I’ve been sleeping on a tiny second-floor back porch of an older east side house that is not my home. Uncovered and open to the elements, the porch is 8’ x 5’ with a tin-coated, brown-painted floor and a railing made of two-by-fours also painted brown. Three plastic window boxes sprout purple and white petunias, the frail umbrella-like flowers opening daily while older flowers droop and die. My view is urban – the wall of the next-door house, two garages, a small parking lot, and beyond that, a busy street. With the streetlights and porch lights, it’s never dark, though a few stars are visible high above, and the moon until it slides away behind the roof peak.
My little nest is sparse but cozy. I sleep on a camping pad covered by a folded sleeping bag and a sheet. Each night, I brush away the small, dead brown leaves that have fallen during the day, then slip under a second sheet and a couple quilts. I’ve been lucky during this dry September of sunny days, cool nights, and no rain. The surrounding trees shelter me. The tallest one, a black walnut, towers above the sharply slanted roof, the breeze lightly shaking its branches. The squirrels love this tree. For them, it must be heaven, a soft, green jungle gym for leaping and landing, the thin, leafy branches sinking down from the squirrel’s weight, then springing upward and bouncing lightly in the wake of the squirrel’s passing.
The squirrels, despite their irritating chit-chit-chit sounds and messy evisceration of the black walnut shells, are delightful to watch racing along the grass and seeming to soar above the ground with every other step, their bushy tails flying behind them.
So, why am I sleeping on this tiny porch at someone else’s house? It’s not because I love the outdoors (although I do). It’s because I’ve developed allergy-like sensitivities to the house where I live, waking in the wee hours itchy-eyed and with a terrible pressure headache in my sinuses and around my eyes. Add body aches, mild dizziness, brain fog, and gut pain, and I’m wrecked for the rest of the day.
Since these symptoms developed, several years ago, I have consulted doctors, an allergist, a household mold specialist, and a medical intuitive. I’ve tried medications and supplements and dietary changes. But the source of the problem remains a mystery. Probably it’s a combination of factors. Many months ago, in frustration, I began seeking respite elsewhere, asking friends about spending time in their homes, and for over a year now, several folks have been kind enough to let me regularly spend nights on a couch or in an extra room. I’ve developed sensitivities to these other places as well, though they tend to be milder – the headaches less crushing, my mood less depressive, my thoughts less likely to turn toward a longing to just die and be over with it.
Sensitivities like mine are not uncommon. Mine, in fact, are relatively mild. There are whole communities of overly sensitive people who have moved to places in the Southwest to avoid dampness and mold, arranging their lives to limit other exposures. I knew a woman who was mysteriously ill for decades. The last time I saw her, she lived in a tent in a meadow about a hundred yards from the house she and her husband rented in rural Vermont. Once a day, with assistance, she walked about 10 steps to a larger open-air tent and lay on a massage table until evening. She was a poet, brilliant, kind, creative. But her immune system was haywire. She couldn’t tolerate dust, smoke, electricity, gas, odors from chemicals or perfumes, you name it. To visit her, I had to double-wash my clothes in scent-free detergent and tightly wrap them in plastic bags inside my suitcase. I was in awe of her, astonished by her strength and will to live. Yet I was not altogether surprised when, after several decades of illness, she committed suicide by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge.
My problems are nothing compared to hers. But like hers, they are real. We are the canaries in the coal mine, and so far, I have been relatively resilient. A bit crippled but still able to breathe, to fly.
There is an upside to all of this for me. I’ve become much closer to the people willing to host me, reconnecting with old friends, deepening longtime relationships, and forging new ones. I’ve grown adept at schlepping a backpack filled with a night’s change of clothing, snacks, toothbrush, eyedrops, iPad, and book, and I’ve learned the location of a whole lot of silverware drawers. The visits haven’t always panned out. My presence has at times been a burden on other people, and I have sometimes felt tentative and uneasy in other people’s homes. But mostly it’s been fun, a small adventure.
It’s ironic. When you get old – I’m 75 – and become stiff and inflexible, can’t hear so well or see at night, the last thing you’re seeking is unwanted change. Yet that’s exactly when life throws difficulties your way, knocks you flat, takes your breath away (literally), and eventually dumps you in a nursing home or a wheelchair, and finally a grave.
But there’s no need to dwell on all that. On a good day, I still feel almost as youthful as one of those squirrels leaping from branch to branch. I don’t mean that my life is great, or that I’ve figured out anything special. But in a world beset with tragedy, injustice, and cruelty, I am lucky to have friends, places to sleep, and the natural world to delight in. Every day I am grateful for the generosity and kindness of others. For my part, it’s a daily effort to return that kindness, especially to myself.
I don’t know what will happen. Some days I worry about worsening sensitivities and narrowing possibilities. Not this morning, though. Warmed by sunlight filtering through the branches, the squirrels and I are equally at home 25 feet into the sky.
Image by Wes Baker on pexels.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
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Richard, this is powerful and sure to be supportive to others. I also appreciate that it gives me some clarity about what you’ve been experiencing. I love how you describe managing the suffering and still be present for the many gifts. Really, I love this piece.
Oh my brilliant friend. you are a light to us all. thank you for sharing your gifts. peace and love to you my deerheart friend.
Really beautiful. A reflection of the trials that many of us face in our own formulas.
What a lovely piece about the ways at least a measure of healing and hope can be found in communion with friends and the natural world. You write so beautifully, and with such a generous spirit.
Thanks Richard, for sharing your canary song! It’s wonderful that you have such creative vision while navigating the toxic challenges of the world.
Really wonderful piece Richard. Life throws us some curves at times, and for you some silver linings too. There’s always a tent on my deck for you at my house.
A lovely piece… so tenderly written and so generous in spirit. And such a wonderful reminder of the solace we may find in friendship and nature. Bravo!