Today is my birthday

Let me tell you how I celebrated in 2020.

My birthday last year was the perfect(ly awful) 2020 birthday.

I suppose in retrospect it was silly of me to expect anything else; my birthday is in August, which I would consider Act III of the hell that was 2020. Act I was January through March, pre-quar, when we were most concerned about the Australian wildfires and World War III. Act II was March through May, when we balanced between looking forward to some collective downtime to losing our minds in the cages of our homes. Act III was the beginning of the long overdue reckoning with America’s racist past and present in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. I wasn’t pretending that anything was ok anymore, so why did I expect that my birthday weekend - the first weekend I was actually spending by myself after nearly five months of staying at home with my partner and our two dogs in our one-bedroom apartment - to be this creative paradise that I had imagined?

It’s hard to concisely describe what 2020 felt like, and also there’s not much reason to - we all lived it (and are continuing to live it into 2021). I will specify that my own 2020 experience was a mental health roller coaster that went a little something like this: 

relief → peace → boredom → anxiety → depression → anger → resentment → anger → depression → rage → denial → anxiety → depression → hypomania → depression → peace → depression → peace → hypomania → depression → peace → depression → peace → anxiety → depression → hypomania → rage

July 2020 was anxiety and depression, just before hypomania, and it was in that state of mind that I told my partner that all I wanted for my birthday was to rent a small place by myself outside the city for a weekend. My partner is an incredibly kind, patient, and understanding person, and he respected that wish. I booked a small cabin outside of Lake Hughes, just north of Los Angeles in the Angeles forest.

For weeks I daydreamed about my birthday weekend and how I would enjoy three full days of uninterrupted “me” time. The place I found was in the country, so I knew it would be quiet and free of distraction. It was a small guest house on a plot of land next to the owner’s main house with its own bathroom (complete with an indulgent tub) and kitchen, a writing desk, a collection of art books, access to an above-ground pool, and a studio for painting. It seemed like the ideal creative getaway, with the added bonus that I would be close to nature, able to enjoy hikes at my own pace and to stop and soak in as many gorgeous views as I wanted. 

I told everyone about this trip - family, friends, colleagues at work. I was so proud of myself for allowing myself this gift and, if I’m honest, thought it was a brilliant idea and wanted to tell people. I told them how I was going to spend the weekend enjoying nature and reading and playing music - I was even going to record myself playing and singing for the first time and post it to my Instagram, sort of a marker for the new “me” year (in case you were wondering if I identify strongly with my Leo sun, I SURE DO). 

When the weekend finally came, I packed everything I could ever imagine wanting to have with me: half of my skincare treatments for a facial, 4 swimsuits because I couldn’t decide, 6 books because I assumed I’d be able to read them all in 3 days, a fresh paint by number set, my electronic piano and 4 music books, plus literally a third of my wardrobe because at the last minute I decided I would stage an elaborate photoshoot. Oh, and did I mention the weekend was starting with a COVID-safe hair coloring to change my recently buzzed head from my natural brunette to platinum blonde? Now that I read that back, I feel pretty confident in recognizing that August was when I hit the hypomanic part of my quarantine journey.

I spent the drive singing along to all my hearted songs on Spotify and taking in the mountains. I shopped in Santa Clarita for groceries on the way, and it was there I received a message from the host that they would not be on the property until tomorrow. but I can get in on my own. 

Upon arrival at the cabin, I unpacked and noticed that it wasn’t quite as clean as I was hoping. There were a few dust bunnies and unfortunately some small rodent droppings in the far corners. I had vetted the place before I booked, reading reviews and ensuring it was well-reviewed for cleanliness recently, which it was, so I was disappointed, but ultimately didn’t want to let this ruin my weekend, so I let it slide. I was not going to let this spoil my getaway - I wouldn’t get COVID from a dust bunny. After looking around and taking it all in, I went to use the bathroom, but saw that there was no water coming out of the faucet. I went to the kitchen sink, and the same thing happened. In desperation, I went to the bathtub and shower, but still, no water. 

Before panicking, I decided to assume there was a simple solution. I guessed that because the guest house was not always occupied, they turned off the water line and simply forgot to turn it back on, or I was missing instructions upon check-in to turn it on. When I didn’t find any information about how to activate the water, I messaged the host, again assuming it was simple and basically said, “just let me know which button to push to get water, thanks!” I used the hand sanitizer that I now always have on me and went outside to walk around. Half an hour later, I checked my phone to find that I had not received a response, but noticed that the host was typing something. I figured the message would come through momentarily, so I kept my app open. I was ready to have running water now.

Fifteen minutes later, I continued to see him type but never send a message, and wondered how it could take so long to send instructions to turn on the water main. I gave the host a call, and he was relieved to hear from me.

“Hey! OK, thank you so much for letting me know about the water…” He began.

“Sure thing! I figured it’s an easy solution, I just couldn’t find it on my own. I must be missing something,” I offered, still willing there to be a simple switch I needed to turn on.

“Well, unfortunately, we have a well. Which means that if you don’t have water, the main pipes are broken, and the other houses on the property don’t have water either - this is pretty devastating, actually. I feel like I’m going to cry.”

I was not prepared for this. “Ok…” I started.

“So we have a few options. We can call to get water delivered, but they won’t come until tomorrow, so there are a couple places you can stay for the night? Unless you want to just, like, rough it, but I feel terrible even asking you that... There is a tavern in the town nearby. I’m not sure if they’re open with COVID, but they have a single room above the bar that you can rent. Otherwise there is a hotel off the highway that I know is open because it’s a popular hotel for truckers.”

This was not at all what I expected.

“Right. Well, I planned this trip to be COVID-safe, so I’m not sure I like the idea of staying at a hotel. If I don’t stay here I’ll probably just go home, which I’d really rather not do because I’ve been looking forward to this for a while.” My Midwestern upbringing was not letting me say what I really felt, which was, “in what world would I, a single woman, at this moment in 2020, be ok going to a single tavern room in a tiny rural mountain town or staying at a trucker hotel??”

“Of course, I’m so sorry, I feel terrible, this is awful, I don’t know what to do.” He was out of his league. I could tell that at least his remorse was sincere.

“Well, hang on, are you positive that the well is empty? Could there be another solution, maybe a hose is turned off or something? Is there any sort of line that could be blocking the water?” Now I had my problem-solver hat on. I was not about to accept this fate without fully investigating the situation. 

“I guess maybe a hose was left on? Can you walk around the grounds and I’ll tell you what to check?”

“Of course! That’s an easy thing to do, and hopefully the issue will be easily resolved.” I hadn’t lost all hope yet.

What followed was three or four dropped calls due to spotty wifi and no cell service as I found every water spout on the grounds. I was resigned to the apparent fact that somehow the well was empty and I was going to have to go back home, when I realized that the above-ground pool had been making noise this whole time. I looked closer to discover that a hose was pouring water into the pool to the point that the pool had been overflowing for a while. 

“There’s a hose in the pool - is that supposed to be on? I guess if that water is flowing then there must be something in the well, right?” I asked with the most hope in my voice.

“OH MY GOD. Yep, that’s it. I am so sorry, that is pure human error. I can’t believe that happened. It must have drained the well. But at least we know there is water. Oh god, I can’t believe this. I am so sorry. Turn that off and then the water will build back up in a little while.” I could tell he was embarrassed and frustrated.

“Hey, it’s ok! At least the main line isn’t broken, right? This is an easy fix! I can wait a little bit - how long do you think it will take?”

“Probably 24 hours to refill.”

MOTHER FUCK.

“Oh - so I won’t have any water for 24 hours?”

“Well, you might, but the pressure will be low. We will have someone come first thing tomorrow to top off the well. Can you go without for the night?”

I didn’t like it, but I felt like I didn’t have a choice since I was determined to stay at my weekend getaway despite the very rough start. Fortunately, I noticed after about an hour that there was a bit of water coming from the sinks. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to take a shower or bath. And the next morning, it still wasn’t enough. I decided once again to bury my disappointment and make the best of it, getting dressed and heading on my first hike after informing the hosts that there still was not adequate water.

This wasn’t my first hike on my own, but it was the most remote hike on my own. I found a trailhead of the Pacific Crest Trail nearby (thanks, AllTrails!) that seemed manageable and promised views. As I hiked, I quickly got lost in my thoughts - it probably helped that I took a couple hits from my hybrid vape - and found deeper meaning in what I observed. Wildflowers stopped me in my tracks with their beauty. Wildlife surrounded me. Remnants from past wildfires spotted the mountainside, which resonated with me.

I began to record some of these thoughts as I walked, noting how what I was seeing was a visual metaphor for the current world state. I was deep in the trenches of anti-racist reading, and equally fascinated and horrified at what I was and was not taught to understand about America’s history (and present). Impatient as I am, I was eager for the solution, for an equitable society, and frustrated that the slightest proposed change was met with refusal and arrogance and fear. I had recently made the connection that the opposition to wearing a mask or shutting down businesses amidst a global pandemic was ultimately rooted in individualism, a consequence of capitalism and white supremacy. I could not understand why people couldn’t just get out of their own way and imagine what could be, and I reflected on that as I noticed the charred tree remains among the liveliness of the trail.

If we only looked for the tragedy - the charred remains, or what could be lost or “taken” if we move toward a more equitable society - it seems overwhelming and obvious that it should be avoided. But if we took a step back, adjusted our perception, suddenly it was much harder to notice what was lost amidst the change. The burnt trees were scattered among years of healthy regrowth, and the fires allowed new things to be born. I know I’m not the first to reference fire and rebirth together, but seeing it so literally on that trail struck me. It felt like the perfect metaphor for white people’s fears, and it felt like it is possible for white people to get past what they might lose and instead imagine what everyone - including them - might gain.

I relished in my ability to stop and soak in each and every moment that I came across. The views did not disappoint, and in fact each view was somehow better than the last. I returned to the cabin refreshed, unbothered by the issues of the last 24 hours. I changed into my swimsuit and left, still unshowered since that remained unavailable, to visit a nearby lake and swim.

I hadn’t been on a lake beach in over a year. I love lakes (Minnesota born and bred, baby!). One of my favorite summer pastimes has always been bringing myself to the nearest lake (completely to brag, there are many options in Minnesota) with a snack, a playlist, a book, and a towel, and spending the day alternating between dips in the water and lounging on the beach. Before I go on, I want to note that some may question my usage of the word “beach” when discussing lakes, insisting that beaches only apply to the ocean. Those people are 100% incorrect, as a beach is, according to Mirriam-Webster, “a shore of a body of water covered by sand, gravel, or larger rock”. So take your coastal elitism elsewhere, thank you.

This lake was actually a section of a reservoir in the Sierra Pelona Mountains reserved for swimming, fishing, and other recreation. After vetting that enough COVID measures were being taken - there were signs mandating masks and visitors were masked accordingly, I paid the $10 entrance fee and turned into the parking lot, rounding the hill slope to feel like I was back in Minnesota (if Minnesota had land elevation variation).There was plenty of beach space and grassy, shaded space where I could find reprieve from the sun with one of my many books that I was going to finish that weekend. 

The lake was truly perfect. I didn’t feel like it was crowded, and I did feel like people were being responsible, keeping distance and staying masked, including the lifeguards. I swam past the rope into the deep end and floated on my back with my eyes closed, my favorite thing to do in any body of water. My grandma used to live in a condo with a community pool, and we spent as many summer days as we could in that pool with my cousins growing up, and I was always amazed at my grandmother’s ability to just flip onto her back and effortlessly float in the water. Whenever I tried, my butt sank and I had to move my arms and legs to maintain buoyancy. I decided that my body must be too dense, and I just didn’t have the ability to float like she could. But in recent years, I have found my ability to float. The trick is to let go, to release tension and simply be in the water, which feels like another powerful metaphor for life, doesn’t it? When I tried my hardest to float, it was impossible, but when I let go and stopped trying to control everything, suddenly I felt like I’m connected to the water instead of trying to bend it to my will.

Following my delightful afternoon at the lake, I arrived back at the cabin, ready to finally take a real shower after two days and was relieved to find that each and every faucet released water. The shower water pressure was still very low, but at least I could bathe. I spent the evening fighting with the wifi and my promise to myself to unplug for the weekend, thinking that perhaps the terrible connection was the universe forcing me to keep that promise. Exhausted from the day in the sun, I passed out at 8 and slept a solid twelve hours.

The next morning was my birthday, my favorite day. I woke up for my birthday hike, this time heading east toward a trail I found in Pine Canyon. This one was more wooded, which I was looking forward to so I could reminisce about all the time I spent in the woods behind our home growing up, and so I would have a respite from the sun. I was not, however, prepared for the gnats. When I lived in Minnesota, gnats, mosquitoes, and other small bugs were a frequent nuisance and accepted as part of the experience, but Southern California had always been mercifully bug-free on my hikes, so I was not at all prepared for the constant buzzing and shaking and swatting. It started as a mild annoyance, but because I have a tendency to fixate on annoyances, it quickly escalated to an intense frustration that almost induced an anxiety attack. 

I was furiously waving my baseball cap around my face, stomping up the trail and cursing, when I noticed my heart was starting to race and my breathing was getting shorter. I stopped myself, and began talking myself down. 

“This is temporary. This is the first time I’ve hiked without earbuds in - I’ve probably experienced this many bugs on hikes before, I just wasn't aware of it, so I need to stop giving it so much attention and appreciate the beauty around me. Why did I expect to be able to control every aspect of this hike? Why do I think nature will bend to my will? This isn’t my space - it’s theirs, and it is a privilege to be able to be here. I get to enjoy this scenery all by myself - what a gift! And if the tradeoff is harmless bugs that are an annoyance and nothing else - I am not in danger, nothing will impact me long term, this is temporary - then it is worth it.”

When I began talking to myself, I felt silly, wondering why I needed this to calm down since I’m an adult and perfectly capable of knowing those things without saying them out loud. But as I continued, I noticed that hearing those words was remarkably helpful. I listened to myself, literally, and I trusted what I was saying. It was different than thinking about it internally. That moment allowed me to get past the silly bugs and take in my surroundings, which I am so glad to have done, because that trail was consumed by the Lake Fire a week later.

I returned to the cabin feeling restored and decided to take a quick shower and then float in the pool while reading for a bit. I also wanted to check on my messages - since it was my birthday, friends and family were reaching out, and I wanted to feel connected with them - and the chair by the pool was the only spot where I could count on the wifi connection.

I sat by the pool, swiping through my phone while eating lunch, and noticed two children in bathing suits quietly hovering near the pool. This was alarming, because I was not expecting to see anyone, let alone children, let alone children in BATHING SUITS, next to the pool that I was explicitly told was for cabin guests only. As I mentally prepared to sternly tell these kids to get lost, they disappeared. I mean, they weren’t ghosts, so they just went back into the main house when I wasn’t looking, but I was relieved to see that obstacle remove itself (can you tell I do not have children of my own?).

Before dipping into the pool, I carefully shaved the handful of bees off the surface, willing myself not to dwell on how many there were and the likelihood that more would return as I did so. I stepped into the pool, readying the pool float, when I noticed something dark near my left foot on the floor of the pool. Horrified that the children had already been in the pool and one had left a gift behind, I slowly strained my eyes to investigate, and was shocked to realize that I was seeing a drowned chipmunk or squirrel - honestly, I’m still not sure. It was bigger than a chipmunk and had a squirrel-like tail, but it was too small to be a squirrel.

I exited the pool as quickly as possible, feeling sick, and went to the van that was now carrying the children and some others I didn’t know - presumably their parents? - to inform the homeowners of what I found. Before I could say anything, the one I had been corresponding with about the water expressed his apologies about that whole mess and his gratitude for my patience and understanding. I waited for him to finish before saying, “well, uh, there’s something else…” and informed him about the drowning.

He was - thankfully, I guess? - just as appalled as I was, and his partner matched the sentiment. They ran to the pool to fish the poor thing out with the net while I watched helplessly. I didn’t want to watch, but I didn’t know what else to do since this was the first time I was speaking with them in person and now that this situation had escalated, I needed to address the matter of how much I would be refunded for this experience. As I stood there, the small animal was removed and I just started sobbing. I was not prepared to discover a dead creature next to my foot in a pool - is anyone? - and seeing it being removed like that was too much. I stood there, audibly crying, while the owners awkwardly waited, repeating variations of, “this is awful, I am so sorry, this is so horrible, this never happens, I am so sorry”. 

Finally, I asked them if I’d be able to use the pool again during my stay, assuming no, and was told it would be sanitized and ready for use in an hour or so and they would message me when it was ready. I told them not to bother because the wifi didn’t work in the cabin, and, likely inspired by what had just happened, they quickly reset the router to correct the connection issues. Seeing that this was my opportunity, I also asked them for a knife, since I had bought my own personal watermelon and was unable to eat it since the cabin only had butter knives. In retrospect, I wonder if I concerned them when, after my very emotional reaction to the animal removal, I asked for a knife. 

I returned to my cabin and promptly crumpled to the ground of the bathroom and wept. I was overwhelmed with emotion, and it was hard to know where exactly it was coming from since the weekend so far had been a comedy of errors. The drowned creature certainly tipped the scales, but I think that I was so focused on not letting things get to me that I ignored them, and I was at the point where I needed to release that emotion and tension in order to move forward. As I sobbed on the floor next to the bathtub, there was a knock at the door, and I heard one of the owners timidly say, “Emma? I brought you a knife…” 

I composed myself for a moment to reply, “thank you!”, and resumed my audible sobs.

About 10 seconds later I heard him again.

“So… should I just leave them on the counter, or…”

This time I didn’t try to compose myself before answering, because what was the point?

“Yes, please just leave them on the counter, I will find them. Thank you.”

After a few more minutes of bathroom crying, I remembered that my weekly family zoom was about to begin. I hadn’t planned on joining this week, but after that emotional experience I thought connecting with my family would be beneficial.

I surprised them with my arrival and tried to laugh through sharing what the experience had been like so far - they were rightfully horrified when I got to the animal in the pool - but as I went on, the connection continued to falter and I would freeze, then they would freeze, and I felt so frustrated. I couldn’t even do this ONE THING when I wanted to, and I broke down into more sobs on the call while my family helplessly watched each freeze frame of my screen get increasingly upset.

I finally turned my video off to relieve the connection, my family helped me feel much better, and I was grateful to have a support system to bring me back to earth. 

Following the call, I dug into that watermelon because I worked so hard for those knives and decided it was time to take a soak in the bathtub. I forgot that the water pressure was still terribly bad, and watched as the water flowed at about 25% the volume it was supposed to. Determined to indulge in this small luxury after a trying afternoon, I turned it on and went to my trusty paint by number to pass the time until the tub was filled. It took forty-five minutes.

After ensuring I had all I needed for my soak, I settled in, took a few hits of my hybrid vape pen, and exhaled. This was what I had been waiting for, and while I wasn’t ready to say it was worth the wait, I was ready to let go of the frustrations of the weekend.

As I mentally patted myself on the back for not letting any of these things ruin my whole trip, there was a knock at the door. I called out “hello?” to see if it was the owner, but there was no answer, just another knock. “I’m in the tub, give me a minute!” I shouted as I climbed out of the bathtub, annoyed, but concerned that this must be important.

I fumbled for the robe and hastily covered myself as I speed-walked to the door to find no one there. I stepped outside to see a man that I’ve never seen before walking down the driveway back toward the road.

“Excuse me? You just knocked on my door? Do you need something?” I shouted.

“Huh? Oh, no, don’t worry about it” He replied, barely turning around.

Cool, so cool. I once again considered this a minor inconvenience. Was it absurd that a stranger knocked on my door, interrupting a bath to tell me nothing at all? Absolutely, but it also didn’t put me in danger and I was able to get back into the tub. I didn’t feel justified in feeling anything more than tepid annoyance, so while my body felt rage, my brain was like, “chill, man!” In other words, I was gaslighting myself, like I had been for the whole trip!

(It’s worth noting that I do not consider “man” to be a gendered term - nor do I consider “dude” to be a gendered term. I think I need to credit The Good Place’s Eleanor Shellstrop’s frequent use of the word to add emphasis.)

I took some more time to calm myself down and decided to return the knives - did I mention that, despite my informing the owners that I needed a knife to cut a small watermelon, they gave me an assortment of 3 knives, including a butcher knife? - so I would be able to ask the owners who the fuck that strange man was who interrupted my bathtime.

I knocked on both exterior doors to no reply, so I slowly and deliberately walked around the perimeter holding the knives. I was aware of the optics of this moment. A deeply emotional woman on her first trip alone since March is wandering around in broad daylight with THREE knives in her hand. I tried to hold them the safe way - blade down and away from me - and found that it only looked more menacing to hold them that way. I was prepared to explain myself as soon as I saw another human: “Hi, I’m just returning these knives, I promise I don’t intend to hurt you or myself hahahahaha”.

The owner turned up on the driveway, walking back from the road, and I shouted “Hi I just want to return the knives please!” and he said, “oh, you can just leave them on the mat” so I set three knives onto the ground and slowly backed away to absolutely ensure that he didn’t see me as a threat to myself or anyone else. Can you tell that I’ve spent my entire life existing based on how I imagine others perceive me? I don’t recommend it, it’s exhausting.

As he approached, I brought up the bath-interrupting stranger.

“Oh, that’s just our neighbor, he had to tell us something,” He said casually.

I felt such relief, but then confusion. Didn’t the neighbor know that the cabin I was in was rented as an Airbnb? Why would he ever knock on that door?

“Oh, ok, no problem, I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a stranger,” I said, just as casually.

“Yeah,” He chuckled a little, “It’s just one thing after another this weekend! He came to let us know that a tree fell on his power line, so he doesn’t have any power and we wanted to check if we still do.”

Uhhhh…

“Our power is fine,” he continued, “But he’s calling someone to take a look right away because the tree is on a live power line.”

Quick reminder: this is August 2020 in Southern California. It was hot and dry and everywhere I looked there were warning signs about the risk of wildfires being very high. 

“...Should I be concerned? Is it a dangerous situation?” I asked.

“Ahhhh, no, I don’t think so.” He replied and went back inside.

And it was at this moment that I decided it was time to call it. I needed to leave. It felt like the universe was trying to tell me all along to GTFO with the lack of water, then the dead animal, and now the threat of no power, or a wildfire, or both! I was not about to wait for the next bad thing to happen, so I quickly packed up my car and left. Once I got home, I sent the owners a message kindly demanding a full refund for my stay, and fortunately, they immediately understood and obliged. 

And, as I probably too casually mentioned earlier, that region was engulfed in the Lake Fire four days later (it didn’t start from the neighbor’s downed wire). It went on to last for a total of forty-seven days, burning more than 30,000 acres and destroying 33 buildings. California - and the United States - went on to have the worst wildfire season on record. 

While my birthday weekend was awful, I am grateful for the experience. It was one of the first times that I actively used self-soothing techniques to stop myself from losing it. I was able to look past the immediate inconveniences to pay attention to the larger picture. I trusted my intuition and paid attention to the world around me. Those are also, incidentally, important skills to have in order to be anti-racist, and anti-racist work is also environmental work. And there’s a lot of work to do.