Nooses Beat Masks in Old Hang Town

If you’ve ever been to Gold Rush Country, you may have wandered through Placerville, a relic of the Wild West. If you’ve ever been to Placerville, you may have noticed the town seal as you drove in. On this town seal is a man mining for gold in front of a tree. Dangling from the tree is a noose. 

“Maybe it’s just a really short tire swing,” I said, ever full of optimism. 

“Nope. Look, the town’s nickname is Old Hang Town.” 

“So it’s definitely a noose?” 

“It’s definitely a noose.” 

People in Placerville are apparently super proud of the Old West justice they used to mete out from their historic hanging tree. At least according to the flier I saw hanging on the door of Bones Roadhouse when we stopped for lunch, declaring “It’s not racist, it’s historic.”

(Just as a general note, any time “it’s not racist” appears in a sentence and that sentence keeps going, whatever follows is definitely going to be racist.)

We happened to be in Placerville the day after the town council (or whoever is in charge of such things) voted to take the noose off the seal because it’s a little too reminiscent of lynchings, something I think we can all agree were never good. 

According to a cursory google search, the only people hanged in Placerville were two Frenchmen and one Chilean, so the townspeople up in arms over getting their seal changed might be technically correct in that the seal is less Strange Fruit and more We Don’t Have a Sheriff’s Department Yet. But why you’d want to fight for a noose is beyond me. Especially when you could be We’re An Adorable Relic of the Wild West and You Should Definitely Spend Money Here instead.

The other intriguing thing about Placerville - aside from the old west main street (I do love me a good old west main street) and the abundance of witch-y shopping options - was the attitude towards masks. 

The second thing I noticed about Bones Roadhouse, after my eyes adjusted to the dim light after being in the bright sun and my brain stopped processing the “it’s not racist” flier,  was that no one was wearing a mask. No one. People were just hanging out squashed together at the circular bar like it was 2019 and pandemics were as historic as the town.

After lunch, we went shopping, because that’s what you do in an adorable town. We went to the oldest hardware store west of the Mississippi and bought chocolate in the Toy and Candy store because I insisted. When we got a little further down the street, we were told in one of the stores that they actually prefer it if you don’t wear masks inside. 

Oldest hardware store west of the Mississippi.

Coming from the Bay Area, where people are meticulous about mask wearing, this was very strange - though maybe not as strange as the effigy hanging from the second story of one of the buildings on main street, neck encircled by - you guessed it - a noose.

If we’re speaking historically here, I would have expected masks to be more popular. Presumably bank robbers of the Wild West would have loved the current world-wide mask credo, as wearing a mask would no longer be a dead give away of your intent to rob an establishment. 

And let me tell you, there were some places worth robbing. 

On Moving In With Another Human

I just moved in with my boyfriend, a rather annoying term for a 41-year-old but there aren’t any clear, less-annoying alternatives.

For two people in their forties, neither of whom have lived with a partner type person in over a decade, this is a big deal.

We’ve had to make room for grief, blow ups, and whoops-didn’t-know-that-was-still-there past trauma along with my dishes and big red chair.

(The cats, on the other hand, have been entirely unaffected. One could even say insultingly blasé. Dear cats: You should be made aware that I am an utter delight to live with. Please be appropriately grateful for the opportunity.) (The cats are not grateful.)

We are a loving, well-matched, and (I have to say it) rather adorable couple.

We also have our share of challenges. Sometimes we fight and I think "Why am I doing this?" And then sometimes he rubs my head when I'm anxious and brings me a pumpkin curry when I'm hungry and I think "Oh, that's why."

It’s the little things, the small daily choices, that make all the difference. That build trust for two people who haven’t been given a whole lot of reasons to trust in the past. We’re like scared cats, inching out from under the bed, like “Hey, maybe this isn’t so bad. Maybe I will survive this. Maybe I’ll even get salmon and belly rubs.”

We’re breaking out of our comfort zones, learning how to live with another human, learning how to be real partners, learning how to be tender with each other’s sensitivities.

It’s not for the faint of heart. Which makes sense because life is not for the faint of heart. Love is not for the faint of heart. Our lives and hearts are growing and strengthening, and I give us credit for that.

So here’s to us. And to you, for whatever ways you’re growing and strengthening and loving right now.

Going to Mount Shasta So Jesus Can Roll His Eyes at Me

Mount Shasta has been tugging at me for months now. Sometimes my soul gets really insistent, and I've found that it's best for everyone if I give it what it wants. So last weekend I drove five hours toward what I've been told is one of the biggest energetic centers on the planet. 

Most of me is on board when I hear things like that, but there's still a small portion of my East Coast lineage and education that says, "Yeah, okay, whatever." 

My still-clinging cynicism was firmly chastened when I hit the town of Shasta and got so dazed that I almost hit a pedestrian. 

Whoops! Sorry! You're right, that was a crosswalk! I'm very glad you just got mad instead of covered in tire treads!

Between the sun in my eyes, an unfamiliar town, and the kind of energy that I only experience after I've been channeling for long periods of time - after which I have to walk and eat mashed potatoes and not be around other humans - I most definitely should not have been driving a heavy metal box. 

Once after a healing, one of my clients said "This is my favorite drug." That's the kind of energy infusing Mount Shasta. So deeply healing that you feel like you just popped a horse tranquilizer. It's the kind of energy that lifts you out of your body and into another dimension. A lighter, far more awesome dimension, unless the you in this dimension stops obeying the laws of traffic and common decency. 

Wandering around Lake Siskiyou, I gazed at the light playing on the water and was so entranced, I felt like a three-year-old who got into the pot brownies. I kept listing sideways, tipping into walls, people, and almost over a cliff. 

The next day, I met up with a friend and we went to the mineral baths and dunked ourselves in the freshly melted river. I felt myself leaving heartbreak in creek beds and felt old patterns and beliefs melting into the mountain. It was like a car wash for the soul. 

I also had the most literal Come-To-Jesus moment of my entire life. 

Now, Jesus has been showing up a lot lately. He made an appearance when I was walking down the street a few months ago. I was asking for information about the next round of Activate, the six month group healing thing I run, and he stepped right in and waved and said he was one of our guides. My reaction was basically "what the fuuuuuuck?" As you'd expect when Jesus walks up to you and says, DUDE, WE'VE GOT SHIT TO DO. 

I always thought Jesus was pretty cool. Whatever thought I gave him was split between being deeply annoyed on his behalf at the way his work got twisted up by power-hungry patriarchal agendas and being super into Christmas. Not just because of the presents and cookies - though I never turn down presents and cookies - but because it always feels infused with love. Christmas actually does feel holy to me, and also I like Christmas carols. Like, a dumb amount. Sorry, anyone who has ever spent time with me in December. 

That was about it until he basically accosted me on the street, because that was apparently the only way to get my attention. (He notes that I'm being melodramatic again - there was a gentle wave and zero accosting - and I say, Who's telling this story, you or me?) 

Like any good light worker and way-shower, I've been dutifully ascending. Dealing with all my old shit - and a lot of other people's old shit, damn it - so that I could be good and ready to do my work here. Because I'm here for some pretty specific reasons. You are too, if you're reading this. 

Apparently, if you do your energetic housecleaning well enough, you start having visions of Jesus. 

Yes, I do hear myself when I say these things. But I figure if Jesus takes the time out of his busy schedule to show himself to you as you're walking down the street, more or less minding your own business, you should probably pay attention. 

So I started paying attention.

(Though, apparently, not enough attention. One of the biggest messages from my Shasta trip was Jesus telling me that I haven't been listening. Damn it. SORRY, JESUS. I thought I was listening, but there have been some things I admit I don't want to do. Mainly in the area of eating vegetables.) 

When I do let him in, he does a stellar job at lifting me out of my drama and getting me back on track. A few weeks ago, I was driving and feeling super cranky. Until Sly and the Family Stone come onto the radio, and I get a vision of Jesus lip-synching "Everyday People" with the Marys (Mother and Magdalene) as backup dancers and I start laughing so hard, I almost had to pull over on the freeway. My entire energy and mood shifted to absolute joy in a hot second. 

But apparently, he's got a lot to tell me about my work and I haven't been paying attention. I'm like that annoying co-worker who ignores your emails until you have to get up, walk over to their cubicle, and smack them upside the head. Maybe that's why my soul was so adamantly shoving me toward Mount Shasta. So Jesus could smack me (gently, of course) upside the head. 

After a guided meditation at the base of the mountain, the friend I was with said, "It's like you're homies. Like you and Jesus have lived lives together."  Insert wide-eyed emoji right here. The energy she got was that we were friends and coworkers. Family. "Whatever he's been telling you to do, do it." 

According to the messages she received for me at the base of the mountain, I've only just begun to scratch the surface of my powers and gifts - and now it's time to get serious.

Unfortunately "get serious" seems to mean "stop it with all the fried chicken and TV." Give your body what it really wants. My body wants running lots of miles and green juice. My brain wants naps and fried chicken. But I am serious about this, so vegetables and miles it is. 

Besides the "be healthy" thing, I do tend to get confused because the messages I receive are along the lines of "Have fun! Have sex! Have more adventures and write about them!" Sex is my spiritual assignment? And road trips? Really? Well, that sounds too good to be true. 

And then I remember the broccoli. And Jesus rolls his eyes at me because he didn't specify broccoli and I know it, and if I'm going to go around telling people that Jesus is making me eat broccoli he says he can't help me. (Yes, I think I'm hilarious.) 

But basking in the powerful and pulsing healing energy of that mountain, where I'm so much lighter than I'm used to being, I remember that writing is the basis of my work - and writing my joy has always been the way I've moved into that lighter space, with or without Jesus and big mountains. 

He says, "Write. Write your adventures. Write whatever sounds fun. Because writing is where your love flows and you are finally loving yourself fully. So writing about yourself in the service of others is one of the best things you can do right now." 

Then I say, "Thanks, J-Dog" and he rolls his eyes again and told me I am the whitest individual ever and what is up with all the pink shoes. I say the pink shoes make me happy and he says, "Well, that's okay then." 

The veil really is getting thinner and I am so very thankful for that. It's reminding me that the density of this reality isn't all there is, and if I keep moving - if we keep moving - toward the light, we'll all get lighter.

Even if Jesus has to spend a lot of his time rolling his eyes at me. (Heh.)