Our being in a photograph----especially in relation to nature----makes us into icons, and just as we view the photo, we become larger than our lives.

For example, here are three generations, sitting with an ancient one:


My desire for my daughter and granddaughter is that they take these feelings with them when they move to Austin over the next month or two, and that they feel safer and more whole because of them. Austin's a big city compared to our own little town here, so I am hoping they can find places of calm, clarity, and grounding to help them in their own continual acts of balancing.

Jon and I hiked Dolason Prairie Trail in the Redwoods National Park Sunday, traipsing over rolling hills and then down, down into shady redwood forest, ending at Emerald Creek, where we turned around and, one foot after another, made the 4-1/2 mile walk back up to our trusty Ford Ranger waiting patiently for us. Signs at the beginning of the hike warn that it's tick country, so we followed the directions to tuck our pants into our socks, which kept the little critters from getting up our legs, but they sure wanted to climb in from the neck! It's good we began this trek not knowing how bad the ticks were; we may never have gone otherwise----and look what we'd have missed.

Grounding

Terms that remind me to get my feet on the ground (which does not have to mean that one's head cannot simultaneously be in the clouds of imagination) are serving me well, keeping me in touch with Earth and ultimate, sensual reality.

Having just read an essay by Derrick Jensen that is to be included in a compilation of essays written by President Obama, among others, I am reminded that it is this basic disjuncture between humans and Earth, between humans and the real, that can explain in great part why our planet is in the trouble it's in. As Derrick says, our agreed-upon social constructs, cultural clichés if you will, have by their very nature of being ubiquitous, blinded us to the obvious: our planet will be killed if the current industrial civilization continues.

We don't want to believe it.

To use an ordinary example, I enjoy my hot baths more than most, I'd venture to say, yet these baths are obtained by turning on a faucet in my old clawfoot tub that is connected by pipes to a monster water heater that uses diesel from a big tank outside our house to fire it up. Every six months or so, we have to call a company to send a driver over in one of its big tank-trucks to fill 'er up. I don't need to go on, but it is in great part these sorts of comforts that keep people's feet from the ground because rather than knowing them as conveniences, we come to believe them necessities.

At the Anima sanctuary, I bathed just once in the five days I was there, and that one spit-bath I took, pouring water over my head with a pot over the kitchen sink while a fire crackled in the wood stove, was quite satisfying----not as pleasant as a hot tub, but still nice, especially when I was done. I had the same feeling of renewal.

Bathing took on more meaning when I had to heat a pot of water on the wood stove and then dole it out to my body in parts, slowly. With all of the conveniences we take for granted in our industrial civilization, we lose track of the effort and the costs paid for them. Just because they are easy for us doesn't mean they come without a cost.

Hanging Out Clothes to Dry

I love a clothesline----shaking out a shirt, figuring out which way to hang it, snipping on a clothes pin to one corner, then the next, bending over to pick out the next item to hang. Sometimes I arrange all of the like items together, sometimes not. In this picture, all of Jon's underwear is hung in a row, discreetly toward the back of the line so it's not as visible from the street. After all, we do live in town. Who knows what sorts of delicate sensibilities might be driving or walking by. Then there's the sensual delight of the smell of freshly dried clothes----that scent of steeped-in sunshine. Of course, there are the proverbial sun-dried sheets and pillowcases that not only titillate the sense of smell but of touch, too----smooth, crisp, line-dried sheets as an aid to more restful sleep. Towels hung on a clothesline are, perhaps, an acquired taste----stepping from a tub and using their rough texture to dry off is somewhat akin to using a loofa to wash with. Add to this the pleasure of feeling a bit less weighted down by one's connection to the power grid and the big metal monster that churns out dry clothes for a price, and using a clothesline becomes another freeing moment in a sunny day.

Recurring Themes

Paying attention to recurring themes sometimes means hearing an unusual word several times in different contexts over a short period of time. Today, Kiva wrote about chiaroscuro, a word I've come to love for its lovely mixing of black and white, and which I've heard or read several times over the past three days (after not having done so for some time). When these synchronicities occur, they naturally serve to slow us down, tugging insistently at our skirt tails like a child demanding our attention. I have to stop and wonder why. . .

Is it because I tend to set up arguments in my mind about how I "should be" by facing them, chessboard-like, against each other? I am either doing well or not? I am either happy or not? I am either reading and learning or not reading and not learning?

How absurd! And yet, I face these sorts of dilemmas daily in my mind, dilemmas that are set up poorly and thus are problemmatic from the start.

Sometimes, our lives improve simply by recognizing that we have set up faulty ways of perceiving, of questioning, of exploring. It's a matter of puzzling-out a knot in the tangle of our thoughts, a knot that we didn't even realize had formed until we trace it back to its origins and actually feel it.

How freeing it can be to untangle and release that energy. . . every day. . .

The water line is rising and all we do is stand there. . .

With my feet on the ground, I feel the tensions, too, and when I heard this song, all of the unshed tears held back like the floods behind the sandbagged levees four years ago broke through, and I cried, not just for us humans who insist on hiding from truth, but for all of Earth, hurting, hurting, hurting. . . (Click on the title of this song below to hear the You Tube version.)

WATER LINE, Sage Francis
I just sit there
and let the thoughts flood
And I remind myself it's all right,
it's all good, it's all love,
it's not though,
cuz there's a kink in the armor,
a pot hole I'm sinkin' in,
and while I think of the drama
so I stand up
I start to pace in my living room,
set my eye to the highway
knowing that I’ll play chicken soon
It’s a vanity plate with my name on it
There’s a Davy Crockett hat
with Masonic fat cat under it
A musket rifle spittin’ at my feet,
they want me to dance
in the middle of the street
And I respect my elders,
so I do as I’m told,
but I offset the bell curve
When I do what was sold,
losing control
Guilty feet do have rhythm
they just dance to the wrong theme music
to amuse the villain
Instead of killin’
I’ll spare the raccoon
and start fillin’ sandbags as I stare at the moon
and let the thoughts flood
Blessed are those who are dammed
When the levee broke come in and choked on the steps of a slow dance
A staircase to a hug with no hands
Accountability hung out to dry
on the line of command
We let the thoughts flood,
we remind ourselves
it’s all right, it’s all good, it’s all love
It’s not though,
‘cause there’s a kink in the armor,
a pothole I’m sinkin’ in
I’m sharin’ a drink with my father
It’s a family affair
The vanity we share
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there
The waterline is rising and all we do is stand there

Writing Trickery

A new friend of mine had the idea that we would write on assigned topics and share our writing. This project didn’t last too long, but the first topic was “from the corner of my eye,” which I decided to post here:

From the corner of my eye, a tiny spot of blood blossomed, overflowed, and slowly bled down my cheek. As I felt its smooth descent trenching my face, I imagined that it burned into my skin, creating a red scar. But that’s all in my imagination.

I must watch carefully, without being seen to be watching, peripherally, though with focus, from the corner of my eye—as one must do in order to see the faintest star, not looking at it directly but just to its side. This sort of watching is studied, unlike the casual way people typically walk through life, blind to all but their own thoughts projected on their inner lids. To be seen as a studied watcher is to be disdained as one who is too serious, too determined to understand what lies beneath the façade of faces with pasted-on smiles or blankness.

This watching-without-watching made casual friends at work nervous, like my former students, who were slightly afraid of me, wondering (in the way students must) how this might affect the difficulty of tests, their grades, the practical matters that fill ordinary students’ minds. These would-be friends asked me probing questions that I responded to according to my mood, either seriously (which might be like listening to a doomsday report) or not (which may turn them on their heels feeling they’ve been spoofed).

But just as we must watch from the corners of our eye, we find ourselves being watched. Is this merely part of our consumer culture, to watch, to assess, to take in, to devour with our eyes?

I remember feeling as a teenager that maybe I would be better off blind* than living as another judging member of the sighted, another person who thought she fully understood merely because she saw something. How quick others were to judge based on how a person looked, and how this attitude pushed me farther and farther away from what I perceived as the judgment of others, which I never wanted to participate in.

Reading and seriously taking in every word of Carlos Castaneda’s Don Juan didn’t help, either. For Don Juan stated that we should not tell others our history because in this stated history were chains that bound us to another’s view of us, probably a limited, and definitely a temporary, slice of our lives.

And so this watching is frequently done from the corner of my eye, yet sometimes, it is a bold staring, a staring that has resulted from my feeling invisible at times. As one ages in this culture, as hair grays and wrinkles appear, one also fades from the view of others-----especially from the young who don’t know John Prine’s lines about passing some hollow, ancient eyes and saying “hello in there.”

*I recently came across the yellowed hand-copied poem by May Swenson that encouraged my youthful self in these ideas about the benefits of blindness. Here it is:

The Blindman

The blindman placed
a tulip on his tongue for purple’s taste.
Cheek to grass, his green

was rough excitement’s sheen
of little whips.
In water to his lips

he named the sea blue and white,
the basin of his tears and fallen beads of sight.
He said: This scarf is red;

I feel the vectors to its threads
that dance down from the sun. I know
the seven fragrances of the rainbow.

I have caressed
the orange hair of flames. Pressed
to my ear,

a pomegranate lets me hear
crimson’s flute.
Trumpets tell me yellow. Only ebony is mute.

May Swenson

Stasis and Change

All of the energy swirling from our gathering of folk at our home Saturday evening is only now beginning to dissipate and to allow me to finally feel a little more calm and focused. Sunday's gardening literally grounded me, but I couldn't sleep well that night, and yesterday is almost a blur as I rather blindly bumped and stumbled around (picture yourself at night in the darkness walking in a strange room, your arms and hands before you, feeling, feeling the air to try to avoid the pain of contact with a wall or piece of furniture), taking out projects, doing a little on one and then finding myself working on yet another.

I'm attempting to pull together a few poems to send out (not because I really feel like it at this point, but because I promised myself I would) that must be postmarked by the 15th----only three days hence. However, instead of doing this, I stopped to read a few old journal entries (which I very rarely do----every ten years or so at most) from when I was in my early 20s, and realize that I haven't really changed that much. Should that make me happy? Sad?

Surprisingly, I feel good that our essential selves do not change, rather like we have an anchor after all----that we are not merely drifting aimlessly but we have purpose.

I think of other women whose blogs I've read (and linked to), women who are also seeking purpose yet finding themselves smack dab in the middle of it. . . finding clarity unexpectedly, yet with that odd sense of familiarity-----like coming back to ourselves----rather like these cows of Gary Larson:

Permission and Synchronicity

I have mentioned this before, but how odd, I remember thinking, when Loba asked me what brought me to the sanctuary, that what would come from my mouth was "I feel like I need to be granted permission to be myself." Not only that, but she wasn't surprised by my response (as I was) and only said that she had heard this from others before me.

Where did this come from? I hadn't consciously thought it before.

This morning, it occurs to me that as children in our culture, this "asking permission" becomes so common and pervasive (in school, at churches, at work) that we internalize it to different degrees, and even some of us who are natural-born rebels and questioners are tainted by it without even being aware. We learn to stuff our natural responses to people, to events and situations, to our own feelings and thoughts, desires, and instead of responding authentically, our minds and bodies become accustomed to fingering-through a little Rolodex-file of responses to choose one that has been deemed "culturally appropriate."

How wonderful it is to begin to trust one's own intuitions again, to believe in the rightness of our own responses, no matter how different they may appear to the culture at large.

And to quote from yet another synchronicitous (I just love all forms of that word, the way it dances in the mouth and mind) inspirator (to use a bit of a made-up word), Jane:

Truly, our lives just start singing and shouting and having a party when we nourish ourselves with an “essence” that sums up something important to us. The magic is this: what is potent medicine for you is going to be that arrow that sings right into the heart of another and shifts or softens or provides something that’s needed.

Among Folk

Though I am an inveterate loner, I like to put together gatherings of people on occasion, and then flit around the edges on my tattered wings, land here and there next to different people, listen in, maybe say a word or two, withdraw, sit at their feet petting our dogs as others speak, cuddle up quietly next to someone for a moment, then remind myself I must move on. Others' energy is so palpable to me at times, my focus becomes that flitting and fleeting movement. Only with individuals, at a distance from others, can I feel myself separate, can I think more clearly. And even then, depending on the individual, I sometimes have difficulty.

What is this permeable self I inhabit?

I have to guard myself from feeling "less than" others when I am around those who so glibbly state their thoughts and arguments, as the best I can do at times is kiss my dog's ears and soothe my exposed nerves. No longer do I have the numbing effect of antidepressants to hold my self in, so I may fall into tears or laugh too loudly unexpectedly, or find words evading me like slippery fish.

And so today, it's back to Earth, hands in the dirt, into the garden, where instead I will visit with violets and occasionally hack at invasive ivy and non-native blackberries, happy for this balance, this give-and-take, this lovely reciprocity.

A Gathering

In a small gathering of six, elk grazed peacefully beside the roadway, looking up when someone pulled their roaring hulk of color closer and silenced it, its sides splitting as one of those bipeds emerged with his hands in front of his face, eyes obscured by a little dark box he fingered and pointed at them.

Such peace. . . even in the midst of these loud and mechanical interventions. . . Huge animals standing in the green of new growth, nibbling, their presence emanating in waves.

If only this peace could happen here this evening as a gathering of folks come to our home to eat and be.

If you talk to the animals
they will talk with you
and you will know each other.
If you do not talk to them
you will not know them,
and what you do not know
you will fear.
What one fears
one destroys.

Chief Dan George

Kokopelli in Action

Stephanie McMillan's cartoons strike me as particularly interesting with their roundly ironic "cuteness" and pointed messages. Just as Kokopelli continues his dance though his burden basket is full, so we are reminded to live beautifully while acknowledging sadness in our continual tightrope walk between the moment that is and that which was and will be.