My lips are dry. The back of my legs, right under my knees, are sunburnt. It’s like having a sunburn in the web of your fingers. Yes, it’s as uncomfortable as it sounds.

Yesterday, I built a composting toilet in the desert. Of course, the one team I get assigned to is building the shitters. It’s an initiation of sorts. It was also the best team to be on.

Jesus was a carpenter

I was with two older women who have been part of the Deer Tribe for over 35 years. The Deer Tribe is who’s putting on the Summer Vision Quest I’m at. It’s an organization supporting the Sweet Medicine SunDance Path, a spiritual path that provides teachings, ceremony, and tools to support the human quest for growth, for excellence, maturity, and integrity. That’s from their website. For context, I’m not a member of the Deer Tribe, but I’m attending this ceremony as a guest.

The women: they’re gristled. I see myself in them. One of them owns a gun manufacturer after being a professional shooter. The other, I’m not too sure what she does, but she has some land and lives out of a trailer. She’s bossy and did way more building this outhouse than I expected her to. I could tell she had had knee surgery before. She was in the heat longer than I was. No hat. No coverings. Both of them had 90s tattoos—one on the neck of a jaguar and the other with an eagle as a tramp stamp. I can tell they’ve lived.

I like working autonomously. Give me a task and don’t tell me how to do it. I’ll figure it out and I’ll have it done well before you expect me to. If I need help, I’ll ask. The first question the woman asked me was: So, are you a city girl or are you a country girl? She’s sizing me up. She’s trying to figure out how I got assigned to this work group (they didn’t want anyone else but the two of them). I didn’t answer. Instead, I just said, I can do it. I know how to drill some holes and put wood together. I can even make it look pretty nice.

I like working with my hands. It’s some of the most tiring but also rewarding work. Just a few weeks ago, I cried when I found out Jesus was a carpenter. Supposedly, everyone knew this but me. I don’t know, truly, how I missed that fact. My public school sure as hell didn’t teach it. I just think that’s the most beautiful thing ever. That Jesus was a carpenter. That Jesus built stuff. Maybe he even built SHITTERS. He made stuff out of nothing (carpentry isn’t a miracle—it’s hard fucking work).

My boyfriend is a carpenter (yes, I said boyfriend. I’ll be updating my MySpace soon). I discovered that fact about Jesus just as we were getting to know each other. I don’t know, man, I just cry about it. It touches me deeply.

Maybe that’s why being out here, building shit in the sun with two tattooed aunties and a power drill, feels like church to me. I don’t like doing anything sacred without having a hand in building it. I don’t go somewhere just to enjoy the fruits of other people’s labor. I’m always on the team. There’s something holy in being a part of getting your hands dirty. In doing the hard, unglamorous work to make something bigger happen. In letting usefulness be its own kind of prayer, and the work your sacrament.

Jesus wasn’t sitting on a mountain handing out riddles all day—he was embodied. He reminds us there’s a part of God that knows how to use a screwdriver and hold a wall steady.

Must be the autism

The ladies were funny. When we finally took a break for lunch, I was famished. I’m in high elevation all the time, but damn it’s dry here and it was probably 100 degrees. We sat down, and they made me lunch. One burger and a slice of cheese. No bun. Ketchup if you want it. Make sure you don’t have any weird eating things if you’re gonna eat with us. Got it.

She gave us some chips too. I poured the bag onto my plate. I didn’t mean to take so many, but they came out fast. I poured ketchup on them to get a little more sugar. The one lady looks at me and says, “It must be the autism.”

I can’t make this up. It’s hilarious and exactly like a joke I would make. White people love calling autism out. I don’t make the rules.

They smoked cigarettes after lunch. Probably before lunch, too. They’re desert people for sure. I’m much paler, and cigarettes in the heat make me gag (I wait until it’s cool out). I accidentally filled my gallon jug with well water. You can’t drink it, really. It’s full of iron. You can smell and taste it like you’re licking a cast-iron pan or something. I finished my gallon of Ward water during lunch (the best water in Colorado). I only have a few of those left, and I’m already longing for that Colorado cold. How nice it was to be in the forest, near a lake, drinking Ward water every day for the last 10 days. Fuck, we can forget how good life is until it’s gone.

I don’t think there could have been a better pair of women to assign me to today. I don’t even know how they picked me for these women. They don’t work with anyone, and they liked me.

I don’t know exactly who I’ll be when I’m their age, but I saw what unapologetic looks like. What grit and grace look like. They had to be some of the hardest-working people out there. They’re me in one possible future: tough, weathered, hilarious, taking no bullshit. But they’re not all of me. I’m after something a little softer, maybe. Something quieter. Something that soothes the masochist in me and doesn't let me get totally burned before putting on sunscreen or a full set of pants.

Still, I’ll carry them with me into this next stretch on the land and remember that Jesus built shitters too.

Fathers day

Also, Happy Father’s Day. We sort of celebrate in my family. It feels like some years we do and some years we don’t? It’s hard to gauge if saying ‘Happy Father’s Day’ is going to make my dad mad. Either way, wish your daddies a good day and share some love that makes all the soon-to-be dads and future dads just gush over what could be. We need more good fathers in this country, and I’m determined to help create at least one of them for my own.

Love,

Valerie