Survision goes to the Birds

Well, Dear Readers, I did it. Yesterday morning I was up, dressed and driving down the mountain at (gasp!) 6:30 am. My husband calls it "sparrow fart" — that is, waking up just as songbirds release gas from their little birdie bodies. In other words, EARLY. My destination: The Ventana Wildlife Society's Ornithology Lab at Molera State Park. Mission: to band birds in their annual spring-time migratory bird tracking project.

As the sky lightens and I roll down the ridge road and onto the highway, I begin to hear birdsong. Oh, No, I say out loud, go back to sleep, little birdies, not yet, not yet! I'm hoping to pluck them out of VWS's mist nets, hold their delicate forms against my heart as I walk them back to the lab, blow on them, ruffling up their feathers (to determine gender) band them and release them back into the Molera riparian corridor.

But it was not to be. There was no banding happening yesterday morning, the lab's office door shut tight, a bench stacked with several pairs of rubber wading boots beside it. The VWS staff? Sleeping cozily in their nearby trailers, I suspect.

Revising my plan, I start a long-overdue, contemplative walk to Molera Beach.

There's no one else on the trail. Aside from the dawn chorus of the awakening birds, all is quiet. A gentle breeze caresses my face, my stride feels strong. I stop to wander into a meadow, and remember, many years ago, reclining with my husband-to-be there, and breathing together. When did we stop having time to do things like this? Life's such a mystery.

"Everything is simple and obvious." These words float into my mind, and I repeat them to myself as I walk beside the river (surprisingly close to the path, a storm-induced dramatic slice into the meadow some time ago.)

The stillness at the beach is startling in its purity. I sit in the perfect spot and close my eyes, letting the gentle surf and the singing bird nearby fill me up completely for a few moments.

As a modern creature, I wish I'd brought my digital recorder to capture this spontaneous concert. I could post it to my blog/facebook/twitter site! I could figure it out, make a technology project out of this experience. What did the ancients do, instead? They felt the natural world deeply and held it inside them.

Molera is untouched, the broad strokes of its landscape the same as what the indigenous people saw two thousand years ago. It is raw, primal, and inexplicably tender. I could sit here forever, I muse, but of course, not being a bird, a tree or a stone, I can't.

As I walk back, a doe emerges from the forest, stops and stares at me briefly. A little farther on, I spy a tiny, bright-eyed rabbit meditating beside the trail. Although I stand perfectly still and whisper softly to it, like all wild things, it runs away.

Then, as I turn back up towards the road, a little bird starts trilling, perched on top of a coffeberry bush. There we are! My parting song. I'll just have to come back next Tuesday.

Photos by Linda Sonrisa

Quinceañera, Big Sur Style

Last weekend, I attended a Quinceañera for my friend Pepe's daughter, Christal. It was a privilege to attend the special Mass at the St. Francis of the Redwoods chapel just off Highway One, and see Christal, Pepe, her brother Fabian and mother Lupe all in their finery for this traditional celebration of Christal's 15th birthday.

Anglos, especially Anglo women that I've spoken to, are fascinated with the Quinceañera, since we have nothing similar. While a Catholic ritual in Hispanic culture today, there is some evidence that it was originally an Aztec rite of passage to celebrate young womanhood! Either way, the involvement of the whole family in honoring the feminine—Dad, Mom, siblings, godparents and community—make it especially tender.

Since Christal's birthday fell on the day before Palm Sunday, several congregants waved beautiful green ferns in the aisles. There was a lovely song about God granting us peace, which I sang as loudly as I could, and it was wonderful to see my quiet new friend Julia read the crowd from scripture, signing off with "word of God", "palabra de Dios."

With my Spanish, I could follow the church ceremony fairly well. The priest, dressed in scarlet robes, spoke about the importance of respect and tradition, of keeping God in our hearts, not just in church but in our day-to-day lives, too. He even paused to let us all listen to the bad boys chattering in the back of the assembly.

But my favorite part was the loudly hicupping toddler behind me, a chubby little guy in a brightly striped shirt. At one point we all greeted each other with big smiles and warm handshakes, something I remember from the Protestant services I attended eons ago. There's always someone new to you who pops up in these moments, and the kind face of a stranger can be illuminating.

At the end of the service, Christal gave her saffron and flame-colored roses to the Virgen of Guadalupe, and we all sang about the beautiful Mother, full of love for us all. Later, we went to the Grange Hall for an abundant feast of carnitas, frijoles, tortillas, salad and deliciously hot salsas. A 7 piece Mariachi band performed for the occasion, and everyone chatted happily at the long tables set up in the hall.

Little children ran about on the dance floor, batting each other with balloons, and small boys jumped up over and over to capture the orange and white helium filled globes that were trapped against the ceiling. Of course, you spotted them later, inhaling the gas, talking in squeaky voices. We were served coca-cola and fruit juices, but the men who ventured outside were drinking something stronger, as evidenced by the reddish tint in their eyes when they sidled back indoors.

Sweetest of all, in honor of the maiden who emerges from her chyrsallis at 15, proud papa Pepe had painted an enormous vibrant orange butterfly for Christal's throne. Joined by her best girlfriends, she reigned for the evening like the queenly young lady she is now.

La Reina Mariposa, Christal—

Next? Prima Alondra and Tio Fernando.

Handsome brother Fabian, Soccer star.

Krystal
Krystal & Lupe
Kryal & Pepe
Libertad with balloon

Photos by Linda Sonrisa

Grace Fiddler

Second generation Big Sur community member Grace Forrest began studying violin on her own initiative at 6 years old. She is a key organizer of the week-long 2nd Annual Big Sur Fiddle Camp from April 12-18 at Rancho Rico in Big Sur. Six nationally known and Grammy Award winning teacher-musicians will perform on Thursday, April 16, at 7:30 pm in Lygia’s Barn on the Rancho Rico property.

A poster child for home-schooling, Grace heard the famous Scottish fiddler Alasdair Fraser on the radio when she was little, and liked it so much she asked her Mom, Torre, to take her to one of his concerts. “It was like nothing I’d ever seen, about 50 fiddlers all playing together. I loved that there were people in their 80’s playing as well as little kids, 4 or 5 years old. I said to my Mom, ‘this is what I want to do’.” She went on to become even more inspired by his music camp in the Santa Cruz mountains.

Grace brought self-motivation and genuine interest to the learning process. “My parents didn’t have any expectations, so I just took lots of classes from lots of teachers, and there was no pressure to practice.” Today she plays every single day, loves it, and it shows. Last summer she performed at the National Oldtime Fiddler’s Contest in Weiser, Idaho, for the first time, and did well, though she modestly downplays the accomplishment.

Now 16, poised, articulate, and lovely, Grace is a natural for the disciplined passion that the violin requires. And yet she’s not interested in a future as a performer as much a becoming a music teacher, in mastering the process of how the human brain learns music. “A good teacher has tons of performing experience, really, really cares about the students and has a lot of patience,” she says.

Her current local teacher encourages her to bring her own interpretation to the notes, trusting her skill and feeling for music. She's excited to bring this new dimension to her playing, and is also beginning to compose. Her first composition, she says, is in B-major, because “there aren’t enough violin pieces in B-major.” Playing violin now, Grace says, "is what I do; it's just like talking." I ask her if learning and performing music keeps her focused on the present moment. “Oh yes,” she laughs softly, “it definitely does that.”

She knows a remarkable amount about the history of the fiddling, and is impressed with "mouth music," the Scottish vocal form that arose when the English, oppressing the Scots, took away their fiddles and bagpipes. She has a love for Irish fiddling, the new acoustic sounds of performer Darol Anger, and for classical violin music. “Pretty much every tradition has produced some variation on the violin,” she remarks. In India the violin is very different from say, in Ireland. How interesting that, like a belief in the afterlife, the impulse to create music on strings seems universal.

Grace met Tashina Clarridge, who teaches and performs with her husband cellist Tristan Clarridge in The Bee Eaters, at the Mt. Shasta fiddle camp. This inspired Grace to create with Tashina’s help a similar experience for advanced students on the Rancho Rico property where she lives in Big Sur. The music is loosely known as Bluegrass, with a uniquely American approach to improvisation.

This Spring's 2nd Annual Big Sur Fiddle Camp will host 53 students, with classes each day in violin, cello and voice, with time for hiking and exploring in the afternoons. Each evening the Rancho Richo “barn” (an enormous two story high-ceilinged building that defines rustic elegance) will be filled with music. Grammy award winner Laurie Lewis will teach vocals, a special treat.

Grace arrived in Big Sur when she was just two days old, and her grandfather is local patriarch Don McQueen, who fought to save his property during last summer's Basin Complex fire. Among other things, he shipped in his own D-4 Caterpillar bulldozer to cut fire breaks while the fires raged.

She remembers watching the flames creep down the face of Mt. Manuel at night, hoping that they would not reach her home west of Highway One, and will never forget the helicopters that dropped water from the ocean on the flames, watering her garden as they passed overhead.

One of her earliest memories is bringing her Dad Blake his lunch each day while he built their home. She appreciates a real sense of belonging to a great community, and feels that young people here need exposure to quality art, music and cultural programs. "I also like bringing people to the ranch to share what life can be like: the experience of living in nature, with neighbors and families," she says, "versus being in big cities surrounded by strangers and asphalt."

As we finish our talk, I ask Grace to play me her "B-major" composition, which she does, standing out on her deck in the brisk Spring wind, with the forested slopes leading down the ocean as her backdrop. Her dog Pablo ambles by to listen as well. We are both transfixed by the energy and well, grace, of her impromptu performance.

I'm struck by the dynamic balance here of a refined art form, contrasting with raw nature, in the context of a loving family. Later, as we walk out towards my car, Grace calls out to her little brother, Nandi, 9 (who also now studies violin) to put his bicycle helmet on right as he flies down the canyon road on his bike.

Big Sur Fiddle Camp's Concert, on Thursday, April 16 at 7:30 pm at Lygia's Barn, will feature performers Tristan and Tashina Clarridge, Liz Carroll, Laurie Lewis, Bruce Molsky and Darol Anger. Sponsored by the Big Sur Arts Initiative and the Land and Water School, tickets are $25 per adult and $10 child at the door. For more information about the Concert call 831-667-2398.

Photos of Grace Forrest by Linda Sonrisa

Living with ?????

For years now, I've had a secret friend, who lives in the cabinet in my office, sitting on top of a bin of paper clips. He's rotund, shiny, black and plastic. When I'm agitated or curious, I turn him over and see what he has to say.

My least favorite answers are "Concentrate and Ask Again" and "My Reply is No." Much, much better is "You May Rely on It" and "YES" in resounding capital letters. If I've asked the same question over and over and over, essentially demanding a positive response, the YES feels as if he's saying, "Enough already!"

Like throwing chicken bones or casting lots, reading my friend's bright white words on a ghostly blue cube connects me, in some strange way, with the un-manifested, with what is yet to be. While Rilke has said that it's more important to live the questions than to have the answers, my plastic, fantastic, magical friend comforts me. Especially since I practice patience (or is it obsession?) in searching for my answers.

A teacher once told me that our needing to know is a kind of addiction, a part of human nature that seems emphatically expressed in Western culture. When we don't know, when we take those leaps of faith, we can plunge ourselves into considerable discomfort. It would be so nice to be certain that we are "right," that the outcome of our actions will be good, enhance our lives, make us better people.

I've known precious few individuals who have that elusive, rock-solid certainty about what they're doing in Life. Those who go directly from point A to point B, in their personal and professional lives, who laugh at horoscopes, and would never dream of having an emotional response to a fortune-telling toy. I wish I was like them and I detest them, simultaneously!

There is a freedom to be found in laughter. My friend's gift to me is that I feel lighter in the goofy process of consulting him. Originally marketed in 1946 as the "Syco-Seer" he's about as silly as a fortune cookie and only slightly more complex than tossing a coin. But his predictions can be profoundly satisfying. At turning points in my life, I generally ask the Universe, again and again and again, in a variety of ways. Then, when I (finally!) act, at least I feel like I've covered my bases.

But then, my most favorite answer is Ilsa's in Casablanca, in 1940's Paris: "There's only one answer to all our questions," she coos in her satin dressing gown, as she plants a big wet one on Rick, and they melt into each other's arms.


Mattel's Magic 8 Ball: Does it hold the Answers?

Here come the Lupines!

Today is the first day of Spring, and here in the Sur it is lovelier than ever. We've had our gentle and only slightly scary Spring rains (200,000+ acres of back country did not flood the valley or close the road) and even the mysterious Chantrelles made a comeback appearance, peeking out through the ash and leaves beneath the oak trees.

Now comes the time of the Lupine and the Poppies. Walking through a field of lupine flowers is divine: imagine Grandma canning grape jelly on a springtime afternoon in her farmhouse, a warm breeze wafting through the screen door, carrying the scent of grapes cooking in sugar. Like the peasants in Monty Python's Dennis Moore skit, we too could possibly enjoy a lupine sorbet. Something that smells so delicious seems like it would also taste good.

Smelling the warm earth and the sweetness of the small, ankle-level purple blooms smeared across the mountain, you feel Life coming up out of the Earth here like no where else I know.

We're now preparing for our annual Pagan Spring Festival, aka Easter. Several years ago I re-read Oscar Wilde's The Selfish Giant and became determined to share where we live with children. (Finding pretty eggs and chocolate bunnies in the green grass of Partington Ridge is an experience no child should miss.) Wilde tells us that Spring cannot really arrive without laughter and love filling our hearts. The metaphor for renewal and redemption is almost too much for me!



This year, the California poppies splash like gold dust (or saffron, as a friend says) across hilltop meadows, contrasting with soft purple carpets of lupines. Nature is the best designer, fiery golds and cool blues complementing each other against the mountains' bright green canvas. Everyone is talking about one special spot where the poppies really, well, POP.

As a young person, I remember learning that our state is the "golden state" which only makes sense, as anyone born in California will tell you. In Camp Fire Girls we learned that one should never, ever pluck the state flower. Here's a little poem from those days which I often think of at this time of year:

I will be the happiest person under the sun.
I will see a thousand flowers and not pick one!

Photos by Linda Sonrisa
Photo of Camille and the Wedding Tree by Toby Rowland-Jones

Missing da goaties

It's funny how ten years ago can seem a different lifetime. What happens to us each decade? What skin do we shed, how do we re-grow ourselves, and into what? We are unfolding mysteries, always.

From 1998-2001 we raised goats on Partington Ridge. A funny story from the beginning, when our back-to-the-earth friend showed up one afternoon with about a dozen goats crammed into the back of his pickup, under the camper shell. Three Mamas and lots of babies.

When this same friend taught me how to milk the nanny goats, I felt I was crossing back into another time, another world. Yes, I’m going to firmly grasp this animal’s teats and pull down hard, squeezing out streams of warm animal-smelling milk. It was delicious.

My hands got really strong, as an old friend commented when we held hands several months after I became a milkmaid. Milking the goats made me feel connected to people around the world who live close to nature, and gave me a wonderful sense of calm each morning. I was even able to feed my puppy directly from the source, shooting a stream of milk into his open mouth.

We made goat cheese too, cooking it slowly over our stove or leaving it to turn in large jars set in the sun. We’d flavor it with herbs and sell it to the fancy-pants restaurants in the valley. People loved it!

But milking the goats entailed breeding the goats, since milk production is ostensibly for goat kids, not humans. The babies came and then the milk came. So, we'd invite the billy goat over, avert our eyes, and a few months later watch (if we caught them at the right moment) the nanny goats give birth. They delivered their kids calmly, lying down in the straw and bleating occasionally, with a resounding bleat at the moment of truth.

Once I left two nannies with an enormous billy, big as a large pony, for a few weeks. As I was leaving the paddock, both of them ran towards the fence after me, bleating in distress, as if they were saying “doooooon’t leeeeeeeeave us here with this beeeeeeeeast!” But we did, and they both came home pregnant, producing a bumper crop of kids.

Mostly, I miss the babies, spindly legged little damp guys with horizontal pupils. We’d help the fresh arrivals to stand up and nurse, made sure everyone was comfortable and well fed, and would depart the manger, leaving the nanny madonna to rest with her new family. The hard part was selling the billy (boy) babies for stew meat several months later.

There was a reason for this sale, other than the purely mercenary one: billy goats mature sexually really fast, in less than 6 months or so, and, well, they’re randy little buggers that will mate with their own mothers, aunts and sisters. Not to sit in judgement of course, they were simply full of themselves and their sexual mojo, in some very amusing ways.

I remember when Captain Fuzzy (yes, we named all of them) began to grow into his adult billy goat-hood: As I was milking his mom, Felicia, I looked over to see him in a wide stance, head dropped between his forelegs, peeing on his tummy and face. And relishing it. He lifted his little head and wrinkled his nose, taking a deep, blissful whiff. Ahhhh. Yeah! A grown up billy, as you might imagine, stinks to high heaven. The urine is their pheremonal cologne, and like a slightly oily Casanova, they love the way they smell.

But still, I was always unable to eat cooked goat even though my husband encouraged me to think of it as if I was munching on a carrot from our garden. It just didn’t’ work; I couldn’t enjoy eating Captain Fuzzy, or Bebop, or Sigh Happy, or any of our capricious friends. They weren’t particularly disciplined at clearing our thistles either, though I do have a sweet memory of chasing them out of our elderly neighbor’s garden, with his help.

So, our lives changed again. As we became more occupied with the world beyond the property, we dispersed our tribe of goats to local chefs and neighbors. The era of the goaties comes back to me each Spring, though, when I imagine them nibbling on all the lovely new green growth, and I wake up to cold mornings dreaming of fresh warm milk, and the peace that only a happy goat can provide.


Cappuccino, Curious and Bebop
Me and Sigh Happy
Green Acres Christmas, 1998 (photo by Jeff Prather)

Oscars on the Mountain

Every year, on a Sunday evening in February, we host an Oscars party that has ranged from the raucous to the intimate. We hand out ballots, dress up, drink bubbles and dish on the celebrities. Empress Sula clues us in on each star’s astrological sign, and gives pithy commentary on the state of their relationships. “Ha, Brad and Angelina just had a fight,” she surmised, to general amusement.

Even where we can see the celestial constellations so clearly, Tinseltown’s stars have their appeal. We joked that we would spray paint a path from the front door to our couch, Partington Ridge's own red carpet. This year's show seemed homey and kind, and as the six of us noshed our way through delicious homemade lasagna and swilled champagne, there were a few tears as well.

Toby dressed in his tux, (his best "up yours Daniel Craig" look) white shirt open to the waist, bow tie dangling from the collar. I wore tight pants and a push-up bra under a slinky top, going for that starlet look. Our best girl (and singing instructor) Lisa G. (who I coaxed out of her cabin fever by belting out the theme song to "Cabaret") wore her Snow White dress and we giggled all night.

Our lasagna chef won the prize for guessing the most correct winners, happy that his favorite "WALL-E" received the golden statuette. Other favorites of the evening were Penelope Cruz, Mickey Rourke and the courageous Sean Penn. Our exclusive Oscars party continued until late evening, complete with dancing (yours truly demonstrating her just-learned Flamenco moves) more laughter and a pause to admire the real stars outside, sparkling above us on the dark carpet of heaven.