The Found Life

In March 2020, I was in the San Rafael Swell region of Utah, camping and catching snippets about the spreading pandemic from fellow travelers but otherwise forcibly unplugged and blissfully ignorant due to lack of cell reception. I brought Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove for my bedtime reading material and the only reason I could put the novel down at all (oh, so very good it is) is that it isn't comfortable to read laying down in a tent. My arms get tired holding the book above my face, and Lonesome Dove is a thick and heavy book.

But, know this: I was completely happy--the right place, the right book, everything I needed in terms of water, food, and such, absolutely perfect in every way, except for one not so little dilemma: I didn't bring a pen or paper. I went through the whole car, and the normal stash of pens was nowhere to be found and not a scrap of paper either, not even a receipt. For many people, this wouldn't be a big deal. I, however, am a writer. Even on the bad days when I think my writing stinks, I still write. It's how I process, as they say.

I discovered my penlessness the first night. On the morning of the second day, I walked a ways into the scrubby brush nearby to relieve myself and, what did I find but a pen sticking out of the sand. All that was missing was the glowing halo of light and the sound of trumpets. More amazing? The pen was full of ink and, once cleared of sand, performed beautifully.

The desert didn't turn up any paper, but what happened next is something I've repeated with other trips and books: I simply wrote in the book's margins, cover, any empty spot. Writing in that book about what I experienced, thought and felt, a book which was the absolutely perfect read for that whole moment in life, well, now when I see that book on my shelf, I enter the experience all over again. It feels very present, personal and mystical, unlike other books on my shelf that weren't a "whole body" kind of experience, you know? I mean, a really special bit of magic in all this. And yes, I guess someone less idealistic might just say, "hey, I found a pen."

I absolutely love the "found life." I am a scavenger by nature, a dumpster diver by ethos, a simple fool who prefers castoffs, trashy treasures, redemption and repurposing. I love poetry, cinema, and collage that use "found objects." I love writing that puts together "found" bits of dialogue and text; I love that I owned a backpack for nearly twelve years before I "found" the whistle on the shoulder strap buckle (an orange whistle, no less; why I didn't see it I still can't say). I love how my desert walks yield so much "found" treasure and humor and awe that I don't think I'd be believed if I attempted a chronicle.

The other day on a walk I happened to glance down and found just the tip of this sticking out of the sand:

She's an inch or so and reminds me of Suzanne Somers' character "Chrissy" on the sitcom Three's Company. How did she end up where I found her? She was all alone, without the explanatory trash heap. I put her in one of my houseplant's pots for no other reason than she makes me laugh.

I highly recommend cultivating practices that lend themselves to the found life. Right now an international film festival called Experiments in Cinema is going on at the Guild Cinema in Albuquerque. Every film is in the experimental genre. Not everyone's cup of tea I realize, but as I watch them, I know that despite the diversity of styles and subjects, one unifying thematic is that of "found" objects: sounds, footage, ideas, happy accidents, mashups, textures, collaborations--It's all so inspiring and astonishing. And again, not to drone on about this, but the found life is a product of attention--looking and seeing. I'd also say that, given my experience, it's also one of those things where if you habitually look, you are rewarded with seeing, more and more and more, one surprise after another.

It might sound crazy but we'd be smart to speak our need into the ether and then just look. Aim to see, to see what gifts might just be waiting for us to notice them.