Saturday, May 23, 2009

Wild Strawberries


No, not the 1957 Ingmar Bergman film, but the tiniest little gems of fruit in my garden.

They hide, they're itty-bitty, and they're only tasty when they are completely scarlet verging on burgundy. They peak when they're so ripe that they're almost ready to drop off the stem, and yes, there's a metaphor there. Served with slightly melted vanilla ice cream and fresh mint leaves, they're unforgettably delicious.

Typically we harvest only a handful a season, but now there is a bumper crop, around the pond, on the path to the meditation deck, and underneath the palm tree. Finding them recalls our annual Easter egg hunt. Since we hide brightly painted champagne glasses so our grown-up guests can also enjoy the thrill of the chase, sometimes we find a lone, faded goblet in the grass.

You can pick a bunch of berries and marvel at their beauty, but curiously, they don't taste better en masse, and there's an allegory for you! Less is more in the wild strawberries department. One, whether plump or microscopic, is enough. What counts is the explosion of the sun-warmed, juicy essence on your tongue. Succulent, sweet, surprising. Take a moment and savor just one, and you know that the gods live in nature, and their gifts can make us whole.



Tuesday, May 19, 2009

The Children's Garden


This past Saturday afternoon I found myself at Big Sur's Captain Cooper elementary school, visiting the Children's Garden. A playful horticultural lab that is a real "victory garden", this tranquil yet dynamic space below the classrooms gives students a wonderful outdoor learning experience.


This day's jubilee celebration included activities like face-painting, composting, scarecrow sculpting and spontaneously running through the sprinklers. Garden Director Lauren Gamblin, truly an enlightened soul, gave grown-up visitors guided tours. We sipped delicious homemade lemonade as we strolled through garden beds filled with everything from hollyhocks and beans to native grasses.


An organic garden this large clearly involves lots of ongoing care, and while Lauren has the vision, it is the schoolchildren who do much of the work in this living classroom, planting, identifying native plants and garden critters, enlisting the help of worms via vermi-culture, etc., as well as learning about what makes a healthy diet.

There's a green house, planting sheds and an art project area, all of it of course with the backdrop of the Big Sur ridges sloping down to the great ocean beyond. You can view a live version of what happens in the garden, in what is quite possibly the cutest slide show on the planet.

Nurturing children's curiosity is noble work, and turning the earth over with one's fingers is a joyous way to learn. Enjoying this beautiful afternoon in the garden, seeing our community in service to children in such a fundamental way, recalls to me the words of beloved scientist and writer, Rachel Carson:

"If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I would ask that her gift to each child in the world would be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life, as an unfailing antidote against the boredom and disenchantments of later years, the sterile preoccupation with things that are artificial, the alienation from the sources of our strength."

Thanks to Lauren and sponsoring local non-profit, the Big Sur Arts Initiative, that good fairy is clearly working her magic in the Children's Garden!

Photos by Linda Sonrisa

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Rattlesnake Days

This is by far the hardest post I've written, just for the fear factor! I HATE these buggers, I don't care what they symbolize in the many divination systems I fancy. Transmutation, blah blah blah. These are shy, scary little f*ckers and you don't want them in your garden underfoot.

But just guess what happened today on my delicious morning at home: a tree guy from PG&E walked down the path to my door, and announced, "Wow, that sprinkler sounds just like a rattlesnake." Trouble was, I wasn't running a sprinkler.

Damn, damn, damn, it IS a rattlesnake, I replied, along with many other choice, unprintable expletives. Nothing like a poisonous snake close at hand to release my inner truck-driver mouth. There it was, beside the flower bed, nervously buzzing for all it was worth. Funny thing is, I'd been thinking earlier in the day how it was...almost...time...to see one again. Later, after we disposed of it (yes, we sent it into the next world since it was stuck halfway under the house) Anthony the tree guy remarked that they'd been on his mind today, too.

The babies are born live, not as eggs, and they start hunting immediately. On hot days they take refuge (Oh lord) beneath our house. Gophers are one of their favorite meals, and we've got plenty of those around. They also kill small dogs, cats and presumably toddlers. Each time I see one it is an epic, unforgettable experience, and after a decade here, I've got a few stories to tell.

Somehow, I don't know why, they appear more frequently when I'm here alone. One evening I almost stepped on a baby one, and I hacked it to death with a shovel. My apologies to those of you out there who have a fondness for vipers. You know who you are. As I gouged its head off with the dull blade (OK, I do feel kind of bad about this episode) my sarong fell down around my hips, and I had a vision of myself, a bare-breasted woman battling a tiny snake while simultaneously being devoured (of course) by a gazillion mosquitoes.

Another time I tried the humane approach, and curled one up on the end of a rake, with the idea that I would toss it down the canyon. Snake-on-a-stick, I realized I'm a failure at all sports involving throwing things, and I was certain I'd just flip it back on to myself. Sheer panic, and then I pitched it into an oak tree about 8 feet away.

Crotalus viridus is the species name of the western rattler we find in Big Sur. They don't come out only in the daytime, they don't just hide under rocks. I've seen them at night, stretched out in the cool grass. They can strike out 2/3 of their length, and this formula just gives me math anxiety of the worst kind. I'm not about to test that theory. An absolutely chilling fact I just discovered is that by killing the ones who rattle, we're selecting for the silent ones. Great.

Naturally, the man of the house doesn't like to kill them, and has an elaborate method of catching and transporting them (generally down to the highway near the hiking trails tourists use.) He'll hold the shovel right behind their evil little triangular heads, and then with his bare hands (gloves are two unwieldly) he pinches them firmly where their necks would be (if they had necks, nasty things) and drops them into a bucket or cooler.

One lazy Sunday afternoon I was napping on the lawn on a blanket, arm stretched out to my side. Suddenly I woke up, to see a rattler coiled up about six inches away from my hand. I did the worst possible thing, and just sat up and screamed my head off. That snake was hunting, and as I screamed it rattled, tongue flicking in and out of its mouth.

Suffice to say, with the help of my neighbors and my husband's trusty snake removal technique, I survived, and began to make a serious attempt to appreciate reptile symbolism. This led me to the poem below, from Jamie Sams' Animal Medicine book:

Snake, come crawling,
there's fire in your eyes.
Bite me, excite me, I'll learn to realize
that poison, transmuted
becomes eternal flame.
Open me to heaven, so I can heal again.

Yeah, right.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Night Blooms

It's 3am. My body wakens with that strange ache that won't go away. Is it just another reminder of age or something deeper that leaves my heart pounding as I chew over my latest worry? This is the personality I've experienced since childhood: this questioning and wondering about Life.

Tonight (or this morning) I look out the window at the full moon, hiding in the branches of the elm tree. I love the moon so much sometimes I think we should have more than one. Another celestial body close to earth would fulfill the fantasy of many a science fiction fan, as well as provide a reason for even more romantic lunacy. But now I remember that one moon is enough. She has painted the ocean silver with her light, and kept an owl awake, too. It moans quietly nearby as if talking in its sleep.

Big Sur blossoms this time of year. Spring has sprung and we are all ready for warm summer nights filled with music, laughter, play. Art emerges again: twinkling lights, colorful lanterns, and prayer flags festoon our public and private gardens. Models strut down the catwalk in extravagant creations (no fabric allowed), children wear bright folkloric costumes in school pageants, dancers sway to the beat of musicians from all over the world.

In her early summer glory, Big Sur is the Mecca I dreamt of before I immigrated here. Can't it always be like this? This comforting, amniotic bubble of eye-opening culture and natural beauty that inspires an open heart.

This year it started with the wild-flowers, as if Mother Nature was making up for last summer's trauma by saying, Hey! Check this out! Let me show you how pretty, how gentle I can be. Afternoon light casts long green shadows down the slopes of Mt. Manuel. Morning sunshine splashes across the ridges. Itty-bitty quail scurry across dirt roads, orange and blue koi jump for breakfast in our pond, wild purple iris bloom in the forest. Walking barefoot feels natural again, and (dare I say it?) the joy of being buck-naked in the great outdoors returns to us.

As I snuggle under soft cotton sheets in my moonlit bed, the scent of night-blooming datura dances towards me, filling my breath with its indescribable nocturnal fragrance. Initiates seeking visions love this plant, whose delicate, pale yellow bells draw the night pollinators to them with their gorgeous essence. Breathing deeply, I slide peacefully back down into the land of dreams.

Photos by Toby Rowland-Jones
Photo of Captain Cooper School dancers by Laverne McLeod

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

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

Monday, April 13, 2009

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

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

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