Saturday, August 15, 2020

Green Flash


One Sunday morning last month I woke up to Happy Birthday greetings, sung with gusto by a sweet couple I know. After their chorus, we chatted about the huge importance of genuinely loving your spouse in the time of Covid. 

Well, we laughed, it sure helps. Without that essential emotion, things would be really bad. 

A compatible life-partner that shares my sense of humor and also my grief, that is my very own personal multi-faceted diamond (either polished or in the rough, it varies) is a wonderful treasure, and Im grateful.

 

Humor, I think, tops the list of requirements. It’s the slippery oil that greases the tracks, the non-stick spray that releases us from melting into a puddle or sizzling to a crisp. Instead, we glide (more or less) through the bumpy moments.

 

While complaining about having another adult human to hold is not good etiquette during the pandemic, when so much is turned on its head already, there are times when so much togetherness just feels…weird!

 

Here’s a list of the valuable skills (so far) that I suddenly have lots more time to practice: 

Learning to give breathing space – i.e. when to come together, when to be apart.

How to understand and express what I need, without blame or self-doubt; and 

When to laugh it all off, and dance.

 

Routines are key, as if we were on a long Buddhist retreat, so we have developed a few. Meditation, dance and yoga in the mornings, writing breaks at tea-time, preferably with elaborate snacks, the occasional game of chess. And meals.

 

Some time ago a co-worker (back when I had a job) asked me who did the cooking at my house. 

 

“Uh, well,” I stammered, “Neither of us!” 

“Huh?” she responded, and then I admitted, 

“Neither of us ever had to cook before, really. Our previous partners were gourmet chefs, so the kitchen was out of bounds.” 

“So how’s that working out for you now?” she laughed.

“Let’s just say, it’s an adventure!” 

 

And it is. Who knew there were so many meals in a day? A week, a month? 

 

Thank goodness for the garden, but I have to laugh when I look at my crop yield, remembering acres of uniform fruit and vegetables growing in Watsonville, or the produce aisle at Safeway. One zucchini, one squash, one lemon becomes quite precious in my little plot! Fog sidelined the tomatoes, again, though I’ve had luck at last with lettuce, arugula, bok choy, and chard. Another round of delightful sweet peas bloomed, with that delicate, crisp linen scent.

 

And wonder of wonders, I’ve baked a few loaves of bread, courtesy of my (worried?) sister-in-law, who sent me the world’s easiest no-knead recipe.

 

One favorite ritual is watching the sunset together, whenever our day evolves in a way that we can. Two nights ago we (I) missed the mark, distracted indoors (probably by a text, miraculous contact with the outside world!) while my husband took in the show.

 

“You missed the Green Flash.” he scolded. 

 “No way!” I cried. 

 

“Yep, you did,” he answered. Then he carried on about how special it was. How the green light shot up in a gigantic arc above the sinking sun as it nestled into the faint fog bank at the horizon, how the heavens opened wide above him and the angels sang Hallelujah, and I’d missed it all!

 

He actually had me going for about an hour, mad at myself, researching the Green Flash on Wikipedia (is it real? Yes it is) etc. Then he confessed he was teasing. Perhaps he was reciprocating for my coaxing the dog into bringing him a dead rat that morning? I wonder.

 

It may be time to take a trip off the mountain sometime soon.




Sunday, April 12, 2020

Eggstravaganza Remembered

Each Spring, for the past two decades, we've hosted a flamboyant neighborhood festival, the Eggstravaganza Easter Egg Hunt, on the Lone Palm property we caretake in Big Sur.


Howdy neighbors!
It began on a rainy weekend in 1999, at the bridal shower I hosted for a dear friend. Margaret could bake pies, sew wedding dresses, paint landscapes, knit elaborate sweaters, capture a provider, and be glamorous, too. I can still see her in her floppy straw hat, wearing the colorful sweater she'd knitted herself. She swings her Easter basket back and forth, her banjo-big blue eyes smiling, the coast stretching out behind her to the south, the silver gray ocean reaching out to the horizon. She sealed her nuptials later that April under the wedding tree, after riding a snow-white Arabian horse, adorned with red ribbons and pink roses, across the meadow. 

That bridal egg hunt got me thinking. It's much easier to connect with neighbors in springtime than to host a Christmas party when big storms cause power outages and impassable roads. The eccentric, sturdy folks who live on this mountain sometimes disagree - over water use, access roads, fence placement, outdoor lights, short-term rentals, controlled burns and more. But a truce is declared for those who attend the Eggstravaganza on Easter Sunday. We are Switzerland, one neighbor said, as we watch toddlers, young children and teens search for chocolate bunnies across fields of wildflowers and freshly mown lawns. Each year I hope to create an experience that lives in communal memory until the following Spring. Over the years, as we watch the children grow and play, there's a sense of continuity along with wonder. Sometimes, we can return to the garden.

The story of The Selfish Giant, written by Oscar Wilde for his two young boys, inspired the Eggstravaganza, too. A very selfish Giant returns from a year long visit with this friend, the Ogre. Outraged, the Giant throws the village children out of his garden, where they have been playing every day after school. When Winter comes, Winter decides to stay, and invites Snow, Frost and the North Wind to join the party. For years the Giant wonders why the flower and fruit trees don't bloom, why Spring never comes back. 

One day he sees that his fence has fallen down in one corner of his orchard and the children have returned. They sit happily in the branches of the trees, they skip and play along the paths. Spring has returned, the birds are singing, and all the fruit trees and flowers have burst into bloom. The Giant's heart melts and he decides to share his garden from then on, knocking down the fence and welcoming all the children. "I've been a very selfish giant," he laments. In this way, the Giant is fulfilled. His soul grows wiser and kinder as the children become his friends and enjoy his garden for many years. 

Bringing happiness to others makes us happy, and as our heart opens the world is more beautiful. In this way we create a life that flows with love. 


Easter booty
We can trace the origin of Easter to the Saxon goddess Ostara. She transformed a bird into a hare, and it thanked her by laying a batch of colored eggs. Seriously, that is the story! The celebration is also related to Ishtar, the ancient Sumerian goddess of love, who came back to life from the dead, a seasonal theme. Special celebrations for Ishtar took place around the spring equinox. Eggs are also an ancient symbol of procreation and abundance. 

What do bunnies do? What humans used to do in a pagan festival a little later in the Spring. At Beltane in ancient Celtic lands, villages and farm-folk built great bonfires, herded cattle into higher pastures, drank copious mead, danced and, like the proverbial bunnies, swapped sex partners. A child born from the Beltane celebration was a good omen for the community.

"What's Easter about?" asked my friend Lisa years ago. She'd been raised Jehovah's Witness and was curious about all the holidays. "It's about Beltane, babe," I replied and explained the ritual to her. "Oh!" she sighed beneath her Easter bonnet as we trudged through the meadow, hiding eggs. "Let's do that!"

Spring is when Lone Palm's lawns, elegant old trees and landscaping really shine. There's golden poppy, raspberry vetch, yellow lavender and purple lupines on the hillside above the house. Daisies, daffodils and birds of paradise emerge, wisteria and jasmine festoon the garden. It's a perfect time for colored eggs, Easter bonnets, and champagne flutes filled with jelly beans. 
Tribal Maidens

On Easter Sunday we frolic on the lawns, swing in the hammocks, mingle at the picnic table or on the yoga deck. Whales spout in the ocean below, curious condors swing by above. One year, we even had face painting. Kids and adults sprawled on the blankets on the grass as playful artists decorated their foreheads, noses and cheeks with multi-colored tendrils, arrows, dots and feathery shapes. We became a tribe of Easter aboriginals. 

It's always a potluck, thank goodness. The dining room table fills and empties, then fills and empties again throughout the day. One year I counted six plates of deviled eggs on the table at once. There's a variety of salads, often from greens straight from neighbors' gardens, multiple kale dishes, pasta and lasagna, wheels of brie, baskets of crackers and homemade bread, slices of roast beef and ham, spicy tamales, Bundt cakes, elaborate pastries, fresh watermelon and mango, and more.

Guests are asked to bring "nice bubbles." In other words, NO Barefoot Bubbly! If someone brings something cheap, eyebrows go up and sniffs are audible. We may be hillbillies, but we know our sparkling wines. One year we filled a small claw-foot with bottles of Champagne, the colorful labels on the bottles making the tub as pretty as a basket of Easter Eggs. 

There is a home-grown innovation to the ritual: a champagne glass hunt. Those over 21, in order to have a glass of bubbles on Easter Sunday, must first go and find their goblet in the grass. Sometimes, this makes grown-ups grumpy. "How do I get some Champagne, again?" said an exasperated Dad who the following year simply brought his own glass. 

A decade or so ago it was an all-weekend bash, beginning on Friday night as guests arrived to help with preparations. Stalwart Moms, notably Margaret and then Peggy, have made so much of the magic happen! Handmade glitter eggs and vintage tchotchkes from the Oakland Museum's White Elephant sale, candies galore. We'd dye the eggs the old-fashioned way all day Saturday and get up super early on Easter Sunday morning to stage the hunt, before the littler kids woke up or arrived. We'd start drinking the good Champagne early in the day, with poetic toasts, of course. 


Bad Bunny
As in any ongoing human activity, things sometimes got complicated. One year the "Bad Easter Bunny" appeared and handed out airplane-size liquor bottles and bright colored condoms, which the kids blew up into balloons. Surprisingly, not everyone thought that was funny. "What's the difference between a condom and a balloon?" went the story afterwards. "About 10 years," was the response.

Each year I place a small wooden baby blue stop sign, the corner gnawed off years ago by my puppy, at the main entrance to the maze. It says, "Easter Bunny Stop Here."

At high noon, I stand on a chair, make a brief speech and ring a gong to kick off the hunt. Big kids, 10 and up, enter the elaborate narrow maze cut into the tall grass of Lone Palm's large meadow. Children 5-9 follow another, slightly easier path. Wee ones under five have their own "children's garden," a tiny spot filled with sparkly treasures and sweets, amid scarlet geraniums, bunny-soft Mexican sage, and fragrant sweet peas. 

An additional bunny visit is often required for the little ones whose parents bring them late to the party. "You are the Easter Bunny!" said my neighbor in mock awe. A Navy Seal Vet who reminds me of the Marlboro Man, he'd spied me, basket in hand and wearing bunny ears, re-seeding the children's garden with treats. 
MY basket!

Today, it's more Prosecco than Veuve, and the partying is gentler. The dozens of kids seem younger, the parents, too. I feel such joy connecting with neighbors and discovering new friends of all ages. Some little people become great fans of the Big Sur-style Easter Bunny, and bring a passion to filling their baskets each year. 

As the hostess, my Easter costume is key. After years of playing around with everything from a pink corduroy pantsuit plus a top hat to the gaudiest floral table cloth mini-dress I could find at Goodwill, I think I've found the best one yet: a skirt, camisole and jacket in a lustrous pale green fabric, with iridescent pink and yellow threads sparkling through it. A white felt hat with a veil, simple flat sandals, and off I go, Egg Hunt Mistress of Ceremonies. 

In the office the teenaged boys I'd met as toddlers were playing card games. They looked up at me as I emerged from the bathroom in my finery, so on impulse I asked them, "What do you think?" To my pleased surprised, their budding gallantry shone forth.

"You look lovely," said Theo, now studying at Vassar. "You look like Easter!" said Blake, who plays the Chinese board game Go with my husband, and cooks breakfast for us all. 



Bliss!
One of the sweetest photographs from a decade ago shows five little girls, all in their Easter dresses, jumping up and down on the outdoor bed, hair flying, laughing. The cobalt ocean is their backdrop, a sky blue sheet with clouds scattered across it covers the bed. One little gal, Stella, is in mid-air, as Mom Heather stands by, holding hands with Mason, encouraging him to jump towards the sky too.

Two years ago, one of the first young ladies to come to the party was one of those children. Now 14, Emilou's golden tresses spilled over her jean jacket and her smile was the smile of an old soul. I popped a wide straw hat, crowned with orange paper flowers, onto her head, and snapped another photo. 

Years ago, there was Ryan, with his wispy, curly hair that hadn't been cut since his birth, his eyes a soft chocolate brown. People thought he was a little girl, until he started climbing the tallest tree in the yard, a 50' Norfolk pine. I can still see him, wearing the world's smallest red plaid fleece shirt, holding the itty-bitty black bunny I'd adopted up close under his chin. I remember Ryan's sister, Kaili, scampering in the meadow in her corduroy jumper, dancing with our herd of goats. She'd pet the long-legged babies' tiny faces, then lean her head against the nanny goat's dark withers as if they were having a chat. 

Then there was Isabella, destined to be a teenage rodeo queen. You might remember her if you hold onto copies of Smithsonian magazine: in 1999 she made the cover. She stands barefoot on top of her honey-colored horse, on a hilltop above the sea. She looks directly at the camera, her eyes serious, her face wistful. "Big Sur, Life on the Edge," the headline reads. In my mind's eye Isabella holds up a royal purple egg, a diamond pattern in white crayon peeking through the paint. Her long brown hair frames her face as she smiles a Mona Lisa smile, freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. 

Towards the end of the Eggstravaganza late one April Sunday, I netted a mermaid just before sunset. I gave her some big fluffy towels and a glass of Champagne and plopped her into my claw-foot tub, where strands of passionflowers swirled around her like kelp.

Her handsome, red-headed boyfriend sat and chatted with us on the nearby deck, a sheepish smile on his face as he glanced over at his girl in the bath. Lukie, all grown up, gamine and beautiful. Her close-cropped thick black hair and aquiline features, her deep amused laugh and her sweet youthful self covered in bath bubbles and flowers. The perfect finish to a day of celebrating Spring. 








Thursday, March 19, 2020

This Great Love

Here's a poem I treasure, from Persian poet Hafez. These days we may not  "leave each morning" but, surely none of us does not  "lift a great pack."



This Great Love

I want both of us
to start talking about this Great Love
As if You, I, and the Sun were all married
and living in a tiny room.
Helping each other to cook,
do the wash, 
weave and sew, 
care for our beautiful 
Animals.

We all leave each morning
to labor on the Earth's field.
No one does not lift a great pack.
I want both of us to start singing like two
traveling minstrels
about this Extraordinary Existence
We share, 
As if,
You, I, and God were all married
and living in 
a Tiny
Room
                                                             -from Hafez, The Gift

Wednesday, March 18, 2020

Black Swan

Black Swan event is nearly impossible to predict and has profound and universal impact, changing the world forever. Now, this rare bird, this crisis, has crash-landed into our lives, threatening millions of humans. We are told to “flatten the curve” and stay home indefinitely, while hospitals amplify their care ability and a vaccine eventually arrives.

Before, in my workplace, I shook hands with guests. I hugged, and received hugs, abundantly, from co-workers and friends, old and new. Last week I watched happy visitors touch, inhale, try on and breathe all over beautiful, seductive things in the now temporarily closed Phoenix Shop. This nasty virus apparently survives on surfaces, and well, you already know what we all came to understand. 

A day after swearing off embracing at work, I found myself standing a few feet from my lovely co-worker Caitlin, with whom I hug often. Suddenly I said, "Aw, forget it!" and we turned to each other for a quick, big hug. As we briefly clung together we laughed, and the world snapped back to normal again, for just a moment. 

My personal prescription for sanity (other than hugs!) is to indulge yourself with Mother Nature.

Drink in the rays of the sun each day. Whether you sit beside a window in a comfy chair or lay down in the grass and dirt outside, just absorb the amazing strength of our planet while enjoying the warmth of our star.

Feast your eyes on a flower, admire trees, listen to birds, take deep breaths of the breeze. Marvel at the miracle of your body as you walk, hike, dance, and sing in the shower.  If you can, stare at the sea, or the mountains, or watch waves on the beach. (You can listen and watch nature on screens too, though that’s a little too Soylent Green for my taste.) 

Wherever you are, you can usually gaze at the stars or the moon at night. Remember that while everything changes, some things do not. I don’t think the constellation of Orion is going to rearrange itself, or that the dog-star Sirius will go walkabout off to a different galaxy.

Take comfort in what doesn’t change, or what won’t change as much. Thick blankets, soft skin, warm pet fur, chocolate. Write letters the old fashioned way, on paper, with pretty colored pens.

Read that daunting book you’ve had on your shelf for years. For me, it's Old Path, White Clouds, by the beloved Buddhist monk Thich Naht Hanh. Relax a little - eat pasta and ice cream. After that, take a bellydance class via Zoom! Have a kissing marathon with your shelter-in-place companion. Find solace in prayer and meditation.

For those who enjoy the company of their families and their partners, there is a special kind of bliss in being together, and being safe. One hopes that our communication skills will improve, by sheer density of opportunity to practice them, combined with the powerful need to understand and help each other during this global emergency.

A friend gently explained to me that the well known saying “May you live in interesting times” (considered a curse) was popularized by President Kennedy to remind us that great challenges generate great progress. The Chinese saying was actually “Heroes come from turbulent times.” 
When we face our fears with as much grace as we can, we become heroes.

How will we progress? Perhaps we’ll learn that we really are just earthlings, all of us astronauts, and that we need to wake up to this reality more than ever before. Perhaps we will find more ways to love and care for each other, and for our magnificent, one-of-a-kind planet. Perhaps all of this will, ultimately, be healing.

The cover of our early edition of Thich Naht Hanh’s book A Guide to Walking Meditation, shows him as a young man, standing beside a country road with a big smile on his face, a tall sunflower as his walking staff.

He says, “I put my palms together, like a lotus bud, and pray that we all find peace.” May it be so.




Saturday, January 11, 2020

Black Phoebe

Winter is the time of platinum light here on the coast, and this is most clear on gray, cold mornings at dawn. We had several mornings like this at the start of the new year last week. I love the turning of the year, in this case, the decade, using this time for reflection and seeking a sense of renewal and peace.

There's a sweet little bird I watch daily here, a Black Phoebe, whose plaintive call, tee-hee, tee-hoo, is punctuated by her action of flying out from her perch, then back to it. She flies out, tee-hee, then flies back, tee-hoo. Pretty goofy, really. Apparently she swoops out to catch insects, then, conserving energy, flies back. It's kind of like what we do each day: we wake up, sit down for coffee, sing out, then go out into the work world to gather necessary insects, um, resources. Then we fly back home. At any rate, I feel like this is what I do, tweet the old-fashioned way, go out into the world, tweet, return home to my perch.

Call it reverse anthropomorphism, seeing our similarities with the world's fragile and precious creatures. I just finished reading The Bees, by Laline Paull. This is some of the most imaginative writing I've read, a complex page-turner told from the point of view of  Flora 717, a most daring and inspiring worker bee. The bees' hunger for community and devotion is as great as their lust for nectar; they live in an elaborate hierarchy but each, from the priestess to the sanitation worker, feels the unconditional love of the Holy Mother.

Winter time brings a level of quiet that is unsurpassed. Strong winds blow away the clouds and the afternoon light falls at an oblique angle on the land.  A few days ago, in the early morning, I spotted a devilishly large bobcat strolling up to the woodpile behind my house. Bobcats are the gangsters of the neighborhood, with body-builder shoulders, wide, sly faces, dramatic black fur tips on their ears, and undignified, stubby tails. We both did a double-take, and I said, "You're not my kitty..." She trotted away towards the meadow, and when I followed her I felt her watching me from the edge of the oak forest.

Now the leaves from the maples, sycamores and elms have all fallen, the shoes of the past year have all dropped, the verdict is in on 2019. As the days lengthen slightly, we make resolutions, the jonquils bloom, and it's bar closing time for the Great Horned Owls as they stop hooting and start nesting.

Sensing ineffable impermanence in the stillness of winter on the coast is a gift; it distills into daily life when we interrupt the frantic pace that can consume us.  Someday, each of us will "fall off our perch" as they say, and may it be in a fulfilled state, a blissful surrender to the light.


Sunday, February 26, 2017

Liberty Seeds


Nothing in the world
is as soft and yielding as water.
Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible,
nothing can surpass it.

Lao-Tzu, Tao te Ching

Liberty seeds

The propane tank is at 25%, tribes of earthworms are emerging everywhere, and the cat had a seizure. I've stopped bothering to check the rain gauge. While we still have plenty of coffee, rice and beans, I’m afraid that we may run out of that vital supplement: chocolate. 

It’s been a rough month on top of a crazy year. Sixty inches (that's my height) of precipitation in two short months. In early January I made a trip  to my mother’s house and on my drive home a mud / rock / tree slide happened in the Big Sur Valley, closing down that stretch of highway for days. I spent a week with dear friends in Carmel and longed for home despite ongoing punishing storms.

I was willing to climb with a backpack over the rock slide at the bottom of the ridge to hide under the covers with my beloved, but decided to be prudent instead.

A month later I was about to head north again, and wisely re-thought the  trip after looking at the forecast. I also caught a nasty cold that kept me in bed on Sunday, February 12. That day the Pfeiffer Canyon bridge was designated as a serious hazard, thanks to the lucky observations of the man who spent considerable time under the span. 

So these past two weeks I have reveled in being here on the ridge and not on the “other side” despite hardships and anxiety. One morning we awoke to snow on the mountains and a bright rainbow over the ocean. We’ve enjoyed candlelight dinners and then gone early to bed, to sleep like little animals in a burrow. Again and again we listened in the darkness to pounding rain and howling winds, wondering what the morning would bring.

It’s felt like we were living at the bottom of an aquarium. Enormous trees tossed their branches like kelp fronds and even the air burbled and hissed with endless wetness. Meanwhile, the frogs were delirious, croaking epic operas all night long.

Last night we dined on sardines with wasabi sauce, served with a flair as “poor man’s sushi”. We’ve found the time to read, do yoga in the intermittent sunshine, to breathe and to think. I’ve finally opened Joseph Campbell’s Hero with a Thousand Faces, and am finding inspiration in every well-crafted phrase.

We’re looking at several months to a year of difficult crossings out of Big Sur to the North. The exit South is un-traversable until a nail-soil wall is in place, the Old Coast Road is a river, and Nacimiento-Ferguson road over the Santa Lucia Mountains is crumbling.

It’s as if Momma Big Sur stomped her foot, took down her hair and did a full-body shimmy for weeks, saying “Enough is enough!” She has reclaimed her craving for chaos, her destructive power.

Perhaps she got tired of staying in shape for the whole wide world, constantly at her door, and decided instead to give us a taste of her sloppy, scary, gorgeous self. Now, as the storm cycle subdues, we feel her calm out-breath, and it’s delicious.

While repairs are forthcoming and the powers that be are strategizing, those of us on the ground here are also discreetly celebrating the solitude, the reduction in distractions, and the re-awakening of all the nature around us. When the rains stop, the birds sing.

Systems are falling into place, too. My poor gray kitty had a bizarre seizure. This taught me that trying to subdue an animal that is frothing at the mouth with my bare hands is not a good idea. After sustaining kitty stigmata in my right palm, I called our community’s Big Sur Health Center.

To my astonished delight the center's resourceful doctor put antibiotics on a helicopter headed down the coast that afternoon. I picked it from the pilot, who smiled at me and waved the brown paper bag holding the drugs when he landed on the heli-pad. It was a movie-worthy moment. (Note to self, next job – helicopter pilot?)

Due in part to the lack of affordable housing in the area, many of those who do important work in the kitchens of the affected businesses live outside of Big Sur. Instead of the grand tradition of restaurants opening their walk-ins to feed hungry, trapped employees and locals, they are simply closing down. On Valentine’s Day, we had one of the last ambrosia burgers Nepenthe will be serving for a while.

Anticipating this, many of us blessed enough to live between mile marker 29 and 45.5 have stocked our pantries in preparation for this kind of event. A bit of a doomsday perspective has helped, as do vegetable gardens, of course.

We slid under the wire on this one, as we acquired 20 cubic feet of dirt a week ago, filling our little truck. Just before we crossed Pfeiffer Canyon bridge, already beginning to look like a roller-coaster, we were informed that there would be no more traffic on it of any kind, ever. We felt like trapeze artists as we drove delicately across the middle of the sinking span in a lane marked by orange cones.

Driving down the rocky coast in the sunshine that day, we saw a painter friend at her easel on the wrong side of the stone wall, 500’ above a cove filled with barking sea lions. While some have hiked and ridden horses on the highway these past weeks, our friend informed us that earlier that day a young woman had sailed past her on a skateboard, completely naked. Brrrrr!

Today is blessed sunshine; the lights go on when you flip the switches, the washer and dryer are doing their holy work. Outside I pull up large swaths of tenacious scotch broom, freeing invasive roots from rocky soil that has become soft clay, almost butter.

Some time ago we bought several cans of “Liberty Seeds” from survivalseeds4patriots.com. We have beets, cucumbers, corn, lettuce, kale, spinach, carrots, onions, peppers, and more - all in super-compact, not-yet-germinated, form. 

As soon as the rain stops for a few days and it gets a little warmer, we’re going to put dirt into two large circular canvas pots and sow these mysterious seeds. It’s a miracle that something so tiny will create a plant that we can eat in the months to come, and we are hopeful.

We're on a kind of frontier now, where communication, patience and self-reliance are all crucial. Simple seeds can provide freedom in the midst of chaos. We're looking forward to a sumptuous Victory garden, more appropriate now than ever. 


Saturday, January 21, 2017

Rain Drum


Our Round House
encircles us in the storm.

The ceiling flutters, then snaps taut
under thrumming raindrops 
that bombard us like endless thoughts -
pummeling us into sleep,
into dreams...

our canoe springs free as
poisons wash away 
downstream

we plunge into
possibility -
into
stillness.

How much stronger we are
in this Rain Drum,
this
quiet.


--for Torrey, on his birthday!