Report from the front lines

As I write this on early Sunday afternoon, Kip sits beside me in the corner booth at Fernwood (which has Wi-Fi, bless them.) I've just seen an enormous plume of smoke above Mt. Manuel, behind Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park. Palo Colorado Road is under voluntary evacuation. What follows are a few thoughts, and some pictures (courtesy of fire-fighter, pig-rescuer, and intrepid photographer Toby Rowland-Jones.)

I have seen no better depiction of Mama Big Sur, ever. Here she is, yoni open, streaming her charge into the ocean, intent on her healing work. Purify the forest, blast the mountains, give us all a big, beautiful shock. Swirling blue ripples of energy, out and around and down into our core. From her soul, her center, to ours.

Empress Sula’s polarization— energetic charge and wild destruction combined in one perfect storm. And it is Sula who encourages me to make a run for it down to my house from the Big Sur Valley, coaching me how to talk my way past the sheriff’s roadblock. “Don’t be afraid, be clear and strong. And don’t be coquettish,” she admonishes. I tell the cop the truth: “My husband is fighting the fire on Partington Ridge. I’m going up to get my dogs and get out.” He says, simply, “OK” and waves me on. Shit, now I’m in for it, I think.

Rocks fall as I drive beyond Grimes Point, where the sheer rock face was dynamited to make the highway so many decades ago. Burning stones come tumbling down, loosened by roots that have released their grip, seared away after years of holding the cliff together.

Up at the house I make a mad dash for those few things I’ve thought about (wedding dress, extra photo books, laptop) and those things guaranteed to comfort me when I’m away (fluffy bathrobe, lingerie, love letters.) I work fast, and have time in that 90 minute window to say my prayers to Quan Yin, gazing peacefully over the pond and smiling dreamily by the bathtub. “Save this house, Great Mother, and I promise to believe, always, in Love.” Which I will do anyway, I realize, as the words leave my lips.

Cold beer in hand, I collapse briefly in the blue Adirondack chair, looking down the green swale of the lawn to the sea. A breath, a sip, a moment. Then I hear the forest service trucks and Toby arriving. With another handful of belongings I head towards my car, grabbing the SF Giants baseball cap on the way out the door. I hold it up to show Toby as he comes down the path in his “yellows”, the fire-fighter’s uniform, “Go Giants!” I deadpan, ashes falling around us. I get a brilliant smile from him instead of a scowl, since I am up here against his explicit orders.

I remember 89 year old Bob Nash responding to Toby calling us up to come watch the sunset, “Orders from Headquarters” he said. This makes me chuckle inside on this incredibly tense afternoon. Bob, the cosmic linchpin, who lived on this property for 35 years and was never touched this closely by fire. He held it all in balance with his mystical power.

Silver lining so far: Time spent with neighbors, over meals, wine and games. Conversations about what we treasure and fear, enthusiastic willingness, shared peaceful moments, laughter over the prosaic, embraces that comfort grief, this is what it's all about: authentic community, being in the inescapable moment, together.

How else would I know how my friends make their coffee in the morning? How they play cards with their son, how they cook turkey and gently sweep crumbs off the dining table? How they like a nip of scotch in a crystal tumbler or perhaps a glass of wine while knitting socks? The things we discover when we spend time together, time living, not time entertaining, but being. These are windows into who we are, an intimacy which is priceless to me.

Driving down Partington Ridge that Sunday evening, I see the unspeakable: three giant ridges, Graves, Castro and Grimes, on fire. Huge banners of smoke trailing out from each mountain, like three volcanoes in a row. The air thick, heavy with smoke, the sky gray, tinged with pink. The ocean slate blue, reflecting this nightmare that is not a dream.

"Welcome back to the fight." says Captain Renault to Rick in the final moments of Casablanca, "This time, I know we'll win." There is no greater love than to put your life on the line for a person, a cause, a place. Here all three converge: a community of souls that are spiritually fed by reverence for this land. Hiraeth, the Welsh call it, a longing for the land.

Next: Rebuilding the Shire...

Blogging from Fernwood

Well, we always heard it's not "if", it's "when" and boy has that come true, with a vengeance.

Lightning on Summer Solstice Saturday afternoon, June 21, sparked a fire that is Big Sur's worst in a 100 years. I'm sitting in Fernwood's lounge, drinking a beer, feeling like I'm sitting at the airport. Today I trucked another load of "one-of-a-kind" stuff to our friend's house in Seaside, my wedding dress and dozens of old books, belly dance gear, paintings and sculptures.

Talk about a roller-coaster the past week: going from all is lost and collapsing in very public tears, to dreaming that maybe we'll be all right, to obsessing about what the hell I should have grabbed and didn't Sunday afternoon.

Toby has yet to "light," i.e. be still for more than a few minutes, other than to sleep, in a week. He and several other renegade Big Sur Volunteer Fire Brigade members are wildcatting up on the ridge: even though the BSVFB has stood down for the fire due to US Forest Service involvement, these local residents are using their skills to assist the USFS strike teams in structure protection. They're putting out spot-fires, cutting lines around homes with weed-whackers and chainsaws, all day long in the smoke and flames. The goal: to drive the fire away from homes and back up into the wilderness, for good.

The forest service guys are doing backburns along Partington Ridge Road. The fire has now moved into the Partington Canyon to the south. We've lost two homes, Empress Sula's and the gracious Hopkins homestead, built in the 50's.

The good news: as of today our house still stands. At 6:30 am on Tuesday morning I called the BSVFB dispatch, to learn that they'd lost the battle for the house above us on our ridge. The USFS engine was leaving, and Toby was staying, to go down with the ship.

Panicked, I had them give him this message on the radio: Toby, get your Dad's sword and leave the property. Colonel Bones Rowland-Jones' regimental sword from the British Army would be important to him. Later they confirmed that he was safe. In my mind's eye I saw him springing off the mountain, flames all around him, sword in his upraised arm, eyes blazing as he flies directly to me!

The Basin Complex Fire is moving north, south and east. The folks who hosted us in the Big Sur Valley the past week are now packing their home up to leave. We have 793 firefighters, we need a few thousand.

More soon...it's not over yet, and there is a silver lining...

For updates, check out these sites:
http://www.kusp.org,
http://xasauantoday.wordpress.com/2008/06/23/big-surventana-wilderness-fire-news/
http://www.surfire2008.org/





Coastlands view, 6/27/08
A nice, wet day on Partington

Birds gotta sing...

This year, tossing out my usual esoteric New Year's resolutions, I chose one of my fantasies instead: a singing lesson.

During my session with Monterey's flamboyant voice coach Linda Purdy, I realized that, like any other art form, singing means learning how to do new, strange things, followed by practice, practice, practice. That omnipresent formula: Hard Work = Transformation. I think I was secretly hoping for her to just hand me a microphone and I'd be off to the Grammys...

For the past few months, I've been repeating my vocal exercises like a good dilettante. Mostly, I drive up and down Highway One dropping my jaw, relaxing my tongue and making funny sounds. I'm a grown woman (more or less), who's paid someone to teach her how to "motor-boat." Songstress Rebecca Sayre helped me out with this skill, revealing the mystery of how kids make those silly, explosive sounds. Having spent my childhood cringing at campfire sing-alongs, I'm still working up the nerve to sing in the shower.

My renewed interest in singing began last year, when life threw me a curve-ball. I began to hear a particular Linda Rondstadt song in my head, found it on CD, and began belting it out with her in the sanctuary of my moving car. Somehow it made me feel better. Guess that's where the Blues come from: sinking down so low you have to make some kind of soothing sound, and in the process you resurface among the world of the living.

My new, Big Sur singing mentor, Lisa Goettel, daughter of opera singer, Karla Goettel, says "When I was little I used to just walk around singing everything. My life was an ongoing opera - a constant, sung narration of my experience. When I do this now it has a pretty cool effect: a) it brings more awareness to me about what I'm doing - my relation to the present moment, and b) it lightens everything. It's kind of hard to take the propane bill so seriously when you're singing about it."

Lisa adds, "Singing raises endorphins in the body, and like yoga, helps move stagnant energies, oxygenates the blood and supports a healthy immune system. Plus it's primal: through breath we find our individual resonance, an intimate reminder of our connection to everything." She points out there's a whole field that addresses this phenomenon: You can get in touch with the gestalt of your voice at Esalen. Diane Austin, executive director of the Music Psychotherapy Center in New York says, "Nothing accesses the inner world of feelings, sensations, memories, and associations as directly as music does."

Singing along in Spanish is great fun, because of all the open, warm, round vowel sounds. Silvio Rodriguez, of Cuba, and Chavela Vargas, of Mexico, are my current favorites. Silvio sings pure poetry in his socialist ballads, while Chavela growls passionately about love and loss. To me, their music conveys the essential drama of Life: the search for justice, fulfillment, and peace of mind, pouring forth in full, lusty notes.

Then there's those melancholy, yet uplifting lullabies, this one perfect for the season. Sing along with our girl Janis...

Summertime, and the living is easy

Fish are jumping, and the cotton is high

Your daddy's rich, and your ma is good looking

So hush little baby, don't you cry.

One of these mornings, you're gonna rise up singing

You're gonna spread your wings and take the sky

But till that morning, there is nothing can harm you

With your daddy and mommy standing by

Photo: the young Chavela Vargas
Lullaby by George Gershwin

A Day Off

"Anything's better than wages," said Montgomery Clift's character in The Misfits, but for some of us wages are our fate. Working in the arts means that I count myself lucky to be part of the 9-5 in a thriving business. However, there's nothing quite like that wonderful tingly feeling in my tummy and toes as the day before a day OFF draws to a close: Anticipation! A day of FREEDOM.

It's kind of like when you're a kid and school lets out for summer, although in this case it's just 8 hours of respite from the office, the phone, problem-solving and acquitting myself of responsibilities that primarily benefit my employer. That slightly seditious feeling of telling other worker bees, "Well, I won't be in the office tomorrow, so...tough it out without me." Adolescent rebellion or the eternal yearning of the proletariat, to realize that promise to "breathe free" ? Either way, an extra day of rest (or play) is good for the soul.

My loving husband is doing my car stuff on the magical day, so I won't be spending it running bloody errands, hooray! I hate doing car stuff, and once dreamed that being a married lady meant no more trips to the auto shop, those greasy pits of hell. The only scenario that works for me with mechanics is the hunky guy in the navy blue jumper, with the downcast, lascivious eyes. I don't run into him too often...and of course, he's usually married, like me! Oh well, a girl can dream.

A Day Off needs to begin, as all proper Big Sur Days Off begin, with a big, fat Gold Coast Margarita at Neptune's the evening beforehand. Don't forget to enjoy the deliciously guilty French fries (just a half basket, please) and of course the "view that changed my life" as many refer to the south coast vista from Nepenthe. Follow this with a dash down to Esalen for a soak and the sunset. I even did a little impromptu victory dance in the solarium at Esalen, post soak.

Then there's the thrill of sharing Big Sur with someone new, of experiencing a fresh viewpoint vicariously, but powerfully. My new friend and guest for the day, Linda Rosewood, is a writer, which makes our time together extra rich. I'm reading her work with delight, especially her short story about (what else?) pregnant teenage lesbians. Our plan was to hike, drink French champagne, and read to each other. We did all three and more, visiting gifted painter Sarah Healey and having a cup of tea with her in her garden.

Highlights of the day: laughing so hard I spit up my champagne, the feel of my silk robe as I sauntered about outdoors in the morning light, reading Kipling's Just So Stories out loud, and watching my new friend's eyes fill with tears as she watched a golden crescent moon (just like Artemis' bow) sink gently into the ocean.
Photos: Rowland-Jones collection

Sacred places in a small world

Two weeks ago, I stopped in to the Center for Photographic Art in Carmel to see the lovely and thought-provoking work of Mary Daniel Hobson. While there, I met a gentleman photographer who was discussing his exhibit, going up on Friday, May 30: Buddhist Earth: Sacred Places, Sacred Work.

The funny thing was, when I gave him my business card he did something people often do in my village when they learn my name—Oh, do you know Toby Rowland-Jones? Ah yes, my famous husband, Toby. Turns out that the photographer (and former oceanographer), Kenneth Parker, engaged in shenanigans with my husband (and thousands of other celebrants) at Burning Man several years back.

Ken Parker has this amazing job, the stuff of fantasies: he travels around the world, trekking and kayaking, photographing sacred spaces co-created by both humans and Mother Nature. Sometimes it's the Mother's hand alone that he gracefully exposes for us. All elements harmonize in his exquisite compositions, and his images etch themselves indelibly on your soul.


With boundless enthusiasm and a debonair smile, Ken loves both the work he does and the result: “When I see a look of sheer delight in someone who really appreciates and understands my work, I am satisfied in my core. I love that moment of understanding, transmitted cleanly and passionately. It’s a consummation of all that I do, given as a gift to another.”





He has mastered the subtle timing required to elicit intense color from the prayerful quality of perfect light. His technique is well suited to Tibet and Burma, where simply being among the temples, frescoes, and countryside inspire a meditative state. Ruth Bernhard, one of the last century’s greatest photographers, commented that, “The way in which he works with the light is simply inspiring. It feels as if he has an arrangement with God.”

My favorite part of the opening reception took place on the patio outside the gallery, where scores of people milled about, all in their finery. Three Tibetan monks, Dzogchen Masters from the Vajrayana Foundation, and their entourage, were there to bless the exhibit and talk a little about the frescoes. In their saffron and burgundy robes, small of stature, and smiling, they stand out in the crowd. Suddenly, I’m shy, but introduce myself to Lama Sonam Tsering. I try out his name a few times to get it right, and we grin sympathetically at each other. With that mystical happy presence monks have, I feel more seen by this man than by anyone else there. We could talk and smile together forever.

His home, the Pema Osel Ling Tibetan Center was recently threatened by the Summit Fire in the Santa Cruz Mountains. A few buildings were destroyed and they were all evacuated. The Saturday following the opening of Buddhist Earth, Ken arranged for them to spend the day at Esalen Institute, as visiting dignitaries in need of a rest. Sonam’s glass is empty, so I offer him some of the red wine in my plastic cup. Sure, he says, and smiles, but stops me from pouring too liberally. After shaking hands, and bowing slightly to each other, he goes inside to begin the ceremony.

The last time I'd chatted with a Tibetan monk was after a meditation session at a friend's home in Big Sur. As we enjoyed a delicious lunch together beside the pool, I asked him about the Buddhist concept of desire as something to be overcome. To me, desire is about pleasure and why should we let go of wanting pleasure? “Ahh,” he responded, “Pleasure is good. It’s fine to have pleasure, no problem. It’s when you desire your pleasures that you will have difficulty.” When I share this story with Ken and Dennis High, the upbeat, innovative curator of the Center for Photographic Art, they laugh, "Yes, we are all so busted on that one!"

Buddhist Earth runs at the Center for Photographic Art at Carmel’s Sunset Center through September 30. The Gallery is open Tuesday - Sunday from 1pm to 5pm. Prints of Ken’s photographs are available for sale at the nearby Weston Gallery. The exhibit in a way is a forerunner to his book, now five years in the making, about the Kingdom of Mustang (pronounced Moo-stang) and will show the Western world details of Tantric frescoes never seen before. Via the American Himalayan Foundation, the same Italian crew that worked on the Sistine Chapel has coordinated a massive, ten year temple mural restoration project, with teams of Tibetans and Nepalese removing centuries of yak butter soot from the frescoes with solvent and cotton-tipped swabs! The AMF is also working to preserve the centuries old Buddhist temples of Mustang themselves, crumbling from seismic events and advanced age.

On the edge of the Tibetan plateau, due north from Annapurna, the Kingdom of Mustang was a part of Tibet that the US-backed warriors of Tibet protected from Chinese occupation in the 1950's. Mustang, officially part of Nepal, juts into China; on a map one can clearly see the shape that is called “a thumb in the eye of the Chinese,” by many. China's brutality in Tibet has brought support for this culture to a new high, in part inspiring this exhibit. Independent Mustang was closed to the West until 1991, quietly following centuries of tradition unmolested by occupying forces, technology or modern commercialism. The Dalai Lama has praised the practice of Tibetan Buddhism there as the “best in the world.”

Not only that, but Padmasambhava, the founder of Tibetan Buddhism, my personal inspiration for so much and whose presence I called upon as I began this blog, built the first Buddhist temple in Mustang.

Tashidelek (Tah-shee-delay, Peace) Ken. I'm sure the monks enjoyed their day at Esalen, celebrating the energy of another indigenous tribe, and soaking in the healing waters enjoyed by weary travelers for a millennia. Here, from the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying is the Padmasambhava mantra, ideal for "peace, healing, transformation and protection in this violent, chaotic age" :

OM AH HUM VAJRA GUR PADMA SIDDHI HUM.

Photos of Lama Sonam Tsering and Ken Parker by Toby Rowland-Jones

Painting at the Kitchen Table

Painter Celia Sanborn's garden echoes her exquisite landscapes: botanical details in the foreground, with swaths of forested canyons rolling down to the sea.

When she sat down to paint a hope chest for her niece 7 years ago, Celia had not taken an art class, or imagined she was starting a new chapter in her life. She simply bought the brushes and paints and began. Because she works in fast drying acrylic, this first effort caused frustration, and she almost stopped right there. But her husband Ray said, "No, no, don't stop. Let me sand it for you, and you can begin again." Finding her vision on that second attempt, Celia's new passion took her by surprise. She's created dozens of works since that day.

She began by painting chests, tables, benches and chairs. One day a friend who is a professional framer told her that what she'd put onto a table would be beautiful as a framed piece of art on a canvas. Though doubtful, she began, and we are the beneficiaries of the wonderful result! Celia's paintings take you deeply into them. The level of detail, painstakingly created, give them power. You are there under that tree, beside that flower, next to that sparkling wave.

For many of us not fortunate enough to be born in Big Sur, it's an image of the place that haunts us in the years before we emigrate here. A painting, poster or card depicting a little piece of paradise, soothing our souls before we realize, hey, I could live there. Then the real adventure begins!

For Celia, who has lived in Big Sur since she was a newborn, the landscape is her. This amazing life experience is now pouring out of her, with wondrous precision. She says she has something to express, but more than most artists, she is bringing forth a bountiful cornucopia of delight, of being in this land, savoring it, knowing it, loving it. You feel this when you look at her work, and that is the great, transcendent gift of her paintings.

Celia's parents, Selig and Helen Morgenrath, met during World War II in New England where Selig was working as a lumberjack in a conscientious objector camp. Helen, studying pacifism at Smith College, spotted him there on a field trip. They met again in New York City, married, and took up residence in Harlem, where they decided they needed to find a more rural place to live. They traveled across the country to Los Angeles, then, in 1949, went north, as Celia puts it, "Looking for trees." They found them in Big Sur.

The Morgenrath clan is famous here: builders, teachers, artists, firefighters, businesspeople. Selig Morgenrath built much of Esalen Institute, and Helen, now 82, still performs in Japanese Noh theater. Selig was born in a small village in Poland, where the men were weavers by trade. By all accounts, he was a genius, someone who could do anything simply by applying himself. Celia says she felt close to him when she began to spontaneously create, much as he did, sitting down at the kitchen table and simply beginning.

"My parents did what I feel parents should do: instead of only feeding and sheltering us, they were teachers." She learned about the natural world from them, and there were always materials in their home for art-making. Coming to her own fulfillment as an artist later in life, having worked as an innkeeper 6 days a week for 20 years at the Ripplewood Resort, as well as raising two boys, Celia is keenly aware of the psychological challenges of producing art.

Her process reminds me of the guidebook, Art and Fear, by David Bayles & Ted Orland, a slender tome which addresses the "perils and rewards of art-making." The uncertainty which assaults any artist is palpable, perhaps especially in a conscientious person like Celia. She bravely faces her self-doubts in exchange for her flashes of wonder. "My work is constantly evolving, and it's a mystery to me" she says, and in Art, like Life, you just have to fully embrace what is in order to gain satisfaction. Behind obstacles one finds treasures.

She weaves a tapestry in her paintings, each one taking copious amounts of time to complete. She paints the foreground on top of the background, so the tree covers the grassy hillside as in real life. The intimate scenes and dreamlike landscapes are reminiscent of Mexican painter Frida Kahlo, while her meticulous, layered execution recalls the 19th century Neo-Impressionist painter Georges Seurat. Celia dreams of eventually creating a children's book showing scenes of traveling through a pristine Big Sur, before there were roads, buildings or people. Here I think of Islamic art, which allows no representation of humans, just glorious repeating patterns, which, as in the natural world, give a soothing feeling of connection and harmony.

In Big Sur, you can find Celia's paintings primarily at the Del Campo Gallery, but also at Local Color. She and her husband Ray plan to craft a web-site representing her work. The business name they've chosen? Surprise Canyon Studio.

Photos by Ray Sanborn and Linda Sonrisa

Big Death in a Small Town

Mike Breen 1953 - 2008

I can’t believe I just wrote the line above, your name and those dates. Yet every day, every moment, it becomes more real. You spent nearly 30 years in Big Sur. During this time you loved and helped your neighbors, married your beloved, and built a business. You created your dream homes, one a three story redwood wine barrel nest in the cypress trees, the other a Hobbit-style magical cabin in the forest on Palo Colorado road. People said you had nine lives—rolling cars, crashing bikes, loving wildly. To die quickly while sitting on your couch last Sunday evening feels both ironic and appropriate. Just way, way, too soon, my friend.

You gleefully embraced your honorific, "Mr. Mike" when your young nephew christened you more than two decades ago. You were a life-long member of an underground organization I’ve observed for years: The International Brotherhood of Sexy Short Guys. Just a few inches taller than me, you packed a lot of dynamic, intelligent male energy into your physical being. Members of the IBSSG support each other in many ways, primarily through their mutual understanding. They have a secret handshake, and sometimes have more than a passing interest in a certain 18th century French politician.

We spent the past work-week in the emotionally pummeling process of preparing your Irish Wake, attended by a few hundred of your friends as well as your family, at the Post Ranch Inn. All those phone calls were worth it, bringing in some of your long lost comrades out of the hills. People told stories, laughed and cried. Your altar held your ashes, photos, candles, and red roses, with your boots, motorcycle “skidlet”, and Harley-Davidson leather jacket nearby. I added the x-rated fortune cookies I bought you in Chinatown last Monday.

We got word of your death from a brain aneurysm via cell phone in a Chinese restaurant, adding to the surreal quality of the news. One of life's rogue waves, it took me under for several long moments, and I emerged into the fluorescent lights feeling like a gasping fish, about to be tossed into the cook-pot.

Your tribute was a real Irish Wake, Big Sur style. It began with the ringing of shamanic fairy bells in each of the four directions, (some of us heard erections, not directions, you must have been playing with us) included a powerful crooning rendition of Danny Boy, and a traditionally costumed bag-pipe player outside on the hill. At the end, we all sang Amazing Grace along with your talented niece, who reminded us of the song's appropriateness for your life, and for each of our lives as well.

Your beautiful wife Mary spoke eloquently and proudly of you, a miracle in itself since she’d spent the days after your sudden death in crippling grief. Fifteen years of love, learning, travels and joy. Mary had clearly passed through the initial fire of your loss, and dispensed advice, “Don’t wait to enjoy each other, to travel and be together, don’t wait!” and humor, quoting the words on a ceramic mug made especially for them: “Mr. Mike rides a bike. Mrs. Mike holds on tight.” Since we all get to experience profound loss in our lives, let’s be sure to have heaps of joy and love as well. It helps. So does a community ritual which sets the tone for healing. Facing grief with grace, if done from the heart, can put a positive spin on the whole process.

Mr. Mike, my Zen master of the workplace, your joy and kindness brightened my life for nearly a decade. Two weeks ago I admired you zipping down the hill in your asphalt gray Lotus Elise sports car, and driving home last night I burst into tears as a Harley motorcycle rider rounded a corner in the opposite lane. I teased you the last time I caught you washing your cherry red Harley, on company time.

I imagine I’ll keep expecting you to saunter past my office window at 9:10 each morning, that we’ll greet each other with our beginning-of-the-day hug, a prophylactic against the stress to come. How could I know that the last time you ticked me off at work would be the last time, ever? Your gentle face turning mulish, whether to get my goat or because you really had a point was always in question, you stinker. Even when powerfully annoyed, I would say, “Sheesh, Mr. Mike, it’s a good thing I love you!” And I did, so much.

It’s unbelievable to me that I don’t get to hug you again, or smile back into your twinkling hazel eyes. That I won’t see you read the paper in the sunshine, with your ginger cat Sasha in your lap, that you won't be building enormous boxes to ship art across the world, or hiding any more plastic snakes in my office…

Now, when we laugh together, I will see you only in my imagination. But I choose to believe that my dream of you is you, too. I’m so very, very glad I told you that I loved you, Mr. Mike. Your smiling Irish eyes are still with me, and with us all.

Somewhere out there
Is a workshop that needs some help
It’s dusty and messy
And nothing is right or in the right place
It’s beyond the help of mere mortal men
Who on earth could make it clean?
Don’t panic, don’t worry – it’ll be under control
Mr. Mike is on the way

Somewhere out there
There’s a house half-built
Timbers all strewn about
And no one knows what’s what
Beams and girders, joists, brackets
Pipes, lagbolts, and tiles
All in a hellbent pile.
Hey don’t worry
Mr. Mike is on the way

Somewhere out there
They’re shaking their heads
How in the hell do I do this?
How does that fit into that?
What’s the thingy called to make this work?
Tempers are lost, things are thrown
Look, don’t worry
Mr. Mike is on his way

Somewhere out there
There’s a fleet of old Harleys
And beat up flatbed trucks
Sports cars that need some work
Idles to be checked
Plugs to be yanked.
But fear not
Mr. Mike is on the way

Somewhere out there
Someone needs some help
They need a guiding hand
Or perhaps just a good friend
Maybe they need some advice
Without being told what to do
With his knowledge and loving care
Mr. Mike is on the way

Somewhere out there
There are gathered some folks
Irish and other eyes are smiling
Laughter abounds and love resounds
Though there’s something that’s missing
Or was until now
Haven’t you heard?
Mr. Mike is on the way

Somewhere out there
There’s a door that’s opened
Shouts of joy spill out
And right in the middle
Surrounded by new friends
And being himself, what else?
Why did you ever worry?
Mr. Mike is now here.

—Toby Rowland-Jones

Photos: Breen family collection.
Photo of Mike in Bushmills hat by Linda Sonrisa