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A Small Improvement

2012-02-21T19:08:00.002-08:00

One of my mediation teacher said her husband asked her what she had gotten out of 20 year so meditation practice and she said, "I'm a kinder person." At the time I thought that was rather a lame outcome.

But today as I soaked in the tub outside, I saw a tiny light across the river up in a canyon. It is someone's newly built solar panels reflecting the setting sun. Now in the past, I have raged about anyone who "invaded" my space which is what I can see or hear from my place. I insisted I must feel alone in the wilderness, experience the wild mountain and river without interference from others. It was a matter of purity.

Today when I saw the tiny light, I thought, "May you be happy." And I was filled with a tsunami of love.

An open heart is always a better choice than a closed one and in this case, no choice was necessary. The open heart arose quite naturally.

A Tribute to the Wild Azaelas

2011-06-11T08:03:00.001-07:00

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

2011-06-01T08:21:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-23T14:21:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-15T17:00:00.000-07:00

"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

2011-03-07T17:29:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-26T07:17:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-17T18:37:00.000-08:00

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!

February and an ordinary moment

2011-02-13T15:10:00.000-08:00

Today was still another sunny spring day although a storm is supposed to be heading in. I decided to stop fretting about water, river cfs, and snowpack and get some work done before the weather hits. I planted the rest of the herbs and brought up some old rusty tin roofing I want to use to make life impossible for the weeds around the edges of the garden and where I foolishly planted mint--a task I will regret again and again. It felt so good to be moving the body, lifting, carrying, digging and hauling and the air was soft and just the right warmth.

So I sat for a while on the porch of the cabin when I was finished. Samson came over and lay down and Fatcat came by to get pets. My sweet companions seem to like it when I return to old habits and sitting on the porch is certainly one of them. I waited, eyes half closed for the sun to move behind the locust tree, gently looking out at light and shadow and early spring and hearing the dog pant, the cat purr, a distant frog and the wind beginning to rise, expectant with rain.

Then came a long moment which lasted while in the back of my consciousness was a running murmur of tasks done and undone, wishes filled and unfulfilled, hopes dashed and still persistant. But the light and shadow of the day, the familar companions, the sweet air were held and accepted and loved in this very ordinary moment in this very ordinary day while the astounding fierceness of my love of life seared my heart through for a long period of timelessness which itself was bounded by dog pant, cat purr, frog croak, wind chime, light and shadow. I recognize once more the sacredness of the ordinary.

Spring in January continues

2011-01-21T17:16:00.000-08:00

I drove to Hayfork and went to the hardware store to get supplies. I bought shade trees and some compost and fill dirt to plant them in. The guys waiting on me remarked about the good weather and we made complimentary and satified noises together about this until I remarked that we needed more rain and snow. And they nodded heads and chucked and tished about how that was so true, "Yep, more snow!" "Uh, huh".

We were having such a warm and friendly good old boy get together that I took the conversation farther and said that I also like the cold, dreary, ice and snow because there's no excuse to go outside and you get to stay indoors and sit by the fire and look out the window and dream. That was perhaps a little farther than they wanted to go or at least to admit to. We finished our business and I picked up the lawnmower I left there in October, thanking him for the blade sharpening and tune up.

But I was glad to have found that truth of mine. When it's cold dreary and dark, when the rain is pounding down and has been pounding down for days and the creeks are roaring and maybe it starts to snow or freeze, then a warm fire, some soup, some fresh made bread and I am sequestered alone at home. and loving it. To be at home with yourself is when the internal world gets its chance to unfold and appear and do its work, throwing up into consciousness the items denied and pushed aside in the rush to maintain the outer life.

Last Sunday was such a day, not cold, not rainy, but one in which I made time and room for the inner life. What arose, to my initial dismay, was fear of death and aging and sadness about the increasing limitations of age. I'm 72. There was no looking away from this and I spent quite a while exploring the depths of this dis-ease. I realized that the fear and sadness had been coloring my whole experience as denied and unacknowledged emotions do. And I felt much lighter for having spent a day surrendering to the truth of how life on this planet progresses, and how it ends. It is truth that settles the conflict of the heart and mind and centers the human willing to face it, peacefully and joyfully on what is.

Spring in January

2011-01-17T12:51:00.001-08:00

The meadow glows in the sunshine and today is one of those lovely spring days you get in January sometimes. Probably more now with global warming heating things up than 40 years ago when I came here. It's the kind of day when I would head out into the garden were the ground not totally soaked and mucky, so it's nice to walk around the land and take note of things that need to be done and make plans for the growing season. Hopefully the cold weather will come back in and provide more snow and rain and give the plants that need a real cold spell to produce their necessary freezing.

I'm going to transplant a small lilac bush which has been dwarfed by a grapevine into the sunny location near the new house. I have this whole new area to play with, creating shade, flowers, fruits and herbs that will make living here more palatable. Here is the French drain which seems to be working well, so it's a hole that is ready to use.

Its a challenge and a joy to have this place to nurture! And today it's a joy to be alive! I'm sorry I can't post the smell of fresh wet earth and warm air! Here is the artisan well very busy with frogs and water striders, reflecting the sky.

And not to forget Fatcat who refuses to leave the cabin and come down to live at the new house. He sits in the sun, licking his paws, and will not be persuaded.

But the azaleas need no persuasion to start the swelling of buds, in a few months to be fragrant flowers.

A poem for the season

2010-04-10T16:24:00.001-07:00

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

-- 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 slowly wake

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2010-03-30T05:20:00.000-07:00

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2010-03-30T04:55:00.001-07:00

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Decisions

2010-02-28T08:48:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a hard day of wrestling with decisions which are coming at me thick and fast as the interior finishing of the house proceeds. My decision making process is glacial. It took me 10 years to decide to build a house, and that only happened because both the designer and the builder said they were ready to do it, and I thought such a configuration of agreement surely indicated that the time was right. Nonetheless during my episode of Transient Global Amnesia(wherein you forget the recent past), my daughter asked me if I remembered I was building a house and I replied, "Why would I do that?"

The decisions have been crowding me. When I have something to decide and the issue is before my mind's eye, I usually let it stay there, like an actor on the stage playing it's part, looking one way and another, showing this emotion and that one, until I tire and send the issue back into the wings. It's really rather enjoyable when there are not time constraints. When the curtain goes up again on that issue, it comes back out, struts around and acts until I know everything it's got, and then it's easy to incorporate it into my life.

But with the house, the decisions are waiting in the wings while two or three of them are pushing to get out on the stage and sometimes elbowing each other out of the way, and I really don't have time to order them back into the wings so that I can slowly study their progression on stage. It's crazy making for me. I chose colors for the walls, having wobbled about just opting for white and living with it for a while before deciding color, but I'm 71!!!! The way I decide things, I would be finally painting at about 90. So I chose with some guidance and input from others, and somehow ended up with bright pink in one bedroom and the front room not quite as sage as I wanted. This sent me into a tailspin of despair. It is only a $60 mistake and can be easily redone, but my reaction was huge. All day I wrestled with it, reminding myself it was all right to make mistakes, all right to be upset, but the wrestling continued.

I finally resorted to what I call "enhanced" meditation and sat on the deck of the cabin in the sunlight, staring at the green meadow and the newly arrived robins and the wrestling stopped. It was a lovely cool spring day and I was happy. It was only then I could see that the mistaken colors had bled over into a new wound I had not yet acknowledged. The new house means I will be leaving the cabin, my home for 40 years. And I would be leaving behind the low close to the land, taoist cabin lifestyle, with its insect ridden corners, with the wind blown cracks, the old familar comforts and annoyances. It means leaving the view of the garden changing with the seasons, leaving the memories of lives lived here, the love making, the arguing, the baby growing to teen, the despair, the partying, the lonliness and sorrow of loss all of which the cabin held gently and warmly without comment or criticism. It has the walls and counters I built and the tables that Allan built, holes in the floor from moving stoves, waterbacks, kitchen sinks. It has the desk by the window where I have sat for so many various hours, staring, writing, touching down on the center of my truest self and where I sit now. There is no way to express the gratitude I feel for the life I have lived here, the solace this place has given me, nor the ache that leavingtaking brings.

Gardensnob is an oxymoron?

2010-02-15T10:27:00.000-08:00

I often think this web site is misnamed. It's hard to think of gardeners as snobs. A true snob would hire someone to do the gardening. A true gardener gets their hands dirty, their fingernails broken, their knees soiled, sweats, tugs and pulls, grunts and sometimes curses and experiences the delight of healthy and vibrant plants. It seems to me gardening triggers some primal circuits in the brain. It's an ancient art. It is one that's been around for 10,000 years or more, since humans began to experiment with agriculture and the secret of the seed. When the balmy and changeable weather of spring hits, and our energy rises, so does the urge to plant something. The world is full of possibility and potential and the seed is a living example of that. The whole process of covering something with soil and seeing it transformed into a tiny green shoot is a bit of magic in the real world. Myths were created about this mystery. The story of Demeter and Persephone comes to mind. The myth is quite beautiful. If you remember, Hades captures Persephone and takes her with him to the Underworld. Demeter, her mother, who is the earth goddess, mourns over the loss of her daughter and as a result nothing on earth grows. Everything withers and dies. Finally Zeus takes pity on Demeter and on the humans who are suffering from lack of food, and arranges with Hades that Persephone return to her mother, the earth, for six months of the year which creates spring and the growing season and spend six months in the Underworld with Hades when winter comes to earth. The cycle of season for those of us in temperate climates is embedded in our DNA and to participate in that seasonal dance is part of the joy of gardening, and instead of making us snobs, it tends to make us a little humble to be a part of forces so much more powerful than ourselves.

Home

2010-02-06T10:28:00.000-08:00

Today is a day of rain and more rain, steady and reasonably heavy. Now the sun begins to sink behind the cloud covered mountains and darkness begins. I am once more alone as night falls. I have sense of the vastness of the mountains and forest around me, feel vulnerable, open.

It was a day of vulnerability. The batteries are not charging well since I washed the clothes, the internet went off once, and earthquake shook and jolted on through--6.0. Who knows what the road is doing. It has been out right past my place toward town and also the main Hayfork road was closed for two weeks and has only now been opened. I have been in Boston where you flip switches and light come on, move dials and heat rises and day and night are not such noticeable changes in the winter.

Yes darkness and vulnerability surround me. The dog lies by the wood stove which I have just fed. The wind which was blowing the door open has quieted now that the rain is pouring. The storm has over taken us. There has been no traffic and Richard is holed up at his house. I am amused at the irony in modern conveniences which leave us feeling stranded when they fail. Life was so much simpler when there was no power to go out.

This solitude and openness to a moment of the life carries a truth that I bow to. I am open to the coming darkness, to the loss of power, to the snags swaying on the hill, to the live pine and cedar by the road dancing with the wind, to the cold rain and green grass and 10,000 frogs chortling and gruging. This moment of my life I am looking out the casement window and loving all of it. The sorrow of the things gone wrong and the purity of the rain washing and soaking deep down, the wind chime, all the decisions I made to get me to here and now, all the roads taken and not taken. Being alive to it all is magnificent! From the openness and the vulnerability comes gratitude for this simple imperfect moment, which is all I have or need or want.

Constellation of Woes

2010-01-27T07:35:00.000-08:00

I awoke at 4am and stared into the abyss for an hour or so, before remembering to do metta which soothed me into a more relaxed state which wasn't sleep, but was skimming the surface of it. I got up at dawn prepared for a tired day, but actually feel fine. Yesterday I had just been listing all the things that were wrong with my life, starting with global stuff, then politics(so many disappointments there this year), then the list of woes regarding the trip home, the slide blocked road, the snow, the potential of wet furniture in the back of the truck, the caring for the dog who is has lost the ability to know when he is pooping, the failed repoint of the internet satellite. I listed these troubles with some satisfaction to see how really unpleasant my world and my homecoming was going to be. I could indulge and pity myself at how the woes seem to pile on, to constellate around certain times or events and this homecoming in particular.

But last night I awoke, defenseless from this onslaught. The fun was over as very dark negative energy paralyzed me. This is a very tricky place for someone who practices the art of mindfulness whose rules are don't push it away, don't engage it, just let it be there. The foremost impulse is to get rid of it, in my case, by finding out what is the cause of it. And this approach is like touching a Tar Baby. The more you probe and try to figure it out, the more you get stuck until you are wrestling with the darkness and hopelessly entangled.

I have spent a lot of time with this black stuff. It is, I think, old trauma, a black hole which has gathered a orbiting array of old injuries around it. It has tremendously powerful magnetism so that it is difficult to resist falling into orbit around it and being sucked into darkness, completely forgetting it is a trap with no exit. I have dealt with this enough that after the initial shock and the arising hopeless fear, I begin to remember that this is trauma, and that I know everything I can know about it and that leaving it alone is the best response. I am usually by this time focusing my attention as much as possible on my breath and if I can remember to do metta, the black hole diminishes, the constellation of woes recedes in importance as I wish myself well over and over again.

I have had trouble doing metta because I thought it was a cop out, that I needed to engage with the blackness, that it was the truth and so needed to be investigated. But the truth is I need concentration to deal with the Tar Baby and metta produces concentration and gentle loving kindness simultaneously, replaced dread and fear with their opposite. For the first time I wonder if indulging in the constellation of woes was a prelude to the darkness. Maybe the indulgence is not much fun or so skillful after all.

Leaving

2010-01-23T14:04:00.000-08:00

I awoke this morning with angst. I am leaving Boston and heading back to my cabin in the woods. I have been impatient about being here feeling like I am wasting time and not engaged. Generally my only life here is the family and I don't make decisions or initiate anything, I just tag along. I sometimes feel like I am 80 or 90 years old. So I was surprised to feel the sadness and heart ache at the thought of separation that came a week prior to departure. I feel it on the other end when I am leaving the cabin heading to Boston.

I am fond of saying that this family is the one I know is mine since I grew up in a family where I felt out of place. I was not my father's child. This family I know is mine as I know where my daughter came from and who her father is and I feel apart of her life.

My journey back to the cabin is usually fraught with some anxiety. I am reminded of the Pharaoh in "Josepf and His Brothers" who always comes back to his home, asking, "Is everything well in the household" always afraid his wife had been unfaithful. I am always afraid that the home power system will be down, or the water off, or neighbors will have moved in or my environment will be altered. Such fears about water and power are real, but hoping the environment is unaltered is a free floating anxiety since I am helpless to stop change or return things to the statis quo.

This time I have the weather as a concern. The main winding mountain road is closed due to a landslide and all the side roads are snowed in. I am coming back with a truck load of furniture and though I have four wheel drive, it won't get me through 3 feet of snow. My dog is with a friend and I haven't room to bring him back also. My Internet service is down and the satellite dish that provides my contact with the outside world needs moving and that has been impossible to arrange before I get there.

These anxieties are of a different nature than the angst of leaving this warm "home" with small children and adults I love. But each end of the trip is painful. The plane flight itself--the discomfort of the seating, the tin can with wings bouncing occasionally in turbulence with only icy sky and no air outside the small oval window, the packed like sardines breathing other people's breath experience is, if you ignore or accept those fact of your extreme discomfort and your possible immanent death, a kind of limbo transition between worlds, a being in suspended animation. You feel it at the touch down when suddenly every one's personality comes back to them and they begin to cell phone or chat or show their impatience or excitement.

It's a strange life I lead now traveling between two different coasts. And it will probably continue until the grandchildren are old enough that they stop thinking that grandma is cool, but instead see her as an old woman they have to be polite to when they are impatient to be with their own friends. At that time I can get the trips to Boston down to maybe once a year with a reciprocal trip from them yearly also. Who knows? Life seldom follows the plans you have set out for it so better enjoy it the way it is.

On Death

2010-01-20T07:31:00.001-08:00

I had a major dream last night about wanting to find someone to talk with about death. I found Gisino, a neighbor. He was in a room talking with someone else and I go in and wait for a while, but then leave. Then I am in his workshop and we are talking about our lives. I say when I grew up everyone was poor and no one thought anything about it. It was a much more peaceful time, although WWII was on. And then I awake to remember that Gisino is dead which startles me. We were the same age and both had had cancer, although different kinds, at the same time.

I have just recovered from the stomach flu. I spent one night all night alternately and sometimes simultaneously vomiting and pooping. My granddaughter had it a week before me and was fine the next day. I was not fine the next day and the lag time of my full recovery made me remember how it was possible sometime to get sick and the lag time of recovery instead fades into death. The kids say I have been brooding, but it is hard to talk to anyone about such things unless they are my age and not in denial. There is the famous dharma story about a god or guru who comes to earth and is asked what is the most amazing thing in the world and the god/guru replies that although everyone is going to die, no one talks about it.

I stepped out of my usual more participatory role in the household and coasted along, just being an observer. To my surprise, I saw this subtle program of mine that something needed to be fixed in this family and I needed to take care of fixing it. I realized there was nothing to fix. Everything was working just fine. It was a loving nurturing family. That was a shock but a very sweet shock and an insight I am grateful for.

But after my first well day, I dreamed of Gisino and awoke to awareness of death. I felt that death rules our lives yet we pay no attention to it. I felt I should bow to death every morning on awakening to acknowledge its reality and the fact that this small splinter of awareness of body and world will disappear. It gives my view another perspective. When I thought I was dying from cancer, there was a quickening sense of the preciousness of life. My actions were more informed by the understanding that hating or holding grudges is a waste of energy which could be better used enjoying life and loving. Don Juan suggested that death was always over his left shoulder. That is the context in which I wish to live.

Gardensnob post for the New Year

2010-01-01T15:27:00.000-08:00

A new year and a new decade! I have a commercial blog on gardening(I didn't choose the name) and this is the first post of the new year. It is a challenge to keep the commercial blog fresh and interesting and honest. I have some resolves regarding it. First and foremost I will be going into more depth in covering garden problems and processes. I have gardened for forty years and live in an area where there are many expert gardeners, some of whom make at least a partial living selling their produce. I want to draw on their expertise also and also do a review of their methods. But I have to mention to my readers the reasons for gardening! One thing that gardeners have going for us is our attention to the seasonal cycles of renewal and rest that is an intregal part of gardening and our lives. We also reap the benefits of the activity. All that hauling, bending and stooping, keeps us younger and more supple. And the activity is always changing and so provides new interest and challenges. What's needed in the spring for planting is not the same as the needs of harvest. Then there is the produce itself. There's nothing quite as satifying as going out to the garden and picking what you need for dinner or a salad. Vegetables can never be fresher than this and the difference in taste between home grown and store bought is huge as we all know. What is grown on soil that is nutrient rich without the use of pesticides and chemicals is both healthier and tastier. And then there's the joy involved in being a part of the process of giving life, nurturing it, and then being nurtured by it. So if you hesitating about starting a new cycle, or discouraged about last year's difficulties, or if you can't wait to get back into the dirt, take heart, because a new cycle of life is coming, the light is returning and preparations for a new growing season can begin. It's worth every aching back, broken nail, and muddy knee. It's self sufficiency at the most basic level and feeds that part of ourselves that has lost touch with the earth and where our food comes from. It's sun and water and soil and the magic of seed. So we gardeners are really happy to be a part of something so basic.

Florida

2009-12-23T09:34:00.000-08:00

I have a quiet moment at the beach house. The family has gone out to get sandy. From the front room I can see the pelicans dive into the ocean and the only noise is of the construction going on around us with various loud power tool noises. We have the worst beach house we have ever had. It's small and there is no privacy on the porch over looking the ocean. Rick, of the enormous belly, and Shawna, of the bleached blond hair drink bloody mary's for breakfast next door but fortunately seem to retire early instead of having drinking friends over late at night as I had feared.

My sister is in the hospital with pneumonia which casts a sadness over the holiday, but the 16 to 3 year olds liven up the day with constant games and phone calls. So far they are not bored with each other. Anya can't wait to see the cousins and immediately takes on the persona of a teen, refusing to give it up at bedtime and succomb to the rules. Ewan is mostly agog and aghast and a follower at three.

The beach in Florida is all pastel during the day, light blue/green ocean and sky with pale clouds and drifting gulls and diving pelicans. The waves hardly break the ocean is so peaceful. I love being near the water and feel calm and happy. Honey baked ham, orange juice, chips, a little beer or wine in the evening and no need to go out into the concrete car ridden world of strip malls and a Publix on every mile long block. There are two pockets of comfort. The beach house and Cara's, the rest of Largo is like anywhere USA only warmer.

Anya's First Day of Kindergarten

2009-09-14T20:20:00.000-07:00

The whole family went with Anya to drop her off at first day of kindergarten. As we started out, Ewan on Jay's shoulders, Anya holding Maya's hand, me behind, Anya asked, "Where are the rest of them?" as she searched the empty streets. On the cross street up ahead we first saw a mother and child, and turning the corner toward the school, they came in a surge of family groups, lots of dads, all the mothers and many grandparents and babies in arms. It was quite the scene with strollers, backpacks, the parents, dogs, a veritable parade converging on the school, lacking only the elephants, balloons, clowns and cotton candy to complete the atmosphere. There was a timeless moment when I was taking it in. The walls of separation became thin and transparent and I was participating in the closest thing our culture has to a ritual. The playing field was level. We all had a precious person we were letting go into the wider world this morning. It was a rite of passage and because of that, was sacred. That is when my tears of gratitude and love came.

The mundane soon overwhelmed me as we walked into the school yard amid the chattering, yelling, running, clinging reality, as acquaintances nodded and compared their own and their child's reaction to this first day of school with a fervor of excitement. A buzzer sounded. "What does that mean?" asked Oscar, Anya's friend, with nervous energy. The parents then edged their children inside the classroom and, after however long it took to let go, walked out. I peeked in at Anya and held Ewan up to see her. She was doing a puzzle. She was in her own world.

When we went to pick her up six hours later, she came out smiling and shook Ewan's hand, and then took her mother's hand to shake it, but of course her mother grabbed her and hugged and kissed her. I offered my hand solemnly. A small adult part was asking for recognition or so I like to think.

Voices in the Woods

2009-06-23T10:57:00.000-07:00

I heard this morning what sounded like a girl and a man talking. It woke me up. I tried to go back to sleep and even pretended maybe I dreamed the voices. I told my neighbor and she said her husband saw three vans of Mexicans coming down Junker's road. We all just assumed it was a dope growing enterprise. But I don't want dope growers in my watershed. The day wore on and I forgot the voices, chaulked it up to imagination.

It was a cool and rather dreary June day and my spirits were low, but in an effort to gain some sense of space and some control of my life, I cleaned house and planted the new cukes I got that the striped beetles had eaten. Then I heard the voices again and fear arose. I hesitated to jump in the truck like I used to and go check things out. The dog is old and I can't run fast, but I also know that I feel better when I know what it is, than when I sit and stew and guess. So I lifted Samson's hind end into the truck. He has learned to put his front paws on the tailgate, so I can shove the rest of him in, and we started up the mountain, encountering almost immediately two white vans and, yes, Mexicans, working. I stop and say, "Que pasa?" One guy turns around and replies, with obvious distain for the nosy old gringa, "Not much. I'm working" and indeed and he and the others were grubbing brush away from the small fir trees that had geminated after the fire. I wait while a smiling woman in a hard hat worked her way down to the road to reassure the local. We chat briefly. She says there have been two trucks and and suv passing them as they worked. I tell her I really don't think their grubbing will make a difference 10 years from now, but I'm glad people are working. We make nice and on a whim, I head on up the mountain. I haven't been up there in over a year. The brush and madrone have grown head high and I wind on around through Grapevine Creek drainage to where you can look down into Grouse Creek and Devastation Slide. We get out and walk around the point to look down into Bear Creek canyon. I notice some berry bushes that will soon be ripe and am glad to see so little traffic up this far. The drop off is shear and it's possible to see all the draws and folds of the landscape through the grey snags of burnt out trees.

I am reminded that everything changed with the fire, startling and abrupt change, instead of the slow easy growth of season, sun and rain. So much of living long is about loss--the body, the land, the political landscape, the commercial one, what's in what's out, who's in control, the memory reels with the progression of eras lived, a kaleidoscope dance of images past and present and fragments of music. It's bittersweet. Nothing stays. Which is why the grandchildren are such a delight, being filled, as they are, with wonder at what is, so pure and free of what has past or what might have been--just this huge Moment to be alive in. My fear of the voices has led me to love.

Animal Rescue

2009-06-11T21:03:00.000-07:00

Rescuing animals is a big deal in the Bazar/Brewer household thanks to Diego. When we were at Stinson Beach last summer, Anya and Kadin set up a snail rescue center on top of an empty cooler which was sitting in the sun. There were lots of snails and they didn't seem to really want to be rescued. In fact the whole rescue center seemed to be about catching the snails, bringing them to the cooler and then catching them as they tried to escape. The snails were frantic, as much as snails can be frantic, trying to get to the shade. When the landlord came to check us out, he was very pleased with the rescue center and hoped that the whole population of snails would be similarly rescued thus saving his garden from destruction.

But today I had my own rescue center. Leroy who had come to work found a baby robin under the oak in the driveway. We ohhhhed and ahhhed and wondered what to do and finally decided to pick it up and put it back in the tree. As we leaned over to pick it up, it's mouth opened so that it became just an open mouth, so hungry and hopeful and then suddenly the mother robin dive bombed us. Such a brave heart, she came back and dive bombed again. We picked the baby up and then realized it couldn't sit by itself in the tree. We put it on the big rock hoping that was enough room so that it wouldn't fall off, but it floundered around while the mama cheeped and peeped and flew around distraught. It started to fall off the edge and I ran and got it. More dilemma. Leroy found a hubcap and we stuffed it with grass and moss and wedged it in the crotch of the tree. That was it. I had to go to Hayfork and Leroy was off to work. Before I left I climbed a ladder and checked the baby. It didn't look good. It was breathing but lying flat and not peeping or moving. It seemed like it was lying on its back which I particularly thought was a bad sign, since I really don't think birds sleep on their backs.

The first thing I did when I got home was to look in the nest, and whoa! the baby bird was gone. I searched all around the tree to see if it had fallen out but found no sign. I made up a number of senarios. The mother came and coaxed it out of the nest and to safety. That's the best one. It fell and I didn't see it the body. It fell and the cats ate it. I just tried to interest Fat Cat in a dead mouse and he couldn't have cared less. Sniffed it and walked away. Perhaps bigger bird came and snatched it and ate it. Blame the jays for that. Leroy mentioned the jays push baby birds out of their nests. To what end I'm not sure, but I'm always ready to blame them for anything--they are loud, raucous and mostly obnoxious neighbors.

So ended my animal rescue efforts with uncertain results. Interfering in nature is always an iffy and hazardous. That big mouth and the mamma's brave heart are images will encourage me. The urge to live.