A PIRATE PALACE

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wilbertWhile touring with our band in England last summer, my family and I escaped from this vehicle right before the smoke in the interior and the flames that licked the cab did this.

We had been living in the van all summer long, had left our New Mexico home already and were in a traveling limbo period before moving to Culebra.

On this same day, this year – yesterday – we found our new house!

Hooray.

This feels like a very significant thing, this house.

We came from New Mexico to a very very expensive (read from that ridiculously, unscrupulously overpriced) vacation rental turned long-term rental.

We had imagined that once on the island we would have the time and space to make connections, friends and roots and that we would be able to then find a place that fell into alignment with our lifestyle and budget more fittingly.

Then some changes in our client base back in November of last year somewhat forced the issue as we struggled then to make these over-inflated monthly payments, that by then had begun to feel like rent plus extortion.

We looked for housing for several months and found nothing.

We put out feelers in the community.

We found nothing.

We asked people directly.

Nothing.

I felt a strange sense at times of metaphorically carrying my lunch tray around a high school cafeteria looking for a space that wasn’t marked by a bag, or a foot. Carrying my food for so long that it was no longer hot.

Nothing.

No bites. No seats. No room at the inn.

Then we found Pirate Camp.

It was at this point that I feel that we really fell in love with the island, for it was the point when we were really living with her; but it also represented a turning point in terms of our experience living with the people of this tiny island.

As we were leaving the beach one afternoon, a neighbor, reacting to our dog Alfie running on his property, charged at us, red in the face and wielding aloft a machete, shouting that he would cut our dog’s head off if he came into the yard of his vacation rental again.

Yup. That happened.

Ziggy had nightmares for three consecutive nights, and this man’s name became synonymous with the bogey man for our young son for quite some time.

The following week, while at the beach, Alfie wandered off again, onto the same property looking for cat food. We called him back, kicked ourselves for not being more vigilant, were screamed at by the wife of the duo this time.

The next morning the police came round, being led by our friendly neighbor in his vehicle.

Our neighbor began by screaming at us that he was going to call Social Services to tell them that we were ‘living like this, back there, with children’. His disgust rained like acerbic spittle on my family and our visiting friends.

The contrast of this man’s ill-feeling towards us, with our own simple joy at living off-grid, of trying to make something of Senora Azul’s property, was a stark reminder of the realities of the messed up culture that pervades this blessed and divine ball of rock we are all lucky enough to call home for a brief moment.

We handled the situation with grace and peace. We assured our neighbor that Alfie would not again set paw onto his yard. We shook hands, invited our neighbor into a cordial and amicable relatedness, and took off with our friends for the day, somewhat shaken but glad to have good friends with us to put the light of intimacy and respect onto this alienating and disenfranchising experience.

We had no further run-ins, bar a chance meeting in a local eatery, whereby the she of the duo, upped and left, making snide remarks to the establishment owner about not staying where we were.

That was the only direct contre-temps we encountered during our time in Culebra, but it was a lingering one.

We were visited one day by a messenger, bringing us the news that the local homeowners association was hoping to gather for a meeting about how Senora Azul was ‘using her property’. We learned that there had been not insignificant inquiry taking place as to who or what we were doing on the land, neighbors had been quizzed, the wheels of small-minded, speculative humdrummery were spinning, albeit at an island pace.

Millionaires were pissed off. Something was happening within their eyesight that they didn’t understand. There were poor people living on the island, in their neighborhood, near their homes. Poor people who weren’t working in service, cleaning homes, serving food and wiping backsides. But people who were trying to build something else. Something peaceful and non-bothersome. Something non-destructive and ultimately something that they sought to share. But something unconventional, not a scuba business. Not a restaurant. Food. Food and alternative living.

Until said poor people asked themselves ‘¿porque?’. Or rather ‘¿porque aqui?’…

A local expat said to me at the beginning of our time on Culebra, that ‘people don’t have friends here’, which, at the time struck me and subsequently stayed with me for the remainder of our time on the island.

Others told me that the island spits people out that she doesn’t want.

It is true that some places work for some and not for others; and it is certainly true that people are drawn to the people and places that resonate with them. And it is also true that we are sometimes drawn to people and places that do not ultimately suit us for the long term, but that allow us a period of discomfort from which is born greater commitment to our path.

I can’t say that I feel ‘spat out’ by the island of Culebra, but I definitely felt like I had spent long enough in a relationship that wasn’t working.

We arrived on the island wide open after seven years in cooperative, progressive, earth-focused, wild and soulful community in the mountains of Northern New Mexico. We were not really prepared for tiny island life, to be honest. To us, community was – and still is – something real and necessary to survival. Something earthen and accepting, inherently supportive and accommodating, where the hand of friendship is extended with a pulsing heartbeat, where the food is local and good and shared, where newcomers are welcomed and cooked for and offered tea. Where everyone does indeed know everyone’s business, but where the underpinning sentiment is tolerance and open-mindedness, where belonging is underwritten by the sealedness of lips regarding what they know to be your business; rather than tongues wagging about what their owners speculate about your affairs, without ever truly knowing who you are.

We and our children did make some friends while we were in Culebra, we did enjoy the company of others and felt welcomed by several families and couples. We received some consistent friendship from these quarters and I hope that these people, if they read this, know who they are, and know that we cherish them and are grateful for them in our lives.

We just did not fit into the larger fabric of life there. Not for the long term. We will be back to the island, and we have open doors here to any and all of our friends who feel like heading over this way for a visit.

photo 1(7)Cut to here. Rincon, the west side.

Feels kind of like the south of Spain meets California in the Caribbean. It’s an interesting mix. It’s open.

We have been welcomed, I have lost count of the people who have looked me in the eyes with an open face and told me ‘Welcome Home’.

In one waxing phase of the moon, from New to Full, we have gone from fleeing from our camp in the woods, sodden, to the bugle horn of the Universe bellowing ‘Go West! Now!’; to landing in an alien environment of itty bitty houses and teeny tiny lawns, quiet streets and concrete-a-go-go; to farmers markets, art markets, beaches, rivers, the homes of new friends, learning centers for children that are based on values we cherish; and now to a HOUSE!!

In the rain, at Pirate Camp, as we were packing and lashing down belongings, while our children watched Aladdin upstairs in Senora’s house, and Justin was loading the car, I fell to my knees.

In the rain, onto the Earth, I looked up to the sky, blown wide open, chest wide, arms clasped in prayer and I prayed, aloud, for God/Goddess/the Universe to help us, to guide us and to provide us with a home. A home that we can afford, that we can all thrive in – plants, animals, adults, children. A home where we can flourish, where all our needs – family, business, music, art, garden, piratehood – may be met.

And – boom – on the anniversary of the cremation of our home on wheels, we found that very place. A yellow house, in a quiet, spacious neighborhood, across the street from jungle behind which lies the ocean. A house with two large bedrooms, a separate two-storey guest house with three areas: business, music, art. A large grassy yard, all fenced. Fertile soil. Mature trees. A HUGE separate, attached lot behind the house, overgrown, full of trees, offering ample food (and space) for goats, birds and horses, and the perfect spot for re-situating the Soulpad and stewarding an edible forest garden and magical fairy woodland.

The downs: no oven. But we do have our portable solar oven, hurrah (and toaster ovens are cheap).

No washing machine. We’ll get one.

Needs cleaning, a lot. We’ll enjoy the process of cleansing, smudging, preparing.

The deal: $700 per month.

Two weeks. Prayer asked to prayer answered.

We sign tomorrow on the Full Moon.

Gratitude abounds, for experiences had and for lessons learned, for new friends, new opportunities, new adventures and the re-rooting of a happy family in a home of their own.

For a while… ;)

YUP, BEEN A WHILE..

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Yup, been a while. Aware of that.

In the main, recently, we have been living life and enjoying our new home, and Our Pirate Life has seemed less and less relevant. I think the moment I began visualizing the style of Ikea dining table with which I was hoping to furnish my living room is the point at which I officially lost my pirate status.

It was immensely fun being a pirate. I recently read an article about ‘rewilding’ and I would say that that is what the five months at Pirate Camp were for the four of us. We reconnected with ourselves and our environment. We rewilded. We were pretty wild before. Never tame(!), but we had forgotten how wild wereally are.

So, what does that mean we have been doing for the past two months? Recivilising? I suppose, in some ways, yes, that really is exactly what we have been doing.

From the initial shock of the subdivision (which nonetheless turned out to have some very friendly neighbors), and then the joyous relief of finding a home, we have been re-entering civilization in a manner true to form.

We moved in, took the doors off their hinges (interior); painted some walls; let the kids muralize; ripped out the tv cable; began hoarding rodents and leporidae (bunnies!); hung some flags; thanks to the connections and generosity of new friends and community members, managed to acquire a sofa bed, two living room sofas, a coffee table, and two goats (a mama and her baby girl); and met most of the neighbors. Ziggy is now over a month into his magical Waldorf school – the school I (literally) dreamed of while back in New Mexico almost two years ago… a beautiful home, on 10 green and wooded acres, with a river running through it, horses, pigs, enchanted teachers, I could go on.

I could go on about all of this. I could talk about the puppy I found by the side of the road today and brought home (flea-ridden, worm-infested, exhausted, about 6 weeks old, terrified, grateful, affectionate, loving, ours) called Yaya, Taino for Higher Power, or Creator. I could talk about Coco’s new playdate group and the empowered and interesting, honest and humbled women I have been lucky enough to connect with through our shared motherhood and backyards and homes. I could talk about the Farmers’ Market and the night-time Art Market; or the essential oil magician and the chiropractor, both of whom feel as if they were placed right there in my path inviting me to heal.

I could talk about the buck I am taking my Nubian goat mama to get impregnated by (si Dios quiere) tomorrow; or the beach walks I take on an almost daily basis with my daughter and dogs; the fruit trees we are unveiling in the yard as we hack through vegetation and the goats eat; the raw goat milk from three doors up; the yummy local eggs; the local pig we are going to load into our freezer(!); the roadside fruit stands that satiate our sweet teeth with pineapple, papaya, guanabana, mango, bananas; the delicious chocolate mousse we have been chowing down on thanks to all these avocados people keep palming off on us as they are just everywhere and can’t all be eaten ever.

The surf lessons, the money-management breakthroughs, the business insights, the incredible artist who has offered to create some images for our upcoming album project, the breakthroughs musically in attitude to production, performance and purpose. The hoarding of driftwood. The luxury of running water, Laundromats, electric lights, flushing loos that we will ne’er cease to marvel at.

The barn plans; the garden plans; the burgeoning herb garden; the night I superglued my dog’s neck back together while Justin was out of town with the car; the rebalancing of heart and soul and the deep aligning with spirit that happens when you are where you are meant to be.

Gawd, there’s more. So much more. Of course there is. This is Life. You all know that. You’re all here too.

With this blog, Our Pirate Life, I began writing to document a moment in time, a point in our evolution and a time in our lives. And I think I did that very well. My writing had a focus. I wasn’t writing about me, or us, or ‘our crazy family’ or ‘our day to day’ or whatever humdeedumdrum. I had an angle. Only now I don’t.

This blog has ceased to have a point.

Oh Life has a point, oh yes. Many many myriad points, so many as to make life a complex and beautiful organic crystalline formation, as magical as it ever was and as simply complex as it always is.

It’s just the writing about it part that feels redundant somehow.

It’s kind of a thing of four quadrants: the reader’s desire to know, the writer’s desire to tell; the reader’s need to know, and the writer’s need to tell. I feel that the best writing hits all four. Our Pirate Life hit all four of these quadrants at different times. And even, I would somewhat unBritishly dare to state, hit three of them at a time, most of the time. And, on the odd occasion, even all four, for the fleeting moment of a sentence or few.

Yet now. No, reader, you did not need to know any of the details I have just relayed to you. You are still reading because either a – you started so you shall therefore finish, b – you like me, c – you don’t like me and want to slag me off in your head or to someone or other after you have finished, d – you have no idea how you stumbled onto this page and it’s late and you can’t sleep and it’s better than worrying about your health or your marriage or your children’s behavioral problems, or e – you stopped reading ages ago and I am talking to the firewall.

The thing is this. The worst dross on the internet hits one of the quadrants only – either the reader’s desire to know or the writer’s desire to tell. It is either some worthless drivel floating about because someone just wanted to put it there but it is of no interest, use or diversion to man nor cyborg. Or – worse still – it was compiled or written utterly mindlessly by anywho or other who can’t spell or punctuate or deviate, innovate or more creatively recreate than to offer up stale and flimsy waffling shite about somethingthehellorelse simply because someone will read it, and they may make a small sliver of a buck based upon that chance. That is where the mindless flannel lies. All the vanity, all the fluff, all the bs, the posturing, the marketing of nonsense, the propagating of falsehoods, the excessive screen time.

So, I am not saying that this will be my last post ever. But I am saying this: I no longer have the desire to write down and post on the internet the stories and insights of life with my pirate three. I don’t have the desire to because I don’t have the need. I don’t need to because I have found a wider community that I connect with again. I do not feel ostracized or isolated and, at this time in my life, I am not doing anything so challenging to the status quo that it needs to be documented.

I may post updates as our goats breed, as horses come into our lives, as we build a barn from pallets, get chickens going again, as we learn about our soil here and as we move further into food sustainability.

But not much else. Need to know basis. Ya get me?

And as for writing, it was recently suggested to me by someone whose opinion I greatly respect, that I should start writing short stories. As writing, I have rediscovered, is something that I very much need to do; and as writing short stories awakens a desire in me, then that is what I shall do with my limited writing hours.

Thank you everyone for your support and for the kind words and honest reflections from your own experiences that you have offered in the comments of this blog. It has meant so much to me.

Thank you also for the stories that you have shared via your own blogs.

Anything I need to tell you, be assured that I will. Anything you want to know – ask.

Let’s agree to wish only the best for each other.

Smell ya later…