so. "A risk like that and something bad is bound to happen." Thank goodness I got that out of my system. I've learned my lesson. I'm not mocking you. In a way, all those things are true. I realize now that I was so excited by the prospect of dancing on a tight rope that I didn't take the time to make sure my safety net was truly secure or at the very least...there. The adventure I had in the southwest was amazing, and much shorter than I expected. It is probably the highest I've flown, but it was innocently cavalier in a way that only inaugural flights can be. Alas, I am mortal. But then again, there is nothing I want more than to do it again. A better planned, more conservative version, but moving at the speed of my wheels and on my own. The tape has been paused, but not stopped. I have to close this circuit I've begun. I won't be able to do anything else until I do that. When did I become so stubborn? So back to the road, back to the rope. Lower this time, and with a net secure below my feet. And coming to a town near you! (that is if you live in Oregon). Its the Many Homes Tour, and the gun goes off this Saturday. Wish me luck, I just might need it.

The Renegade

renegademaven — Sat, 15 Apr 2006 05:48:43 GMT

Well, I sure fell off the radar for a bit there, my plan exactly! But here I am, looking at the familiar and oddly comforting face of the apple computer in front of me. I had no idea how good a friend old Mac has become. But I have found this old amigo in a place I never would have expected. In fact this journey seems to be about finding things in places that I don't expect them to be, even if they have just been hanging out, ready for me to discover them the whole time. I took a train from LA into Flagstaff where after a day of last minute preparations and a night of international revelry and encouragement from my hostel-mates I was ready to push off from shore and see if I was really cut out for this adventure that had carved itself into me and has channeled all of my energies into the single goal of its materialization. Day one from Flagstaff to just 15 miles south of the Grand Canyon National Park could not have been a better introduction to solo bicycle touring. It was sunny and cool, the climbs were short and I was constantly rewarded with beautiful views of the San Francisco Peaks as I made my way around them. I felt ridiculous amounts of pleasure in the simple act of stopping when I saw something, anything, mildly interesting along the way: I discovered a tiny non-denominational chapel sitting unassumingly along the side of the road with the door intentionally left unlocked. I sat and rested inside alone. It was warm and peaceful inside and seemed to have been constructed just for my purposes. I saw a white buffalo. I ate lunch at a Flinstones themepark. I was exhilarated every time I was ready to leave, and did, without looking back. I camped by myself, along the side of the road and had a conversation with myself about the fear of being alone out in the wilderness. I assessed my position and the possible risks. I went to bed and fell asleep and felt very brave about it. The next morning I had a destination, a very Grand destination. That's right, the grandest, damnest Canyon in the whole world! It is immensely, gigantically, monstrously, grandiosely...disappointing. Just kidding. It is spectacular. Much bigger than any camera could possibly capture. If you haven't seen it, you should, it takes your breath away. I can't do it justice, and I am sure that it would bore you if I tried. But I have to say that I will never forget the moment I stood at the edge of 100 million years of geology open like a fresh wound at my feet come to life with the earliest of morning light. Inch by inch I was given intimate knowledge of innumerable layers of gold and rose. I cheered with the shivering Japanese tourists who shared the moment. I joined there frantic picture taking, desperately trying to capture some of the beauty so that it wouldn't be forgotten. I left the Grand Canyon with my heart absolutely full of joy. I sang at the top of my lungs as I rode out of the forest, into the Painted Desert, and onto the Navajo Reservation. (Singing, by the way, has become my natural expression of joy. Singing on a bike makes the miles speed by. I have become my own radio). In the span of 30 miles, half a days ride, I had entered a completely new environment. It looked like the moon and it felt like another country, a very poor country. I have spent the last four days traveling east through the Navajo, then the Hopi, and now again the Navajo reservations. This is the largest expanse of native land in the United States. The general understanding is that it was given by the US government, because it is mostly useless. It took brilliant negotiation and leadership to get what they did. It is extremely arid, mostly flat sandy desert. Some people undertake the ancient struggle of working the unforgiving land. Others adapt to a culture not their own in an attempt to further their education and pull their community out of oppression. Others simply receive a check from the government to maintain their humble, if not desperate survival. But material wealth is not all that counts here. Residents of the Res live within the sacred square drawn by the four sacred peaks that outline their universe. I am currently in the spiritual heart, the Canyon de Chelly. It is an archaeological wonder, a geologists dream the site of Navajo myths of birth and death and the only National Park that indigenous people are allowed to live inside. It is a strange and mystical place, uniquely beautiful and full of tension. I have been here for two days and plan to stay one more. I have made friends here, the music teacher at the high school, his wife a journalist (both white) and their friend a young Navajo woman building her own coffee shop. She is taking me into the canyon tomorrow (you have to go with a Navajo guide) in exchange that I help her with construction. I am currently enjoying the rare treat of a real home and thankfully missing the windstorm outside. The journalist and musician have basically put me up, giving me a bed, a shower, food, maps, a computer, you name it. They toured the Oregon coast by bike, so they "know what its like." They called me a "renegade" for being out here all by myself. Some people call me "courageous." Most people have been calling me "crazy." A very select few look at me wistfully and say "I would love to be doing what you're doing." Most people tell me to "be very careful" and to "take care of myself" and then go out of their way to protect and take care of me. I wonder what I am supposed to be afraid of? Okay, I am still afraid of the wild dogs that chase me on the road, but so far I have been able to outrun them. I am working on my growl too, its coming about as naturally as the singing.