The original meaning of the word Curation (Latin: curare) was “to take care of” in the spiritual sense – a priest caring for the souls in his Parish. Like so much in our world today, original meaning has been taken over by the material realm – selecting and caring for the objects in a collection, like in a musem exhibit. While attempting to write a memoir, I’ve been thinking a lot about Curation in the sense of deciding which stories and facts, which thoughts and memories to choose out of an overwhelming abundance of material. What threads are worth following so that they tie the story together, and which are just fraying edges and charming distractions.

Of course, this means I have to have a very clear idea about what story I’m trying to tell in the first place and why. Think of it as framing. On a visual level, when composing a photograph or a work of art – what belongs inside the frame? In my innate frame of reference, Everything is connected, Everything matters, it’s all a giant, interconnected continuum and I want to transmay the whole big beautiful messy truth of whatever I’m going on about. As you can see, sometimes I really struggle with framing.

Along with framing, if we’re trying to get to a deeper truth, context is important. One of my mentors said “what makes a good folk song is how much it conveys about a culture and a peoples’ lives in the time and place it was written.” To understand anything, from Bible verses and literature to other human beings and “lifestyle choices” it really helps to have an understanding of the context, the reality on the ground at the time – which might be radically different from our own experiences and assumptions. Stories are important, to our souls and hearts as well as our minds. Not stories as in fabrications and lies, not a made up idea about reality (like an ad campaign, crafted to sell a product) but Backstory – depth, honest appraisal, digging down into the roots with an open mind and heart. That kind of bigger, deeper story telling is time consuming. It might take a whole collection of stories, shared over time – which is maybe one of the blessings of blogs!

Long before we had the written word, humans have used stories to teach, to heal, to explain, to bridge divides, to connect. In a time before “devices” shortened our attention spans to be measured in seconds, we gathered by the fire of an evening to pass those stories on. We sang and told stories as we brought in the harvest or raised the sails. A single ballad could go on for half an hour or more, verse after verse to tell the story, a join-in chorus to keep people awake and engaged. Stories to remind us of who we are, to warn of perils and pitfalls, to share wisdom and remind us of who we want to become and why. Of course, not every story has to be so long and complicated. Sometimes a lot can be conveyed with a very simple story. Jesus called them Parables.

Here’s a poorly framed photo of my lovely Hibuscus this morning. It’s also a parable. (Parable: from the Greek para-bole – to throw alongside – like a metaphor). Technically, a parable is supposed to be fictional? But this is a true story from my life.

I have a lovely Hibiscus living in a large pot so it can come inside in the winter months. Early last summer it was obvious that my lovely Hibiscus was not ok. I watered it regularly but it kept wilting in a way that said “I’m still really thirsty!” I thought, “I’m watering you on the regular. You have plenty of sunshine. What is wrong with you, ungrateful plant? What more do you want from me? Summer is here and I expect big red flowers!” I quietly suspected that it was pot bound and in need of a bigger pot. However, the pot it lives in was already almost too heavy for me to lift. I didn’t have a bigger pot and I was procrastinating as my lovely Hibiscus struggled to survive. One day, shortly after watering (I thought I had watered thoroughly) I dug my fingers down into the soil. Half an inch down it was bone dry! This made no sense to me until I learned about a condition called “hydrophobic soil” – basically, the dirt in that pot had been too dry for too long and it could no longer remember how to absorb water. The solution turned out to be simple: I wrestled the lovely Hibiscus in its perfectly adequate pot into a giant tupperware bin and filled that bin with water. The water was able to soak into the soil not only from the top surface but also through the holes in the bottom of the pot. Suddenly the lovely Hibiscus had as much water as it needed and then some! It still took some time to truly absorb that life-giving liquid, but within a day of having everything it needed and more, the lovely Hibiscus revived and then thrived – within a couple of weeks it was producing big red flowers. It is still doing well today, blooming all summer and into the autumn. Obviously, if I’d left the lovely Hibiscus under water indefinitely it would have drowned. But a winter of being watered “just enough to survive” almost killed it.

So what does all of this have to do with my upcoming adventure driving a pair of ponies across the country? What’s the story behind this decision? To answer that, I’ll take you back to the beginning of the Long Ride with Jesse James and Saint Finehorn. The most common question was “why are you doing this?” – and honestly, I lacked a good answer. The honest answer was that sometimes Desperation is the mother of Courage and I was very low on options at that point in my life. At the same time, the idea of crossing the country on horseback was my biggest, most deeply held dream – the thing I felt like I was meant to do, that I’d never been brave enough to actually manifest before. But as I discovered, that wasn’t enough. I needed a story. In my heart I was committing an Act of Democracy – but couldn’t find a way to explain that succinctly.

My boon companion Gryph and I tried on several ideas: we left the Apple Farm on Columbus Day – to rediscover America. Not only was that disrespecting the people who were already here long before Columbus, it didn’t really make sense to most people even though much of my motivation was to meet my fellow citizens, find out the reality of who I was sharing a country with, share stories with strangers.

Then: “We’re out exploring the OM in hOMeless.” Well – dang, didn’t that make people nervous. Being homeless is somewhere between a crime and a sin, and nobody wants to get involved with a homeless person. Loser written all over that one. It helped a bit to mention that I had built and still owned a Casita on Vieques, but we stopped using that story right quick.

400 miles down California and someone suggested that I call a local reporter, get some positive publicity – and the reporter basically told me that people do this sort of thing all the time and why do I think I’m special? She wasn’t about to waste her time. (pro tip: it’s Always better for a local to contact the press on your behalf if being in the news is a goal for any reason) The real problem? I couldn’t give her a ready-made story.

Being in the news did help, racking up the miles and not quitting did help, having a blog did help, all of these things built credibility – but none of them really worked as a story that I could share, A story that invited people into the adventure. People did help at that stage, out of pity, mostly. We were pretty ragged and struggling to survive day to day and that was obvious at a glance.

Finally, during a particularly low point (see April and May, 2021 in blog post history) Katie Cooper (who had found my blog while researching her own upcoming mule ride) got in touch with me and told me about the Long Riders’ Guild. Later that summer, back on the road again with the herd, I was welcomed into the Guild with what felt like a condition. The summer before I left, I’d read Mesannie Wilkin’s book The Last of the Saddle Tramps. Mesannie was a posthumous member of the Long Riders’ Guild. Her book had gone a long way towards convincing me that this sort of adventure was possible, even without a trust fund. CuChullaine and Basha came up with the idea of turning my ride into a tribute to Mesannie and her ride. I would finish my Long Ride in Minot, Maine – where she started her ride to California back on November 9, 1954. Completing the circle, publicizing the Long Riders’ Guild, leading a parade on that date 59 years later, finishing at the cemetery where she was laid to rest.

That turned out to be a great story. A magic story. A door opening story. An honorable story that people could understand and relate to. I should absolutely be grateful for the story that saved my ride. And I am. However, what that story did was keep me from finding my own story. It completely subsumed my Long Ride and my Act of Democracy and my need to figure out how to talk about what I’d actually meant to do. On the other hand, it did get me invited into a lot of places where people shared amazingly generous hospitality and told me their stories.

So many stories it just about broke me.

I learned that lots and lots of people are lonely and really, really want somebody to listen to their stories. And that act of listening was a large part of my “job” as a guest. So often I’d find myself sitting across the kitchen table from a stranger for literally half a day as they poured out the stories of their lives, their family’s lives, their pain and frustration, their unrealized dreams, their raw reality – in part because I was going to be gone in the morning and their secrets would be safe with me. I started calling it the “talk tax” and it was honestly the hardest part of the ride that last year. I’m an introvert and it was getting harder and harder to even be polite.

By Spring of 2013 I desperately wanted the ride to be over. The ponies needed an extended break, I wanted to curl up in a hole somewhere and never talk to anyone again, this was not fun any more. But the junior historical society of Minot, Maine was planning a parade and I’d given my word that I’d be there. That’s how strong that story had grown. Stronger than me.

At that time I promised myself another Long Ride, this time in the wilderness. I was absolutely going to choose the bear. Bears don’t really care about stories, as far as I can tell. No talk tax out in the woods. But meanwhile it’s well past dark and I’ve been writing since noon and it’s time to find some dinner, so I’ll continue this story on another day. Meanwhile, I’d love to hear your thoughts on my parable in the comments!