Wabi-Sabi Man

Sam and Tootsie

So much could go wrong with taking someone into your home; but then so much can go right. When Sam contacted me looking for a home base for a few months while trying to get a book project under control, I suggested we try it for a month. He arrived at the beginning of October 2017 and left yesterday, March 6. Now that he has moved on to the next phase of his adventure, I find myself savoring how special and magical this time has been.

Ric’s vision for The Number Nine was to provide a safe and quiet place for artists to stay temporarily and work on a creative problem. Sam already had one started and needed space and time to firm it up. Bingo! The perfect match up! It is the first extended stay completed here and it couldn’t have been any better. It helped that I knew Sam from 12 years ago when he and my college roomate’s son, Peter, hitchhiked across country from Vermont after they graduated from college. They landed at our place in Torrance to rest up and get reorganized. Of course, Ric loved the free spirit of these two guys and it’s fun for me to think that he sent Sam to me for this first experiment in taking someone into the property.

Go Celtics!

Whatever forces brought us together, I was happy to see how the property worked in affording us both privacy and common areas where we could meet and engage in talks from one generation to another. In facing this time of daily astonishment at the world’s insanity, I have the memories of the tragic 60’s as a footing in understanding that humanity’s madness touches us closely every so often, but Sam had no close comparative material in his lifespan. It was a comfort for both of us to be at The Number Nine and have priorities of family, love, nature, and art reign supreme. In his tenure here, we battled rodents, played host to an owl I named Ivan, and listened to birdsong and coyote choruses.

For Sam the desert has shown all its colors and tempers; bitter cold and brutally hot, dessicatingly dry and thrillingly rainy; dark moonless nights and super full moons; dog day still and frighteningly windy; flowers a-popping and winter dead brown hills. Sam got to share this special place with his girlfriend Maren and his parents who made the trip from Maine to visit.

Sam introduced me to the concept and sensibilities of

Travel well Sam!

Wabi-Sabi. It fits like a glove for the way I am living on this property and moving forward in my life. His arrival and visit was in that spirit of unexpected beauty and correctness of events; a surprise gift that could not be manufactured. It just came to both of us in perfect harmony.

I’ve heard the Lakota Sioux say “Travel Well” when someone leaves. Travel well, Sam.

December 2018 Update

I asked Sam to write something about what his stay at The Number Nine. I delight in his memories:

Last year I spent the autumn and winter living and working at the Number 9. Each day began when I exited the casita and raised a sleepy hand to shield my eyes from the brilliance of the desert sun. If the day was hot I splashed myself in the pool. If the day was cool I wore jeans and traced paths through Elin’s garden, which overflows with charms and artifacts – my favorite being the strange flower pot with a peaceful resting face and head open to all of the world above. I always peeked into the tree to see if Ivan, the great horned owl, was perched on his branch looking down at me from his wakeful sleep. I took an inventory of new blossoms and watched butterflies flit among the milkweed. I visited the ocotillo and traced my fingers over its deep green leaves growing between spikes. And I always ended up spacing out at the edge of the garden, where the wild desert opened up and the San Jacinto peak stood massive against a crystal blue sky.

Inside the house played a loop of Tibetan healing sounds – the effect was deeply grounding upon entering, and for some reason in my mind the bells and chants are entwined with a memory of the kitchen’s smooth tile floor and blue water cooler beside the fridge. Elin was usually working at her desk (with Chulo in her lap) and would take a break to chat with me before I made breakfast. We checked in on our plans for the day, shared how our sleep and dreams went, or grumbled about the news, which unfortunately was often upsetting and in such contrast to the rhythm and energy of the Number 9. If Elin wasn’t at her desk she was in the studio, up the hill, or off riding horses.

After breakfast I would settle into my work for the day. I was writing a story to accompany a series of paintings made by a friend. I had been working on it for several years, but needed wide open space and time to push the writing toward completion, which the Number 9 graciously offered me. Inside my room I would seal away everything outside and enter my imagination. On some days words and ideas flowed like water, and on others my brain was jammed and rusted, and I would quit writing to lay on the couch and read books, or try and reset my mind by doing a puzzle at a square table in the corner of the room. It was such a gift to spend my days writing without the hassle and stress of day to day living, it allowed my story to unfold and discover itself as it moved along on its own time.

Late afternoons and evenings were meandering and open. I took runs out on the horse trails in the creosote. Climbed into the hills behind the house to hear coyotes, and watched sunsets of exploding orange and cotton candy pink. I drove into the surrounding towns to explore and people-watch. Desert Hot Springs is strange and bizarre in a gritty, sun scorched sort of way, and Palm Desert is the surreal reality of green golf courses and retired wealth stretched along streets named after Frank Sinatra and his Hollywood friends.

Then nighttime would come, and if there was a moon the desert shined silver and everything everywhere could be seen. If there was no moon, then it was dark and the emptiness was huge. A quiet settled down that was endless, and made me want to tiptoe and speak in a soft voice. It was always hard to go to bed, because the depth of night held something secret and and big, and gave me a wild feeling.

That’s how the time passed, day after day for several months. Eventually it was time to move on and return to regular life.

I feel so much gratitude for my stay. The Number 9 is a living monument to the spirit of creation. Ric’s lifetime of work is everywhere in the house. Elin is actively adding her own expressions everyday. The doors are open. Creativity is the bottom line and generosity is the currency. What a special place to spend some time.