Things About Light

I learned something today about gratitude. I try, for the most part, to operate out of a spirit of love and gratefulness and humility. Sometimes I suck at this, because, like all y’all, I am human and I am not always all of those things. Sometimes I am not even any of those things. Earlier this week I was really fighting ungratefulness and a mean spirit. I am not sure why. It would be easy to blame hormones or lack of good sleep or being homesick or whatnot, but whatever the cause, I had a hard time being nice.

I didn’t really feel like writing, but all the Writing People are adamant that writing is a discipline, not a whimsical option. So I made myself write. The writing that came out of me, being in a bad place was, in a word, bad. I mean it was funny, don’t get me wrong. But maybe it was funny at the expense of people I didn’t really know… based on outside observation. Maybe it was prejudiced. Maybe it was unkind.

If my words don’t come out of a place of gratitude and love, they have no business being. It doesn’t matter if they are true. It doesn’t matter if they are funny as hell. I get this. Part of me bucks against censorship and feels like I have some inalienable right to say whatever the heck I want. Nothing that I said was SO HORRIBLE or illegal or even totally wrong, but I KNOW BETTER. I know better than to let loose words of mine that come from a place of darkness. They do nobody any good.

When the sun disappeared behind the shadow of the moon for a few brief minutes yesterday morning, it brought into startling clarity, just how much I take for granted. The world was cold. Much colder than it had been only minutes before in the light of the sun. It was dark and colorless, like the light of the sun took out every hue of green and yellow and blue and red when it left. It was the dusky colorless of the last light in the evening, when the road and the trees and the herds of whitetail deer roving dangerously among it all are the same color. This is the difference between words that come out of darkness and words that come out of light. Color and warmth are in the light. It’s just how it is.

It’s not that I shouldn’t ever be able to laugh and make light of where I am and the TRULY ridiculous things going on around me, but I know when my voice is kind and when it is not. In reality, I work with a lot of great people, in amazing places, and I feel very blessed for the years that I have done this crazy cool job.

Here is what I learned: When I am where I am supposed to be (which I try to be, most of the time), I need to be grateful and kind and humble, and if I cannot be those things, then I need to be still and quiet. I learned that I don’t like a sunless, lightless world. I want to live in the sun, in the color and the warmth. I want others to live there with me.

If the moon were a little closer to the earth, we would lose the sunlight more often. It really is an amazing thing, this astronomical system we live in. It overwhelms me to think about the infinite minutia that dictate our survival. The tiny changes in temperature, atmosphere, angles and rotations that determine how we live or die on this planet are, in a word, epic. It’s like the little changes in mood, in motivation, in voice that determine the effect of a word on the world that it lands on.

All change is facilitated either through love or through hate. Real love is born from gratitude, accepting your worth and giving it back to those around you. Hate creeps in to fill up the absence of gratitude, the ugly insecurity of the lie that you are worthless. A lie I know like the back of my hand. We are such small, insignificant parts of this giant miracle of a world. I want the change that I bring to my tiny space to be rooted in the warmth and color of love and light. I want to speak love without flattery, truth without unkindness and hope without dishonesty. I want to make people smile, and laugh, and love more.

Photo Credit: Collin Andrew

Things About Security

So I am on this fire. The fire happens to be lying directly in the Path of Totality for the upcoming Great American Solar Eclipse on Monday. In anticipation of the large numbers of ridiculous tourists thronging into the area for the event, fire managers decided to contract out road security to an outside agency. The agency that got the contract, either by lowest bid or by Knowing Someone, is a rag-tag bunch of 19 year old kids that I suspect are all members of the same LARPing (Live Action Role Playing) group, probably out of Portland. Based on the information gleaned from several conversations, along with my own powers of observation, these kids were apparently recruited by the company owner for $11 an hour to take a two hour “unarmed security” course and sent out into the forest in knock-off black 5-11 pants to guard roads into the fire area.

Additionally, the Powers That Be thought it would a good idea to give these guys radios. Radios that are cloned to all of the fire frequencies. Ones they can talk on. In addition to 27 guys in fake BDUs calling in “SITUATION NORMAL” every hour, on the hour, they also have radio conversations that go something like this:

“NONAMEFIRE ROAD GUARD SECURITY HOTSPRINGS ROAD GUARD SECURITY ROGER HOW COPY?!?!!” (in all caps to denote drill-sergeantesque yelling - also please note lack of punctuation, emphasis or any way to determine whom is yelling out from whomelse, but somehow, they all know [I should probably take that radio class])

“NONAMEFIRE ROAD GUARD SECURITY! YOU ARE A GO!” (I guess this means he can talk?)

“HOT SPRINGS ROAD GUARD SECURITY REQUESTS A CONVERSATION ABOUT CLARIFICATION FOR HOT SPRINGS EMPLOYEES WORKERS AND CAMPERS AND HOT SPRINGS EMPLOYEES WORKERS AND GUESTS! ROGER HOW COPY?!?!?!” (huh?)

“NONAMEFIRE ROAD GUARD SECURITY HOTSPRINGS ROADGUARD SECURITY YOU ARE A GOOD COPY 10-4 BUDDY AND I WILL BE IN YOUR 20 IN APPROXIMATELY 30 MINUS. OR PLUS. IN AWHILE. OVER. ROGER. HOW COPY?!?!?!?”

“HOTSPRINGS ROADGUARD SECURITY ROGER COPY DO YOU COPY THAT? OVER AND OUT. ROGER.”

“NONAMEFIRE ROADGUARD SECURITY ROGER THAT’S A GOOD COPY OVER AND OUT.”

“HOTSPRINGS ROADGUARD SECURITY COME AGAIN THAT WASN’T A GOOD COPY!”

“NONAMEFIRE ROADGUARD SECURITY ROGER THAT’S A COPY. UH… COPY!?!?!?”

It goes on like this for hours. I don’t really mind since I have been stationed 10 minutes out of cell range for the last 5 days where there isn’t even FM radio reception and it’s the only entertainment or human interaction I get. It’s more fun when I am sitting close enough to watch them in action though, stopping carloads of nice hippies that are just trying to get to the nudist colony at the hotsprings for their eclipse orgy.

One of the guards has something that looks suspiciously like a ninja sword sticking out of his utility pants. One of them has a “Don’t Tread On Me” flag draped ceremoniously across the back trunk of his 1997 Honda Civic. One of them is wearing a bullet proof vest. One of them stands guard with a can of Deep Woods Off™ Bug Repellant in his hand like bear spray, ready for action, during every encounter.

They take their new, $11/hr job VERY seriously. We have absolutely no fear of any Pacific Crest Trail hikers accidentally penetrating our fire perimeter as the poor bastards follow the more than 100 mile detour along narrow, winding roads past at least 8 of these guys. I am sure the guards are also giving all of the Japanese tourists who are visiting the area for their Eclipse Fertility Rites an excellent taste of ‘MERICA.

Perhaps the funniest part about all of this is that none of the roads that they are guarding are technically closed, so the guards can’t actually stop anybody from driving down them. They’re mostly here for an “educate and orient” the public kind of role, which they are totally NAILING.

Me, on the other hand, I will be out here, riding out the Eclipocolypse near the boundary of the wilderness, isolated and cut off from civilization for 14 hours a day. We tried giving a ride to some of the PCT hikers the other day (way back when I had a partner for the day) who were totally over the whole 100 mile detour thing, but it took us out of our division and WAAAYYY up this road that may have doubled as a creek bed in the recent past. The hikers were nice though, and from Germany. Why someone would travel across the world to carry a backpack through the mountains is beyond me. Haven’t they heard of Disneyworld, air conditioning and NASCAR? I am sure our security guards could set them straight.

I am trying to alleviate my boredom by little fits of yoga and pretending to not have dozed off when the Division Supervisor drives by. I only have eight hours left to go today and I have already had second breakfast, a brunch and two lunches, so you could say that my life is on point, for a Hobbit.

I would just like to point out that every other EMT on this assignment is staged in full cellular coverage. I even went out and bought a second phone with a Verizon line to complement my AT&T coverage so I could avoid this. Instead, I get squirreled away at a remote camp to keep me “safe” from eclipse crazies (because the Dungeons & Dragons Security Forces and dirty firefighters are WAY better), with no shower for nine days and only one bar of cell service when I go down to the gravel pit for breakfast and dinner. How do I rate? What is the universe telling me? All I know is that it’s going to be one epic shower beer.

They're decorating trail signs to coordinate with the tinfoil hats the visitors are wearing.

Things About Guidelines

You guys, I suck. As a general rule, I am kind of terrible at hearing/following/adhering to guidelines. Which is to say, I am not good at general rules. I happen to be working in a capacity at this time that is largely about guidelines and general rules. You can imagine how well that is going. I am learning a lot about rewriting and redoing and relistening and revisiting and pretty much re-everything in this role. Here is a working list of the guidelines I have broken on this fire assignment so far:

1) no open toed shoes in fire camp
2) remain at least 10 feet from open water without a personal flotation device
3) don't use the word "monitor"
4) don't use the word "watch"
5) don't use the words f*** s*** d*** or b*****
6) sleep within fire camp perimeter
7) don't take food out of the kitchen area
8) don't throw food scraps into the bushes
9) don't feed the animals
10) don't scare the public
11) practice good hygiene
12) be nice to people

We're not gonna talk about which rules I am breaking out here...

I would like to say how sorry I am for my transgressions and offer proliferating regret, but since I am working on self-love and self-acceptance, Ima just roll with it and accept the occasional hand slap and look of profound exasperation from my immediate supervisors.

Not following guidelines has garnished me a whole collection of rejections from several places where I submitted writing samples in the hopes of a payoff. Part of me wants to blame my homeschooled renegade background, but really, I am just more excited about what I have to say than I am about instructions. It could be that I am resisting the hardcore overdose of rules that I grew up under, but even then I was pretty intolerant of being corralled between the lines, as my parents will attest.

Maybe guideline follower is one of those things that I have never been and I should work on, but sometimes then I feel like I would just be like all of the other lemmings marching toward the cliff of conformity without ever asking why.

Guidelines are created by and for a litigious world, where individuals refuse to take responsibility for the consequences of their own actions, i.e. wearing flip flops in fire camp. Everybody wants somebody else to pay the price for their poor choices. But if there are rules, then nobody else can be blamed, right? I don't see that working very well. Humans are messy animals that will find a rule that has not been made yet, break it, and cost others so much that it will demand the recourse of a new guideline the rest of us are stuck with. Too many rules are just a symptom of a much bigger problem, I think Ima keep bucking them, and working to solve it.

Marcus Squirrelius likes Skinny Pop.

Things About Doing It

A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog about running, or more accurately, not running.

I mentioned the personal life goal I had of passing the pack test. The 45 minute, three mile, 45 pound wildland fire fitness test, required for all line personnel. It's not a big deal, right? Thousands of firefighters pass this thing every single year like it's no big deal. Thousands of young, whole, healthy firefighters who aren't me...

I haven't been able to pass it for the past five. Five years ago, in Bend, when I tried to pass it, twice, I didn't finish it time. That was after 6 years of passing it. I even passed the moderate when I was pregnant with Aspen, because, you know, I am a badass. But there I was in 2010, testing with a new fire organization, a bunch of strangers... a bunch of firefighting strangers. Nothing like making a fool of yourself in front of a slew of firefighters. Twice. Turns out I had a vertebral disc that was working it's way out one side of the space between my L5/S1 junction. It just wasn't happening.

Then the Forest Service decided that too many people were dying of heart attacks taking the arduous pack test, so only firefighters with jobs that absolutely required that level of fitness were allowed to take it. For a few years, they considered line EMTs a non-arduous qualification, and I was spared the agony of not passing it for awhile. This was good considering I had three surgeries to try to fix or remove the female organs that were killing me slowly during this time, so I was heavily entrenched in excuses.

Then somebody up top got smart: of course the line EMTs need the pack test - they're on the freaking line. But for us broken old EMTs, they made it optional, with a pay raise for the young bucks who could crank it out. The choice was mine, and something inside of me wasn't ready to roll over and play dead just yet. Even though the disc that was slipping before had now degenerated to nothing, I started practicing with 10 pounds, then 15, then 20... All the while reminding myself that I probably couldn't pass it this year, and didn't have to, and that extra $4/hr wouldn't make THAT much of a difference.

But in the back on my mind there was this thing. I saw it in a counselors office, as I sat there and listened to how my trust issues and lack of money management skills were making me impossible to live with, and trying to think how I could prioritize these things over keeping four girls alive to adulthood and somehow not lose myself in the process... It was a little sign that said only : "She Thought She Could and So She Did". It haunted me. As if I knew deep down that the only thing holding me back was the permission I was giving myself to not succeed.

With the gentle nudging of my best friends, I began to buy into it. Maybe I can. No, I know I can, if I can just meet this one goal first. And then the next... I met each of my workout landmarks, and I started to panic as I removed my excuses for not at least attempting the test. The reality that I understood was that if I started it, failure was not an option. I would not strap that pack on for a second attempt this year. I would not admit defeat again, like I had to in Bend. So I lost sleep for two weeks, arguing with myself about the ridiculousness of it all. I kept practicing, and psyching myself up. And then it came.

The day of the test, my buddy promised to pace me. Just like my best friend at home, I told him to keep on pace, just ahead of me, so I knew where  I needed to get to for a passing speed. The guys administering the test were good friends of mine and I watched with sweaty palms and minor palpitations as they weighed the vest and adjusted it to be sure it wasn't an ounce over 45 pounds. I have some awesome people in my life, you guys. The boys helped me get into my harbinger of doom, which almost didn't feel that heavy, until the walking started.

I could feel my hips creaking and my back grinding with every step, and the shin splints were burning within the first quarter mile. But it was do or die. I almost quit at a half mile. The pace seemed impossible and the weight was literally choking the life out of me. But I kept chanting in my head "she thought she could. she thought she could. I think I can, I think I can." I was like the Little Engine, chug-chugging across the pavement, red faced and not pretty at all. My buddy was a few steps ahead. Every time I gasped or grunted he turned to make sure I wasn't face down on the sidewalk in a puddle of aged regret.

I almost quit again at one mile. I was losing steam and my pace was barely on time. My shins were screaming, and if I had been able to see out of my eyes I was pretty certain there would have been a steady flow of blood pouring out from under the bones in my legs. "One more step. She thought she could. One more step. A little quicker. I think I can."

Two miles in and I was over time. I wasn't going to make it.  I almost cried but I was too exhausted. Clearly I hadn't trained enough. As if any amount of training makes the weight seem OK. Sometime after the second mile marker the burn in my shins started to die down, the spasmed muscles let go and my pacer turned with a concerned look when he heard my sigh of delight. I put my head down and picked up an awkward joggy rhythm that probably looked sort of like an emu running in place. Not finishing on time was clearly an unacceptable end to this mini-drama that I had created for myself. I had half a mile left when one of my good buddies showed up along side me and started to give me crap, which is always a useful motivator for me. A little while later and another bestie popped up on my other side. Then my boss was there, and some random lady I don't know. With a quarter mile left I had half a dozen cheerleaders jogging alongside me like my own personal fan club. Even my the guy formerly known as my husband got in on the pep rally.

The pacer kept me moving, and as I crossed the finish, with 30 seconds to spare, he came back and somehow wrung me out of the vest that had become one with my frame. There were at least 5 people pawing at that stupid vest to get it off me, half of them I am sure because they wanted to be ready to hook me up to a defibrillator when I collapsed. I was done. It was done. I had passed it one more time in my life.

The pep squad made me walk a little longer to cool down, which seemed like the cruelest part. But they did all offer to buy me a beer. I have every intention of holding them to it sooner or later.

After about 15 minutes of tottering on the brink of death, I recovered, and I felt like I had just won the lottery. I even jogged through the parking lot, humming the Rocky theme triumphantly, on the way back. I thought I could, and I did, but more importantly, all of them thought so too, and they made it happen. That's the beautiful thing about friendships - there is so much confidence in having the right people around you to hold you up when a 45 pound vest has beaten the shit out of you. I wonder if this means I have to split my wage increase with them?

this is me in the weight vest, pre-test. the smile is fake.

PS - I haven't done a single lick of exercise since the test. FOR SHAME!