Feels So Good

Feeling Good Again

It’s been about a month now since I resumed offering the ranch on AirBnb. That used to be a side project, brought in very little income, and so, with lockdown, it was easy to let go of. But after what went down with Bridezilla Kim and Lena the “Wedding Planner” last February—abuse on a scale beyond any I’d previously experienced in the 2000 weddings I’ve performed— I literally shut down the wedding side of the business before they even left the property. Because some people really are so shitty. They were a final straw for me, after enduring perpetual death threats the seven months I lived in Shitville, and an astonishing mutiny by my former ranch “employees” (who, it turns out, were robbing me blind) upon my ranch return.

So I wasn’t surprised that when I decided to venture back into AirBnB, only this time as my full focus, I started out on the defense. Boy did I. As the first reservation requests rolled in I found myself wincing, knowing that to deal with the public is, at times, an invitation to be abused. And really, these days I’m far less worried about people going off on me—it’s that I worry for THEM. I no longer suffer fools. The customer is not always right. And if someone gets in my face hoping I’ll acquiesce to some stupid demand, well they will be left with a truly unforgettable experience.

So, yeah, I wasn’t super looking forward to this endeavor but I also needed to turn the money faucet back on after a couple of rather leisurely years of semi-retirement. I was fortunate when the first asshole appeared almost immediately. Fortunate because her attitude reminded me I don’t want to live on the defense anymore. Fortunate because she reminded me that I am allowed to change my mind and rescind her approval to stay here.

But my defenses aren’t entirely gone. A couple of weeks ago I got a reservation request that included a few questions. Questions that were clearly answered already in the descriptions. I replied with a dash of snark, answering the questions and adding “as it clearly states in the description.” Swiftly catching my unsubtle snarkiness, the querent replied that maybe he’s just dumb.

Though I won the battle I thought I lost the war. Because I immediately felt like a jerk. I wrote back and told him I was sorry, that I could see his perspective—easier to ask a quick question than read a long description. I asked if he could see mine— I get the same question 5,000 times a week and it wastes time answering individuals. I figured I’d never hear from him again.

To my surprise, he did get back to me and booked the place for three days. I used this as an opportunity to apologize again and I told him I’d felt like a dumbshit for a full 24 hours after our original exchange. From there we melted into a virtual group hug, each of us over apologizing until we had our fill. He did have one more question, asking for details about the animals. I told him I have all the animals. He said his wife was going to flip.

And this is how I wound up hosting my best guests to date. When I learned they’d driven up from Mexico I got excited. Before lockdown Mexico was my favorite place to visit. I’ve been there a million times. Sometimes I think about moving there. We didn’t get too far into the conversation though, because the wife spotted the animals. And she began to cry. The ranch reminded her of her childhood on her abuelo y abuelita’s ranch. Proust’s madeleines couldn’t hold a candle. This woman was HAPPY.

They spent a lot of time at the racetrack but when I did peek out my window and see them settled in near their camper, my heart sang. They totally get what I’m trying to do out here, which is basically to recreate Old South Austin. With my permission she fed the animals in the morning. And in a beautiful moment of spontaneous coming together, the bride on Saturday (our last big wedding before the transition) wanted a photo with a baby goat, so my “new ranch hand” made that happen.

The night before they left, this couple came to me. They had a gift and a message. The gift was a bright orange tumbler with a butterfly on it—a perfect symbol of hope as I fly into my next adventure here. The message was that part of the trip for them was about assessing their relationship which, they admitted, was not in a good place. Four days at the ranch (they extended their stay!) shifted something in both of them and now they said they were super excited to work on things together, that quiet ranch time helped them heal.

When I was done crying, I remembered something really, really important. I remembered how the first time I walked through the ranch house and around the property, despite the fact it was a filthy abandoned meth lab, I saw a fully formed retreat center for meditation and healing. Over my seven years here, we have had retreats and workshops for healing, yes. Mostly though, out of financial need, weddings were the focus.

Now though, I can get back to that original dream. And this in turn reminds me of one of my all time heroines, Jewel Babb. Jewel was a goat herder who lived in the far West Texas desert and she was said to be able to heal people with her hands. I came across a slim biography of her, written by Pat LittleDog, many years ago. It is the book I have gifted most often to people, and the one I have reread most often.

This is not a great work of literature, not in a conventional sense. Pat LittleDog lets Jewel tell most of her own story, and Jewel was not a professional orator. But that’s beside the point. What resonated most with me were the parts about the goats and the healing hands. Despite my promise to Bob on his deathbed that I would never get goats, well, I LOVE GOATS. Bob was right—they are a huge pain in the ass. But still I LOVE GOATS.

As for the healing hands bit, well way back in 1988, a Tennessee intuitive, Bobby Drinnon, whom I’d been assigned to interview for a magazine, decided he would rather tell me all about my past and my present and my future. Roll your eyes all you want, but he told me family secrets I later learned to be true, knew the names of many of my friends, predicted my son’s birth, and told me of some surgeries I’d be having, all of which came to pass. So when I look back and remember him telling me I could heal people with my hands, I give that some weight.

I also know everyone wants to think they are magical and special. And I also know the world is full of charlatans. And also that because of my PTSD I have some serious tactile issues, namely it is very, very hard for me to touch or be touched by humans. And even if I could get past that, well, it just feels a bit too woo-woo and spiritual white woman to hang up a shingle and open up a psychic surgical theater.

Not a week has passed since that meeting in 1988 that I don’t think about Bobby and what he said. Sometimes I think that he meant I use my hands to type, and my writing helps people. I know that. So maybe that was it. Or maybe it’s my baking. My knitting. My ceramics. Those are all about the hands.

Though I did some minimal training in how less shy hands-on healers do their work—I know reiki for instance, and did a really cool Barbara Brennan workshop—I still can’t see myself getting up close and personal on any kind of regular basis with other humans. (Dogs are another story entirely.)

But this ranch! These goats and pigs and chickens and sheep and donkeys. I should call it Hands On Ranch. Because we are perpetually at work here. In fact, I told one of my business partners that the severe anxiety I felt as I re-opened for boarders was only partially based in my fear of whiny jerk-offs. After 2.5 years of moving very, very, very slowly during lockdown, I have resumed some of my old ways. When I commit to a person, project, animal or whatever, I commit myself 200%. Which I have done with this resurrection of the ranch. I feared being consumed by the work. I am consumed now by this work. And it turns out, for now, anyway, I am enjoying the heck out of this hard work.

The dedication comes at the expense of my art, which is for the moment in the backseat. Unless I reframe things and remind myself that there is definitely an art to creating a space to help people slow down and calm down and, say, recognize they are still in love and do want to work on things.

I’m still painting and drawing and making pottery and silver jewelry. I’m still knitting and baking and spinning wool. Just less of all that. For now. Instead I am training myself to be zen and thankful for the endless loads of laundry, the trash runs, the bed making, the toilet scrubbing. When I did these things for others—I used to be a “chambermaid” in a cheesy Jersey Shore hotel—it was disgusting. Now I’m all chop wood carry water.

It feels good.

I hope you’re feeling good, too. And I hope you’ll enjoy this shameless plug. I am so stoked to have my little campground full that I’m offering a deal to y’all through all of November and December. Any outdoor unit you want to rent (there are five vintage campers, a groovy greenhouse, and soon Band Camp—the ultimate crash pad for touring bands) is $50 per unit per night if you book directly through me. I’m twenty minutes from South Austin but it feels like much further than that. The campers are fully set up with coffee and cooking gear, heaters and a/c units, and piles of quilts. The Molly Ivins Pavilion is being converted into a community center with endless arts and crafts supplies, puzzles, games, hula hoops, yoga equipment and, oh yes, a PING PONG TABLE. And you can meet all sorts of animals. You can see most of the structures at my Main Page on AirBnB. My current fantasy is that my fellow holiday haters will come and stay for Escape the Crap visits where they can be assured no one will mention any holiday by name. Shoot me a note if you want to come play.