A Tribute to the Wild Azaelas

I follow the scent

of air sagging

with sweetness.

I find them

In deep shadow

under the pine trees,

great mounds of them.

They blare color like trumpets--

pink, yellow and white merge

on fluted edge,

and furl outward,

opening to the

ostentation

of pistil and stamen

tipped with green.

.

I gather masses of their savage beauty.

They refuse

to be arranged in vases

They cling to their wild intractability

The rain shadow that makes

their profusion possible

ends at my land.

Every spring I am blessed

with their untamed and

rash extravagance--

They who have never known shame.

Thoughts of home and of getting there

The tide has turned and I am facing westward now as my visit here has only a week left and with that change of direction, my heart begins the ache of leave taking while the counterpoint of west coast life arises in the mind in bit and pieces. Oh, the hole in the wall where the phone comes out, the indoor plants survival, the screens for the porch, the garden, the landscaping, the women's weekend all begin to arise and then fade, arise and dance for a while, or arise and bring restlessness. The current fog of concerns about what to buy for supper, what to do this weekend, what show to watch on TV, which child is crying, whining, laughing or in need, who is in a good, bad, touchy mood, all subsumed under "what is the relative health of the family amoeba", begins to shift and lighten so that there are clear spaces where the end is seen, alarming as it is, and now enlarges.

A strange experience, this double life. On both ends of leave taking this is a heart wrenching that must be acknowledged. Leaving isn't like walking down the street or driving to the next town a few minutes or hours away where left possessions can be retrieved and sore hearts relieved quickly. It is a major life threatening endeavor to gather up and pack the essentials and get to the taxi, the airport and get through the lines, the shoes off, the computer out of it's case, and on to loading up in the tin can with wings, packed in elbow to elbow, knees bumping the forward seat, to sit quietly, grateful for whatever crappy distracting movie, the crossword puzzle in the magazine, the occasional glance out the window, oh, Midwest, oh Rockies, to be in a limbo state of suspended animation which is broken only when the wheel hit the tarmac and everyone suddenly comes to life, cell phones on, "I'm here" personalities emerge, chatter between formerly ignored seat partners begins, life resumes, impatient from it's six hour suppression to pick up the bags and get on with itself.

We Hyampomians, of course, also have the food shopping, the random appointment to take care of, the gassing up, and then the three hour winding drive complete with road closures ahead of us. We can't hurry. So that when I at last drive downriver and down the driveway, always alert for changes, disasters, tasks done or undone, the trip has been prolonged enough that I'm almost back into the west coast mode and the jet lag on this end is much less noticeable. Plus I've been up all night in west coast time and it's easy to hang loose with the fatigue and sleepiness until it's time to crash. Home again!

I love my life. My grandkids are a constant joy. I like being able to navigate the Boston big city experience. I love Hyampom and the small town and wildlife world and my west coast friends. And strangely, I have even come to love the limbo state which transports me from one of these magic realms to the other. When I flew here, I was on wifi on the plane instant messaging with Jennifer who was in conference in Redding with the Sims Mt. fire lawyers and she was relating the global settlement negotiations--"they're offering $750, now it's $800 as I kept replying, "Hang in there" and looked out the window to see the flooding Mississippi shining up at me, one of the most surreal real experiences I've ever had. All flights have some resemblance to retreat because all desire for ease, for food, for movement, for all the ways we usually comfort ourselves are unavailable and since life and death are in the balance there is heightened awareness. Magic all around me.

What To Do About Spring

Watch:

the way the window opens into sunshine

the way the soft air coaxes

all those with wings

into its wafting currents

the way the earthbound pad, lumber,

scurry,

prance,

sniff their way to each other

No matter what kind of a person you are

spring comes to you

in the radiant green surging up

through last year’s mottled grasses

in the rotten leaves fresh

with the fragrance of decay-

the hidden buds of mushrooms

in the clouds billowing

over the western mountains

like dragons full of fire and water

This world is too wild

to care about your crimes

You are too pure

to be stained by thought

Forgive yourself

Sit quietly

Breathe into the charmed air

Let spring’s grace filled arms

hold you while you wake.

Talking country

"Raining out your way?" they used to say to us with a big grin at the Post Office when everyone was getting their mail at 12pm. There used to be quite a crowd in the winter when no logging was going on. And being new and green as could be we would answer sincerely, "Yes it's really pouring," not realizing we had just been given an opening for a REMARK about the weather or anything else, not realizing how nuanced that "Raining out your way?"question was, communicating curiosity about how you were holding up during the 4th week of steady rain, acknowledging the tedium and cabin fever restlessness that comes with such weather, accepting rain as a constant companion and a necessary and valuable friend come summer when we all would wish for some, and all of this mixed with the an I've been here so long, I hardly notice wise ass attitude. All in four words. Stunning!

The first spring here the road crew, there were four on the Hyampom crew, was out on our road widening it so that Beebe could start logging out toward Grouse Creek and destroy my dream of peace and quiet with logging trucks all summer. But that knowledge was to come later. They had to blast some overhanging rock from the Red Point which was too bad as it was really kind of like Tettering rock from Lil' Abner. They would come and tell us when they were going to blast which was nice and they even dug up the road so we could put our water line across. We picked up a lot of information about how to live here, what kind of wood to get in, how to find cedar logs we could make posts out of . I think they enjoyed being wise and we were certainly receptive. But when Allan told them we had been boiling our water, which we had done all over Asia and elsewhere, they took great exception to that and got down on all fours by the creek and drank long and deep from it to show that it was clean water and our precaution was ruining something natural and good. "Well, Allan said, by way of explanation for our pecular behavior "I thought there might be a dead deer or something upstream." Mutt Lehman, who was road crew head, replied with totally dead pan expression. "Dead deer don't drink much water."

I still drink the water as is from a spring above my house and the experience of drinking from a stream, from getting down close to cup it or lower the mouth and nose in and suck it up is an ancient and healing experience, one that humans have done for millions of years and mammals for much longer. Drinking from the breast of the mother!

Seams Sept 3rd, 2006

A bowl of green fir trees surrounds me as I lie by the wine dark river looking at the seam at the water’s edge where rock and sedge meet their reflection. They are so perfectly matched that only the wind can tell the difference. The seam tantalizes me as a place with an answer to mirror images and opposites, the place between worlds, free of the pull of good and bad.

Some say the world was made by great benevolence and so it seems here. There is only me, the bear scat, the dog, the rocks and sunlight, a merganser quacking by, a vagrant wind toying with giant fir limbs blowing the early autumn leaf fall upstream and stirring the river with a symphony of tessellated waves in a blurring green, mauve and ebony.

I hear no starving babies cries nor see the scorched earth around my house, nor the broken bleeding bodies fertilizing the earth. Yet they are in this moment as well and the seam between water and rock has finally has no answer.

Some say all our questions will be answered at death--that is the seam we are seeking, in this seamless world of opposites from which we long often to escape

The poem slips through the fingers of my mind and floats away from me. The only exit deep inside.

Death comes to Samson

He was born under the cabin on Good Friday. Nine puppies, I could hear them squeaking and mewking under the house that morning. I had to crawl under the cabin to pull them out because some were not going to make it. I left five and loved having them around. I used to get a chair and sit and watch them play and there was no one to yell, "Leave those puppies alone, Marilyn!"

I found homes for all of them and Samson was the last to go. I called him Seven because he had that number on his chest. In typical Hyampom fashion, he went to local people, the "Felon" and his bi-polar wife who it was said treated dogs very well. So when the "Felon" beat up his wife and they left town, they left the pup. Stanley had him and knew my dog had died and so said I could have the pup back if I called him "Bill". I went to Stanleys' to pick him up and called, "Puppy, Puppy, Puppy" and this giant black floppy eared cheery dog appeared and I put him in the car and took him home. Since I wanted a hero's name, I called him Samson. Stanley still calls him Bill.

He lived with me at the cabin for 14 years, being babysat by many different caretakers and friends and everyone who knew him knew he had one of the sweetest dispositions of any dog. Cheery, polite, loving and always eagar for a ride in the truck or a hike.

The last few years he has been grey, wobbly, and incontinent but he was ready for the evening walk with me and the food bowl. Both, up until the end, could produce some jumps and excited, if awkward, playfulness.

I had gone to Ebbe and Uschi's court date and came home late, put a bowl of food in front of Samson; he didn't get up, and I went to bed. In the morning, I went out to feed him and saw his head was tweaked toward the right and he couldn't move it any other way and when I petted him I saw his eyes were moving erratically and I knew he had had a stroke. He staggered up and went outside while I cleaned up the pee and poop. Sadie, Jennifer's puppy, was coming to stay today and I didn't want her to get the idea the screened porch is the bathroom. When I finished I saw Samson had wandered down to the flat below the house and was moving clumsily to the right which was leading him off into the brush.

It was a frosty, cold, patchy-snow morning. and the sky had scattered clouds of lovely grey blue, silver and gold. The snow on the branches of the brush shone with pristine white brilliance as I walked down to him. He was dazed and disoriented and I had to get up close to him to let him know I was near. I finally got him to follow me slowly, so slowly back towards the house and at the driveway, Rich and Jennifer came bringing Sadie. Rich picked him up and put him in the truck and I got blankets and covered him but he stood up one last time as the truck drove him into the garage. His favorite ride!

I called Ebbe and Uschi and told them he had had a stroke and looked bad and in an hour or so they came. Ebbe said it was a major stroke. By this time Samson had vomited and I had cleaned that up and he drank some water, but now was lying pretty still, covered with some blankets and the sheepskin to keep him warm. It was pretty obvious he was dying. Ebbe said he was in pain, he could tell from the way his mouth was moving and that his heart was very strong and he could last a few days to a week, but he would suffer, so we decided to put him down. Ebbe gave him enough for a 300 lb animal and Samson relaxed and went into a sleep while we petted and loved him and told him what a good dog he was. He even stopped breathing but then started again and finally Ebbe said, he's just having a nap! Ebbe had to drive all the way back to his house to get more drug and Uschi stayed right with Samson and me all that time, petting him. He actually started waking up and one or twice snored!

By the time Ebbe was back, though, he was again tense with pain with the neck twisted and the eyes going back and forth erratically. We tried again and, finally Ebbe said his heart had stopped. Jean Pierre and Christina came up and brought him a crystal. They took care of him the last time I was gone and loved him. The little puppy, Sadie, oblivious, was all this time full of life and curiosity, chewing on wood and tearing up paper sacks and being a puppy and the whole cycle of life was played out that afternoon while the snow showers came and went and Samson got loads of pets and loving from everyone there to send him on his way.

I like to think he wasn't ready the first time until he soaked up more love to smooth his way out of this world.

Even though I knew death was coming, it is a shock to have it arrive. Death is unlike other catastrophes. The death watch is focused, concentrated, loving and tearful. I'm so glad I could be there for my mother's death and now this favorite dog's death. But when they say, "It's over. The heart has stopped," for those left behind, death has only begun.

A snowstorm

Well it started raining again and even though I had been wishing for it, worrying about it, occasionally ranting about needing it so badly, when it happened I was terribly restless all day long until the evening when I went out in the rain to walkabout. In the big house, I forget about going outside; in the cabin it was necessary. So lesson #300,000 and counting--go outside!!!! All the creeks were roaring and the silver light made the greengold moss and the almond grasses luminous and everything was alive and fresh!!! The slide between my house and Jennifer's has moved a little. Samson trudged along behind me after finishing the cat food I put out for Fatcat who still refuses to move from the cabin.

I went out to the tub for the first time in the rain. We misplaced it. The dripline off the house now falls directly on my head which is more than a little annoying. That has to be altered. So I had to wear a hat and a washcloth on my head and nevertheless sat in splendor, splatting drops on the head notwithstanding. Silver light, silver clouds moving down the river canyon and black trees silhouetted as the day fades. I'm so lucky to be here and have all this.

I have been in a quandary about going to Boston. I have tickets for March 2nd but as usual am thinking about changing them. so many considerations--the dog, Fatcat, the house and cabin, the ride to the airport. It's exhausting. And Fatcat who I trained not to jump in the laundry room window so I could keep it closed and the cold out, now refuses to go into the laundry where the window is now open hoping he will unlearn what I taught him. But he is a cat not easily fooled.

Today I woke up at 4am and lay in bed until 6am wondering if I would ever sleep again while I mulled over these dilemmas and worried and fretted until I got up and fed the fire and opened the computer and lo and behold, Cindy wanted me to take her place and so I jumped into clothes and went outside surprised at the depth of the snow. Six inches! Not much in Boston terms but I put the truck in 4 wheel drive and went on into town. When I hit the valley, all about me was a study in light and dark, white snow and black tree trunks with the river full and showing just a slight greyolive tint for contrast. Just magnificent!

It snowed all morning in town until I returned at 1pm,. It was still snowing, and I plowed the road which now held at least 10 inches! And still it continues. I remember when Jim and Glenn's house burned down when it continued like this for a solid week, more depth every morning, or how in such cases, depending on the restlessness factor, we would get the the truck, with chainsaw and shovel loaded, and go to town to tell them how tough it was out in the wilderness, anticipating the fireplace at Wee Corner and a hot buttered rum, or maybe we would just get stuck somewhere or, if not stuck ourselves, find someone else who was and help them out. Snow makes for adventure! However, I wussed out and took a bath inside, not risking getting hit on the head with the clunks of snow pack falling off the roof into the tub.

What fragile snowflakes we all are!