And another thing I love about this town

There's something profound about living in a place that draws people, like the proverbial lemmings, to stare at the horizon. It helps to remember this in late summer as tourism reaches its highest (some would say intolerable) level. Inns and restaurants are full, hikers and campers frolic everywhere, and the traffic (on the mere two lanes of Highway One) is, as they say "challenging."

Free associating lemmings with tourists, I found an interesting fact: "Driven by strong biological urges, they will migrate in large groupings when population density becomes too great." Since I began my exploration of Big Sur as a tourist as well, naturally I can relate. The city is crowded and dangerous, and travelers need a bit of sky.

Fortunately, circumstances are not so dire that the tourist / lemming jumps off the cliff (though this does happen.) Apparently the tribes of lemmings that have been observed jumping off cliffs are not committing suicide en masse but are swimming to new territory. Hawaii is a long way away, so our beloved lemmings (I mean, tourists) are stuck on the tops of the cliffs, gazing at the sea and sky, awestruck.

There's definitely a magnet in that horizon, and seekers who feel (consciously or not) their divine discontent come to this dramatic landscape to find...something. I watch them this time of year, looking for answers in a sunset, a hug, or a romantic kiss just as the sun sinks slowly into the Pacific, like an old man at a spa (to quote a friend of mine.)

How many photographic moments have I witnessed, driving on Highway One, that go on to be enshrined on mantel or desk, recalling the bright happy day, the ocean, the smell of the surf, that kiss? It's an honor to quietly observe people making memories, each one unique, unforgettable.

In my new role at the historic Deetjen's Inn, I get to participate, one might even say, co-create, some of these memories. I remember the glow that I carried with me from Big Sur, when, after soaking in its raw beauty, I had to return to an urban world. To see people relax over a good meal, or sense the calm that emanates from them after a refreshing night's sleep, is lovely.

Here's an RX for civilization: a few days without computers and cell phones, time spent hiking up canyons or down streams to the beach, sitting in the sun on a deck under the redwoods, reading journal entries from visitors past, or just staring at a flower in a Big Sur garden with fresh eyes.

And then, after the photo ops, the stories come: Everyone has a story and this place is an Innkeeper's paradise in terms of the treasures people offer up to share, every day. It's a phenomenon I've seen with guests at my home too: something clicks in the soul and deeper truths emerge, easily, sometimes with humor.

Human perspective is granted as people observe the vast perspective of sea, earth and sky. It's as if the eye sees the view, and then, when the mind takes it in shortly afterwards, understanding comes. Big Sur really is a place to both lose and find yourself, and perhaps we can thank our primal lemming-like instincts for that powerful gift.

Photos by Linda Sonrisa

Wedding on the Mountain

It's been a busy few months: I'm learning a handful of new jobs, studying dance more, traveling a bit and then, last weekend, we hosted the wedding of a gentle young couple, the son and now daughter-in-law of dear friends.

Without a doubt, the BEST part of living here is sharing it with kindred spirits, especially those under 10. The parents of the groom have 3 year old twins, Max and Chloe, and spending time with them prior to the nuptials was priceless good fun.

Ryan and Jami met several years ago in Big Sur at John's (Ryan's Dad) marriage to songstress Camille (Mother of twins.) My husband Toby was the first soul they told of their engagement (which also happened here) so marriage under what we've nicknamed "The Wedding Tree" felt natural.

On Saturday afternoon, a small group of friends gathered, and in a tender twist, the father of the groom walked the bride down the aisle, in this case a freshly manicured dirt path, with son Max tagging along beside them.

Veteran officiant Penny Vieregge, who's wedded dozens of Big Sur couples, held the space for a lovely ceremony. Much champagne was tippled, and happy, copious tears were shed during the big moment. Feasting, toasting and dancing commenced until the wee hours. Being a shutterbug, I took hundreds of pictures, thoroughly enjoying the process of documenting the joy.

Since we can never get enough of the Bride, here she is again, pre-ceremony, with that all important dress in the background...Doesn't she look like the cat that ate the canary? But then, all happy couples on their wedding day have that timeless, contented-cat glow.

Old chums Toby and Penny share a festive laugh under the elm tree. It doesn't get cuter than this: fire-fighters (Yes, Penny started the BSVFB Cliff Rescue Unit) all dressed up and having a ball.


Weddings are one of our most powerful community rituals, certainly the most enjoyable one. They're opportunities to express gratitude for family, to honor the cyles of life, to bask in love. With Dad also contributing the Christo-like installations down the bridal path, and with the Big Sur sun smiling down on them, Jami and Ryan were blessed with a beautiful beginning. We wish them much joy, always.

John and Jami Bright, July 18, 2009

My date with King Tut

Ever so often, we country mice make the long drive up to San Francisco for cultural events. Last Friday night, I had a date with King Tut, Egypt's oldest and best ambassador, courtesy of my dear friend Janet, who treated me to my ticket for my 39th (again!) birthday.

You might think I would be intimidated, what with him being immortal and all, but then, he was only 19 when he died, mysteriously, perhaps the victim of a wicked step-mother (Nefertiti) who wanted her way in the royal court. (Tut's death is one of the world's longest unsolved crimes.) He seemed to be a daring, ambitious and extremely fortunate teenager, the kind of charmer that always catches my eye.

Bright lights, big city, to use a now well-worn phrase. Yes, it has its charm and it draws me, a different high than the primal, majestic bliss I feel in Big Sur. House-sitting for a friend, I spent many hours on Saturday morning (in the fog) in the bath-tub in her garden, and in the dark wee hours of Sunday (watching the fog roll above the sparkling lights below.) And of course, in between walking the dogs (and following those nasty urban rules about you-know-what) I bought a pair of delightful new shoes. Yay!

But back to the magical evening with the King. Since it was a date, after all, Janet and I dressed up, and giggled together as we began our tour of the tomb, listening to Omar Sharif's sonorous introduction to the riches within. Something about the City makes me impatient, so while I mused over the relics relating to Tut's immediate family in the first galleries, and enjoyed the shabti, or funerary statuary of his relatives, meant to protect them and do their chores in the afterlife, I basically made a beeline to the heart of it all: an amazing chamber filled with the golden treasures of Tut's inner tomb.

Along the way, having forgone the audio tour, I enjoyed something I always love about museums: those casual contacts with fellow exhibit fans: the funny conversations we have about whatever comes to mind as we stare at 3000 year-old-plus relics, two kids sharing headphones bickering over which direction to go, or the way older people sigh as they pause in front of a brilliantly lit case, taking in some domestic artifact with a deeper level of feeling. Then there was the museum guard who was a dead ringer for Nefertiti herself. In the darkened funeral chamber, I could have admired her tranquil face and quiet smile for a long time, too.


While the romance and power is undeniable in the main chamber "Everywhere the glint of gold" as British archeologist and explorer Howard Carter said (thank you British Empire for creating a leisure class that could re-discover the ancient world for us) what really gets me are the more prosaic objects, those that tell a subtler story: The child's chair with the reed seat base slightly indented, the golden walking sticks, the game boards, head-rests and unguent bottles. Those objects that were part of daily life, that absorbed the energy of the people around them in a more familiar way.

Now when I look at my cheap brass bangles they recall the designs of venerable Egyptian artists. I see the soft gold of my chocolate bar wrapper in a different light, imagining it to emerge from the depths of an as yet undiscovered crypt. The exhibit's use of enlarged black and white photographs from the 1922 un-veiling of the tomb are remarkable too: they give a sense of the suspense they must have felt, approaching the entrance in the Valley of the Kings, and the glorious chaos of what they found.

In the last gallery, I feel the sadness of it all. A photo of Tut's sarcophagus, with his X-rayed remains inside, revealing a human man, after all, underneath all the pomp and glory, gone. An untimely death, even one that happened 3200 years ago, still carries grief.

Then, in this last, stark gallery I hear the strains of joyous music and people laughing. We emerge to find children dancing, friends in the audience, a full bar and LIFE! This was the De Young's gift to us, their Friday evening program, this night featuring the Georges Lammam ensemble performing middle-eastern music. Rashid, a SF-style male dancer was introduced as King Tut (to the delight of the uninhibited little ones dancing below center stage) and later the lovely Shoshanna shimmied for us, dressed in a delicious pink costume that undoubtedly left many little girls (of all ages) dreaming of belly-dancing themselves.

Somehow being around death in this intimate, ancient way, left me feeling energized, alive, and more present. We are so very, very lucky to be here now, no matter what. As my friend, gifted drummer and Sufi poet Antoine Lammam says, "Short life or long life--good life."

Now, when I close my eyes at the the end of this long day, I see the golden statuary of the tomb of the tender boy king, and feel the cold of the mausoleum-like museum space at the De Young. These dark, mysterious images contrast beautifully with the golden mountains of Big Sur that live inside me too. Especially at this time of year, the north and south views from the top of the ridge, bright white sunshine on the gray - blue ocean, hills that flow down to the sea, the warmth of the earth coming up at me in waves. Magnificent death and life, in equal measure.


Don't miss it! See King Tut too, at the De Young Museum in San Francisco 'til March 28, 2010.

How to start your day

Admittedly, you might not be as perky as you should be when you arrive at the office. But the sensuous afterglow of an early morning soak in our tub will be worth it. Just have that extra cup of java when you're at your desk, take some deep breaths, and quietly file away the sensations of your delicious outdoor tryst with the goddess of the bath.

Some time back, I was perplexed by a mysterious percussive sound I heard coming from the tub. Ping, ping, ping. What was it? Upon investigation, I discovered acorns, falling rhythmically from the oak tree nearby, landing against the fresh white steel of the claw-foot tub. Fluttering birdsong, the wind through the leaves, and ping! ping! Filling the tub with the makings of acorn mush.

Ahhh, being naked in the great outdoors, that most human of activities! At our house this experience is not restricted to those under 6 years old. Fresh air, hot water (in my case scalding) and bubbles. Slowly lower yourself into the magical brew of scented oils and exotic soaps. Let the amniotic waters of the tub take you in completely. Groom. Reflect. Soak everything in, especially the sea below you and the sky beyond.

Baptizing yourself as you sink to the bottom, hearing your heart beat, surfacing to the sound of the wind-chimes behind you. Start your day by washing away your worldly cares, scrubbing off any bad ju-ju from your dreams. Emerge from the bath like a freshly laundered god /goddess, refreshed and ready for another round.

Who else takes their binoculars into their bathtub? Watching whales, dolphins, orca, condors and hawks while sitting in a bubble bath can lead you to pinch yourself, wondering at your good fortune. (During a bath I enjoyed with my writing mentor Linda, not one, but two, condors flew overhead, We had the honor of hearing their slow, heavy wingbeats, just above us. "That's as close to angel wings as we'll get," we laughed.) Sometimes, though, the magestic vista is too much, and you may find yourself just watching the tiny birds at the feeder, or the bees on the flowers.

To clarify, it's not always perfect: you have to calibrate the hot water hose just so, in order to have a hot, not tepid bath, and in summer time you have to submerge yourself completely, like some strange fish, to avoid the swarms of mosquitoes. But then, just as you are about to surrender to the tiny flying beasts, a hummingbird will stop mid-flight and drink from the aloe bloom a few inches from your head.

You could say that I live in Big Sur because of a bath tub. Twenty some years ago I was on a wild weekend trip with an outlaw boyfriend. We ended up above Nacimiento Road, in a claw-foot tub clinging to the slope of a forested canyon. While soaking amidst the warm bubbles, I remember nibbling on mint leaves growing all around us. In some strange way I felt I'd arrived, and knew that I would be back for more.

Eventually that led to Esalen Institute and the famous sulfur springs, where my dream of living here percolated into the marrow of my bones. Outdoor tubs, like outdoor beds, just seem to go with the territory; it's a local tradition. When my dear friend Margaret migrated from our community some years back, we gave her a small claw-foot tub, which we'd used to ice champagne, for her garden in the Big City. Now she soaks there with her son, looking north to downtown, and they feel the magic of Big Sur.

After one of our Dionysian Christmas-past holiday dinners, our sweet neighbor Lisa and I escorted our elderly friend Bob Nash home, navigating the path to his cabin in the moonlight. With one of us on each arm, Bob told us about how much, after 50+ years, he still appreciated living in the mystical kingdom of Big Sur.

Giggling, we riffed on how living here inspires you to soak up Nature, absorbing it deeply into your flesh, your spirit. As we looked at the moon low in the night sky above the ocean, Lisa and I came up with a phrase that sums it all up: "I feel like a tea-bag steeped in God!" Yes. It's not "Let us pray," not here. Rather, it's "Let us steep." Let us steep deeply in a hot bath in Big Sur.


Champagne tub shot by Kevin Whan

Happy Anniversary

And Happy Summer Solstice. Today, the sun shines longest and brightest, then begins its slow decline to winter. It's a good day to contemplate the end of a cycle, and to review future opportunities that are always emerging.

Last week we walked to the top of the ridge, and the photo to the right recalls a year ago today, when calamity struck Big Sur. As in childbirth, the shock and pain are gone, thank god. Instead we wonder at what we went through, and at how the hell we did it!

A special thanks from the bottom of my heart to the brave men and women who stayed on Partington Ridge and throughout Big Sur to battle the fire, working behind the lines and counter to accepted official wisdom to secure the resources needed to save this precious bit of paradise.

Today, all is calm, soft breezes, sunshine alternating with waves of fog. A time for quiet healing, a beautiful Sunday in the country. Our community is stronger and more creatively vibrant than ever before. We are grateful.

This time last year, and today....>

Photos by Toby Rowland-Jones

Drawing Cats

The mysterious Japanese fable, The Boy Who Drew Cats, made a big impression on me when I was a kid. I'd hide in the backyard with my book of fairy tales, eat graham crackers coated with peanut butter and honey, and ponder what it meant.

A young boy in rural Japan is too small and weak to be much help on the farm. He's sent to the priests, who attempt to teach him, but he has terrible study habits, preferring instead to daydream and draw cats, everywhere.

Kicked out, he travels to another remote temple because he's afraid to go home. He arrives late at night to this large, empty temple, and fills its tall white screens with paintings of enormous, mighty cats. When he's tired, he curls up to sleep in a cabinet, remembering the parting words of the elderly priest, " Avoid large places at night, keep to small!"

For some reason, this cryptic bit of advice pleased me, because I was sure (especially at 12) that I'd have little difficulty sleeping in a cupboard. In fact, I remember choosing which one in our suburban tract home that would work best for me, should I need it.

Late that night, our hero is awakened by sounds of a terrible battle: hours of screaming and yowling by huge creatures just outside his cabinet door. When the fighting stops at dawn, he cautiously emerges to find the floors of the temple awash in the blood of a gigantic , dead goblin-rat (as big as a cow, my version of this oft-told story states) and the mouths of the smiling cats he's painted wet with goblin-blood. The boy goes on to become a famous artist.

In schools today, this story is taught to children as an allegory about tolerance. Those who are different can also be heroes, nice to hear for those of us who feel our alienation at a tender age. It's also said to be a retelling of the early life of 15th century Japanese ink artist and Zen Buddhist priest, Sesshu Toyo.

Perhaps I find myself thinking about this tale these days because we have a new kitten and there's suddenly a lot of hissing and scratching going on in our house. This tea-cup sized baby orange tabby is engaging in battles with our elderly cat, feathered toys, and our fingers and toes late at night, when we least expect it.

Today, I see in this story even more meaning: Being true to ourselves is the best path, even when it is confusing, or causes problems. Listen to the wise ones, and hold their sometimes puzzling words close. Trust that who we are is exactly who we need to be. This is the time-honored way to triumph over our demons, and fulfill our hidden dreams.

Illustration by Gordon Laite

Earth Artist: Cynthia Johnson Bianchetta

One of the first things I respond to when I meet with Cynthia Johnson-Bianchetta is her beauty. I know this is probably not "politically correct," but it is a real reaction on my part. She is lovely, and that loveliness is something one feels to be true both of her physical presence and her spirit. It's something that others feel as well: charming men flock to her orbit, women respond to her Mama Bear warmth and artists of all kinds sense a gracious mentor.

Trained as a dancer and fine-art photographer, Cynthia came to Big Sur in 1984, to study healing work at the Esalen Institute, which she began with Stan and Christina Groff's holotropic breathwork. She’d spent the past three years creating the first international museum for film photography and video in San Diego, the Museum for Photographic Arts, as Assistant Director and Curator, and had been offered a position directing the Weston Gallery in Carmel.

Prior to her arrival at Esalen, she had experienced a deep spiritual opening in the midst of some powerful life changes. Like many others, her first thought when she saw the property’s magnificent green lawn rolling down to the cliff’s edge was, “I’m in Paradise.” So, in a state of fear and curiosity, she began a 25 year journey, becoming the gifted artist of today.

Through Christina Groff, Cynthia met her husband, photographer Daniel Bianchetta. “It’s been such an honor to have had such amazing teachers,” she remarks. She studied somatic movement with a variety of instructors, notably Gabrielle Roth, Anna Halprin, and Emily Conrad. “I see movement as a spontaneous meditation, a key part of our experience of being embodied,” she says. “Its subtle emphasis on the mind-body connection can bring forth untold creativity from our depths.”

In the early '90's, Cynthia co-founded Esalen’s Creative Arts Center, or "Art Barn," at the time a run-down structure recently vacated by a potter and batik artist. “We’re all artists at heart, and we need a space for this in our community,” she thought, and continued in this vein by working to create the dance platform next to the Art Barn, now a well-used performance space. Today, the highest enrollment in Esalen’s workshops are in the arts.

Many trips to rock art sites in the South West with her husband added another dimension: As Daniel photographed ancient petroglyphs, she saw her shadow fall across a rock in the morning sunshine, and began dancing with it. So began her “Earth Dances,” and more dovetailing of visual and performing arts. She built “Earth Altars” in the ruins and filmed herself dancing, or digging up bits of torn photographs buried in the earth, a primal woman finding shards of images in the dust.

“On a core level, dance is my way in to my creativity, which starts in my body,” Cynthia says. “When you’re moving, things move!” she adds. In addition to her own work as an artist, she has taught photography and painting in Big Sur and in Santa Fe, New Mexico. These days, she finds herself drawn more and more to her latest passion: painting with fire. “Listening to my creative voice has now led me to working with hot molten wax and blow torches,” she laughs, “a real girly thing to do!”

The 4,000 year old art of encaustic painting seems the perfect medium for her. (Ancient Greeks and Egyptians painted their mummies this way.) It is informed by the Earth: beeswax from bees, pigments from plants, painted on panels of wood. She uses mixed media to enhance encaustic’s translucent, sensual texture, bringing the everyday into the realm of the sacred in her work. For her post Basin Complex Fire show last fall, Smoke and Ash, she created a series of paintings using ashes from the fire. All the elements are present in this alchemical art form: Earth, air, fire and… water? “Tears of joy,” she smiles.

“Follow your bliss,” as Joseph Campbell said, and Cynthia remembers attending his annual birthday party at Esalen for many years. “To have a life of creativity is within the grasp of us all,” she says. “And for me, bliss is creativity. I mean, what more is there? That is the spiritual path. And if we get out of our own way, the source of inspiration can move through us and work with us.”

Cynthia has donated proceeds from her work to Concerned Citizens for Nuclear Safety and, in last Fall’s Smoke and Ash show, to the Coast Property Owner's fire relief fund. She has a new studio in downtown Carmel, and her paintings are currently on display at Carmel’s Gallery North.

Starting this week, (and coinciding with the anniversary last year's fire) you can view her one-woman show in Big Sur, which includes encaustic paintings from the Smoke and Ash exhibit. Her work will be up for the Summer at the Post Ranch Inn’s Sierra Mar Restaurant. (Please check back here for information on her opening reception.)

“My work has to be connected to something that has meaning for me, and delivers a message,” she says. “I want to keep listening with ease, and let these paintings speak for the Earth.”

25 years ago, Cynthia first heard this poem from a fellow seeker at Esalen. It's one of my favorites as well, and oddly appropriate for a woman who paints with wax:

Last night as I lay sleeping I dreamt,
marvelous error (blessed illusion)
that I had a beehive
here in my heart
and the golden bees
were making white comb and sweet honey
out of all my old mistakes.
-—Antonio Machado


Smoke and Ash, Encaustic, portion of 2' X 8' Painting
Charred, Encaustic, 4' X 6'