Fresh snow ushered in the month of December, bringing softness and quiet. I turned off the highway into a portal in the willows. Earlier in the summer, we were moving cattle on the other side of the road, and Andrea smelled cigarette smoke coming from the willows. I forgot about that until the fall air-cooled and we saw a wisp of smoke spiraling up through the trees.

Today, I pulled over to check it out and found a small camper trailer nestled in between the highway and the river. A couple of trash bags of aluminum cans sat against the trailer tongue, and a neat stack of firewood lined the backside. A lanky fellow stepped out the door and strode up to me with an outstretched hand.

"My name is Gary," he stated as we shook hands.

"I'm Tony. Do you know that you are on private land?"

"I try to keep things cleaned up. I feed the cats, he said firmly."

"I need you to move out of here."

He shuffled his feet and slumped, "I don't have anywhere to go…" he trailed off.

"I'll give you two weeks." I left him standing in the soft, quiet snow and roared off in my flat-bed Dodge.

Giving Space

I grew up with stories about my mother's household making space for those needing a place. A peg-leg man who had nowhere to go after working on farms his whole life found refuge in their home until he died. A young boy who had been shot in the stomach stayed with them because his parents were too poor to care for him. After finishing school, they helped him set up a small store. A young girl with an imposed pregnancy was given shelter until she could move on with peace-of-mind.

My mother's parents provided space to those having life disrupted and feeling closed in.

So, it was no surprise when years later, my mother brought a young family home to our ranch. After my dad died, mom went to work as a real estate salesperson. This young woman stopped in looking for a rental but there wasn't anything in her price range. After exhausting a search with other realtors, my mother told her, "We have an extra house out at the ranch, come stay there."

The young couple and newborn baby moved in, cleaned up the yard, and were pretty low-key. One morning I was heading to the barn and a man materialized from behind a tree. I hollered out, "Howdy," and he waved.

A short guy, with black hair down over his shoulders and big square black-rimmed glasses, sat on his round face just above the biggest, whitest smile you ever did see.

He said his name was George Wesaw, "But everybody calls me Pee Wee," he grinned.

"Oh, why is that?" I asked.

"That ain't too tough to figure out," he laughed, peering up at me.

His daughter was the young mother and he had moved in to help out.

Receiving Space

He started helping out on the ranch too. I don't really remember how it actually unfolded, but Pee Wee's daughter eventually left and he stayed. When cattle started coming in that spring, he showed up with a couple of horses. Eventually, he got on the payroll and we worked together for the next twenty-five years.

Quick with humor, never late, direct in truth, and never rushed, Pee Wee became a part of Twin Creek, more than any of us 'white guys.'

He used his humor to keep other's hubris in check. After a great catch roping a calf, he would holler, "That horse sure makes you look good!"

Invariably, I would arrive at the barn to saddle up and the cavvy would be in the corral and his horse would be gone. When I arrived at the pasture, he and his dog already had cattle moving out of the back corner.

Once I was telling Pee Wee about a couple of women that I had known years before who just opened a new store. "I stopped in to get gas and a cup of coffee and I hardly recognized them. They looked pretty rough."

"I wonder what they said about you," he dead-panned.

An observer, he assessed the situation until it was clear what needed to be done. He would not get ahead of his understanding of moving irrigation water but get a good set. He didn't ride his horse into a canyon until he could see his way out. Even solving a tavern puzzle demonstrated presence. These traits allowed him to own his space.

I could go on and on, and you will find many Pee Wee stories in this blog. The point is that just a little bit of space allowed Pee Wee to flourish. As he grounded, I gained space and grew in other directions.

Creating Space

Back in Oregon, I talked to Mike, our grocer, who knows everyone in town. He said Gary, the squatter along the river, had been a logger and had a couple of children in town. Another person said at some point he turned to liquor. Others agreed that you have to feel for the guy, but you just need to call the sheriff.

Andrea and I talked about it and agreed that we could give him some space and time. He's not hurting anything, for now.

Sometimes we can provide others with space. Other times we can't. Sometimes we need space, and other times we are doing just fine. It's like Ernesto Sirolli discovered in his research developing community business, "Don't initiate or motivate."

It's like low-stress livestock handling. We can't crowd and push by giving and telling them what to do. Neither can we take, demand, or feel entitled. There needs to be a comfortable space between…

Let that settle for a bit.

Space as Habitat

Roughnecking in Wyoming's oilfield gave me space from being broke.

A barite mill in Nevada gave me space from peer pressure.

Pee Wee gave me space from the daily grind.

Don't think of space as emptiness but rather habitat. That habitat may be structured like Maslow's hierarchy, with our physiological needs of food, shelter, and clothing, providing the base. Most likely, this is where many of the homeless people find themselves.

When my brother-in-law got me a job on Exeter Rig #41, I was at the next level of Maslow, called safety. I desperately needed a job and paycheck to catch up on my child support payments. My uncle hired me for the barite mill when I was floundering at the fifth level of self-actualization. I was challenging traditional ranching norms, and that space helped me get the theories under my belt. That level is where Pee Wee gave me the space to grow too.

Someone helped set me up in each of these cases, yet they didn't make me feel beholden. If we set out with the conscious design of doing good, it could backfire for both the giver and the receiver. If the giver is "doing good," they may feel resentment if the one they helped succeeds. They may want compensation. Without a comfortable space, the recipient may feel guilty or a sense of entitlement.

Future Resource Base

When we think about planning for and working with the people in our Holistic Context, we can think about space. We can think about dealing with others, so they aren't under our thumb, whether employees, vendors, or others in our community. Like Pee Wee, we can also think about owning our space.

I dropped off a couple pounds of hamburger to Gary.

"I thought you wanted me the hell out of here."

"You're not hurting anything now. Don't worry about moving until spring anyway."

Having a safe space can release human creativity for some. Sometimes. Kindness can provide space for hearing other's needs. Genuineness can create space for ourselves. Think of it like proper posture or practicing yoga. If the muscle pulls more in one direction, we are skewed. There needs to be an equal tension from opposite directions meeting to hold things steady. Like a firm handshake, with neither being overwhelming or submissive. With a comfortable tension, we each own our space.

In that space, we find a state of peace.

When we are at peace with the land, animals, and people in which we work, we empower decisions at the soil surface.

May peace be with you and yours.