Solstice on Middle Earth

This morning The Shire is calm. Fog rolls in from the ocean below while the sun comes up over the ridge-top. Birds sing their morning chorus, and green lawns stretch to the horizon.

Last night, the shortest of the year, I stepped outside my bedroom to the gentlest of sounds: wind chimes tinkling, critters whispering, earth humming. Stars sparkled, and the moon spread her light on the sea, shining on my doorstep, on me.

Peace and tranquility beyond my dreams, a glimpse of heaven, really. If only I could merge with the earth, the breeze, the dark sky, to be one with Spirit for longer than a breath.

It's hard to believe that two years ago yesterday, on June 21, 2008, one of Big Sur's biggest traumas began. A gigantic wildfire, eventually consuming a quarter of a million acres, sparked from a lightning strike within sight of my home (see above.)

A beautiful summer afternoon, bizarre barometric pressure and human fallibility conspired to create a scenario that for the next two weeks scared many of us out of our wits, and / or stressed us beyond our imaginations, providing the adrenalin high of a lifetime.

There is something profound about a community united in purpose, and on Partington Ridge we felt it in spades. Renamed Renegade Ridge, here a small band of determined people made a stand to protect all of our homes.

On this anniversary, we honor them: Toby Rowland-Jones, Christian Nimmo, Martin Hubback, Kevin Southall, Kate Healey, Sula Nichols, Kevin and Lyle Southall, T.S., Dave Smiley, and the Dubois brothers. We thank our neighbors who joined in, from north and south: Aengus Wagner, John Knight, Tevya and Branham Morgenrath, Krystal and Tom Gries, and other brave souls. This group was joined later by hot-shot crews from multiple states, and the USFS.

This gracious ridge, with rolling hills sloping down from 3200' to the sea (with a handful of homes from 1900' to 700' ) is known to many of us as The Shire. Like Tolkien's Middle Earth, here we live in (relative!) peace with the land.

As if to confirm this we have a high number of residents originally from Jolly Olde England. It is possible on this mountain to hear some plummy British accents, drink Earl Grey tea, and be affectionately called "ducky". My theory is that the love of the land, while it runs deep in all of us, is perhaps especially strong for those who come from that chilly little island.

Today I contemplate the peace, while remembering the war. The sky thick with smoke, the hissing and crackling of the fire, the terrifying bright orange flames so bloody near. Unable to take a breath during those weeks, today I relish the deep cool air of The Shire. As summer begins, and another fire season looms, it is good to know that nightmares end, and that peace always prevails.
Photos by Toby Rowland-Jones

Horsy Girl

Ever so often here in Big Sur something happens that reminds me with perfect clarity of who I was as a young girl. When I opened my front door yesterday morning I saw an amber colored horse standing on the edge of the meadow. He was nibbling grass, his golden coat reflecting the sunshine just emerging from above the ridge-top. Naturally I grabbed some carrots and my camera and paid him a visit.

The horse is both a prosaic and romantic creature: when they've come down in the past to feed on the sweet grass in the meadow, they came right up to the front door asking for apples. Later, though, in the hot summer weather, we realized they brought flies and um, other gifts, that made their presence less desirable.

I was one of those little girls that loved horses, passionately. My childhood was filled with books that took me to places where I raced the wind across Arabian deserts, trotted through the streets of London and galloped down blustery beaches to the sea. All of this was a great escape from suburban streets and shopping malls.

The usual jokes about horsy girls aside, a wise woman revealed to me recently that a girlhood love of horses is an archetypal response to the lack of an emotionally available father. Sigh. That was probably true, though now I'm happy that Dad is just a person who needs love and understanding, like us all.

But back to the horses! I had a collection of figurines (raise your hand if you did too, you know who you are) and arranged them differently depending on the stories they were playing out on my shelves. (I do remember Dad building me a special cabinet just for my horse family.) They were much more interesting than Barbie dolls to me, with fiery or gentle characters, brilliant coats and sparkly saddles. They had dreams of living life roaming the wild western mountains, or kicking up their pretty heels in the circus.

Rather than wanting a horse (which I eventually acquired after years of riding lessons, in the brief window before the end of childhood and the beginning of adolescence) I think I wanted to be one: big, graceful, slightly dangerous, and full of ancient mystery.

Later yesterday, as I drove to work, my equine friend, who had wandered down the path towards the gate, came trotting back towards my truck, startled by a car. He pranced past me into the meadow, head and tail up, backlit by the morning sun.

In that moment in my mind I ride him bareback (middle-aged vertigo be damned) over this wild land. I smell the animal scent of his coat, feel the warmth of his withers, and connect with his powerful spirit. Ah, the romance of the horse is alive and well in my neighborhood!

Big Sur's tiniest hitch-hikers

Peep and Poodle, two impossibly happy Partington Ridge Rat Terriers, left town early last month, picked up by tourists driving a Land Rover south on the highway. Like Jerry (of Tom and Jerry's Mouse in Manhattan), they most likely didn't plan on an adventure that would take them who knows where.

Despite the fact that the dog-nappers were aware that these wee beasties were lost (they asked a State Park Ranger about them) they ignored the Laws of Karma and did not deliver them to an animal shelter.

This we know because the family who is desperately missing Peep and Poodle has searched these places, including going all the way down to the shelters of Los Angeles to bring them home.

These are not dogs who would enjoy being in a starlet's purse! And while I can imagine them eating caviar in Beverly Hills, I'm sure they miss the wild smells of Big Sur, riding shotgun with their Mom up and down the ridge, and curling up together beside the fire.

A couple of days ago I stopped into the Heart Beat Gallery here, and met a lovely lady who showed me a colorful deck of cards. I chose one titled "Calling the Spirit Home". This reminds me that no one in the world greets me as my dog does, all smiles, wanting a hug and whimpering his pleasure at my return. When I'm with my funny-faced dog, who guards me and loves me, I'm home. A quiet cat or a beloved bird can do the same thing: these creatures bring us home to ourselves.

Breaking news: Peep and Poodle were found by a friendly animal rescue worker who saw the family's flyer, and identified them at a feed store in Morro Bay. They're now back home where they belong!

Message in a bottle

The Moving Finger writes,
and, having writ, moves on:
nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back
to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears
wash out a Word of it.
-- Omar Khayyam

How much do we actually connect with other human beings using these bizarre, ephemeral tools developed in the last decade? Via email, blogs, Skype, Facebook, Twitter, the mighty Iphone? And now, the horrifying and fascinating Chatroulette?

I woke up this morning thinking about how with these things we are never alone. Or rather, we have the illusion that we are not alone. The status update we send in the wee hours or the text message we receive during the workday keep us "connected", providing our intravenous drip of the milk of human comfort.

Since we are constantly looking for this feedback from outside ourselves, we are actually, I suspect, eroding our ability to authentically connect with others. (Not to mention our attention spans. Have you read a book lately?) We’re in the land of smoke and mirrors with all these toys. Like a veiled woman, we peek, then hide.

Perhaps these tools are perfectly suited to this age, when we are over-stimulated in so many ways. We prefer the drip of human comfort to the overflowing cup that might overwhelm us. Our most sensitive antennae have retracted, we are fearful of being smashed like bugs on a windshield of the information highway.

Now even in Big Sur the "Digital Divide" is shrinking. Thanks to strategically deployed satellites, T1 lines and so on, we are no longer handicapped by lack of access to the web. This helps our functioning in the business and social realms enjoyed by our more sophisticated neighbors.

I once asked my elderly neighbor Bob what people did in Big Sur before all this technology was available to us. No HBO, no Internet, no cell phones, just National Public Radio. He replied laconically, "There was always ice-cream."

Our “old man on the mountain” was really a faux-hermit. Bob would practically break out in hives when his phone line went out, needing his constant stream of callers and visitors to keep him in touch with the world.

A friend of mine says we are like any primates foraging for grubs: when we achieve success in our hunt for contact, our dopamine receptors sit up and say, "Thanks! More please." Now we can hunt down our prey day or night, anywhere in the world. We can shop, chat, have fake sex, or put a new piece of data in the quiver of our brain, basically non-stop if we choose.

The art of sitting still is leaving us. Like rats in mazes we’ll keep using our cell-phones (which may be killing us) texting while driving, and twittering our way into eternity. No doubt we are evolving, but into what?

The fundamental truth, expressed by Khayyam so many centuries ago, persists: Nothing we do can alter the passing of each moment. The moving finger writes our destinies, moving across keypads instead of stone tablets. Replacing fine feather quills on parchment, our grubby digits now tap out our fates. In the unique journeys of our lives, we are still at the mercy of Time.

So I send out my message in a bottle with this blog. I too, want validation, comfort and love from the world. Sitting on top of a mountain is wonderful: I can do yoga, eat ice cream and watch the condors fly past, but I am a modern social animal, too. Shhhhhh, here's the Secret: if we're properly grateful, we may just be able to have it all.

What scared me this morning

Ah, country living. Waking up in the morning, stepping outside to a spring breeze swirling around my ankles, walking on wet grass, smelling a flower.

Watching the moon sink faintly into the fog bank on the horizon. Throwing the ball for the dog. Taking deep breaths.

Back inside to make coffee. Chatting with my guest, cleaning up the mess from last night. Reaching for the bag of beans on top of the microwave, and then, Crack! Morning tranquility shattered by my primal girly-girl scream. And what do you think I saw?

Eek-a-MOUSE! Collapsed picturesquely beside the sugar jar. The yellow Victory logo on the mousetrap all too ironic. Admiring the still life quality of the scene, my impulse is to capture the beastie's demise. My guest joins in the photojournalistic venture, documenting me documenting the drama in my kitchen.

After one more gratifying horror movie queen scream (emitted after picking up the totally disgusting package) I show the not-so-tiny carcass to my recently adopted girl cat Petunia, to see if she will keep the ancestral cat's bargain from Just So Stories. Startled by the rodent hanging off the trap, she quickly runs away. Oh well. Off to the compost heap for a quick burial.

So, do we contemplate the memento mori aspects of this event? I'm afraid not. As my wise guest comments, "Not every invitation to meditate on mortality needs to be accepted." Instead, we sit on the blue Adirondack chairs outside, savoring our hard-earned cups of coffee, and plan a beautiful May Day of gardening projects.

And now, for the very brave, a view of what gave me an adrenalin surge this morning. Viewer discretion advised.

Photos by Linda Rosewood and Linda Sonrisa

Survision does the Big Easy

On this wet and stormy Big Sur Sunday, with hail and branches whipping down onto the muddy dirt road to my home, it’s hard to believe that just two weeks ago I was in the French Quarter, ground zero of the sleepy, muggy center of the Southern Gothic: New Orleans.

My destination includes a special treat: when I walk into the elegant courtyard of Soniat House I find a picture of a famous writer’s craggy face, fresh cigarette dangling from his fingers. The 24th Annual Tennessee Williams Literary Festival begins tomorrow!

The land of voodoo, alligators, Mardi Gras beads, jazz and gumbo is offering up to us a bit of southern culture: a five day conference celebrating the work and the life of this giant of American literature, who lived in New Orleans off and on from 1939 onwards.

After a hilarious mad dash to the airport (parking by the hour for six days so as to not miss the flight, my companion phoning me from her seat as I dropped my shoes into a bin, almost losing my ticket to a standby traveler) we took off to Dallas.

My friend loves the world, especially its sacred places, and considers New Orleans a home of her heart. We were late to the airport that morning due to our pouring over family pictures, after a night of champagne and scotch (to give our trip the proper start, of course).

The beauties of the world are in her home too: a harlequin mask beside the candelabra, palm sized multicolored glass fishes swimming on the windowsill. The walls are covered in tribal art, feathers, butterflies and scarab beetles. Religious figurines, rare stones and ritual objects of all kinds fill the shelves. It’s Spring, and all of her brilliant orchids are blooming.

My virgin trip to the Big Easy! If only I didn’t feel so un-easy about flying. We meditate on board and put golden light around all the shiny, important parts of the airplane’s engines, flight instruments, and of course the pilot and co-pilot’s minds.

That evening, I walk down Bourbon Street and make a quantum shift. After a lifetime fear of flying objects (the fate of a four-eyed girl who preferred the library to team sports) I reach out into the air and grab a silver necklace of Mardi Gras beads, falling from a balcony into my open hand. Naturally, I wear it to the opening night reception of Tennessee’s festival, which consists of a cocktail competition and a screening of A Streetcar Named Desire. (I also wore my wife-beater white undershirt in honor of Stanley.)

Three powerful cocktails vied for the award, prepared by local mixologists and titled “Big Daddy’s Stella” (a ghastly mixture of bourbon and fruit something or other) followed by “Pink Honey” in lovely pepto-bismol pink (flavored with half & half and some mysterious horrid liqueur) and finally a tequila number called “19th Hole.”

Naturally the evening became a blur, and I think the winning drink was “Pink Honey” nicknamed “Shirley Temple’s Underwear” by someone in the crowd. For the duration of the Festival you could go to the Chateau Bourbon hotel and shout “Stella-a-a” just like Stanley and imbibe two Pink Honeys for the price of one. I’m so there.

The following morning we went to a scholarly discussion on Williams’ coming out on the David Frost show in 1970. Frost quizzed him about writing from both male and female perspectives, and Williams replied that we all have both sexes inside us.

Frost pressed this point and Williams replied (he was not particularly sober during this interview, said one scholar dryly) that, “Let’s just say I’ve worked the waterfront.” While out already to those in his world, that statement apparently made the rest of America go A-hah! More evidence that words can and do change the world.

A long discussion of Queer Theory, the Stonewall riots, etc. followed. One surprising idea to me was the concept that Blanche (from Streetcar) was metaphorically speaking, a drag-queen. Not so, say the experts. This idea irritated Williams, who depicted the many variations of both genders with such subtle grace. I found myself thinking of Georgia O’Keefe’s reactions to the hints (people only dared to hint this to her) that her enormous flowers were really womanly sexual parts. Georgia didn’t think so, and she should know! Art and how we interpret it, endlessly entrancing subject matter.

Which leads me to another highlight of the Festival: meeting San Francisco writer, entrepreneur and hands-on philanthropist (826 Valencia Project) Dave Eggers. Author of Zeitun, a Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, the Where the Wild Things Are screenplay and more. Wonderfully personable, he extolled the virtues of writing on a computer sans Internet (where “distracting cat porn is just a click away”) and encouraged all of us to write our stories, whether cathartic, poetic or socially significant.

After a carriage ride to the St. Louis I Cemetery, we lit candles at the tomb of the “Voodoo Queen” Marie Laveau. We made some X’s for wishes in red lipstick on her marble crypt. Then we separated and got lost in this city of the dead, calling each other on our cell phones to find each other again. Cell phones in a 19th century cemetery, truly a 21st century moment. What would Dennis Hopper say?

As I struck a dancer’s pose before Marie Laveau’s tomb, opening my arms up into the sunlight, my mind flashed on the potent waterfall currently flowing through Castro Canyon in Big Sur, traveling from the redwood forest to the sea. This image was so vivid that for a few seconds, time stopped. I think my wish will come true…

Flying out of town at sunset: city lights sparkling, full moon with a single strand of pearly cirrus clouds below her, surrounding bayous and Mississippi River below, the gulf stretched out forever. We nicknamed this adventure our Mojo Restoration Trip (MRT) and the mysterious feelings from this journey still flow quietly inside us.

Playful and poignant, like Mardi Gras beads on a cemetery angel, this great American city offers time travel to the distant planets of the imagination. It is a place of both earthly pleasure and spiritual power. Yes, I’ll be back!

Quote of the week:

“When you die, if you want to go to Heaven,
you have to walk down Bourbon Street first.”
This from NOPD (love that acronym) cop.

What I remember most:

• Music in the streets, Mardi-Gras beads in the trees.
• A young blond Sicilian man playing the guitar, singing his heart out in Italian, carriage horse hooves clopping down the street beside him.
• Handsome 73-year old Jesse bringing me coffee, biscuits and jam in the morning.
• Me in my silk robe, sitting beside the splashing fountain in the quiet courtyard, listening to a mockingbird.
• Deep talks with my traveling companion about Truth and Life.
  
• Gumbo, chicken fried steak, oysters, Martinis. Gumbo. Beignets. Tarot readings and love potions at Voodoo Authentica. Wild dreams. Did I mention Gumbo? And more…

Photos by Linda Sonrisa

A Perfect Morning

“The Kiss of the Sun for Pardon,

the Song of the Birds for Mirth.
One is closer to God in a Garden
than anyplace else on Earth.”

My Grandmother carried this poem inside her all her life. It’s one of the first verses I remember, and it still pops into my head today, especially on a beautiful Spring morning when I’m looking forward to getting my hands into the dirt.

With my Grandma, I experienced the fairy smell of Sweet Peas that draped deliciously over a high wall in her garden. There was the dark mystery of the moist African Violets on her kitchen windowsill, and I learned that you could grow Geraniums from cuttings by sticking them into the soil and watering them dutifully.

Right now (as I write this) I’m watching a hummingbird drink from the furry red sage blossoms hanging over the deck outside the glass door to my bedroom. Its magenta throat feathers shine brightly in the morning light. Happiness and bliss flow into me as I see this, the simple, timeless pleasure of birds and flowers together.

The phrase "Ten minutes in nature is equivalent to a year in therapy" strayed into my life this week. Along with the statement was a picture of a tranquil garden, glowing, wet, lovely. Comments to this post included the kind of longing I know so well: to be in Nature, to be healed of our worries by quiet sunlight, birdsong, a warm breeze.

And yet, it’s not Nature that heals us, exactly, but our openness to Nature that nurtures us without fail, throughout our lives. That is the trick. I can say this with confidence after almost 20 years of living in Big Sur, with all its dramatic ups and downs. There is just as much psychic pain here as among humans anywhere, with the small difference that if we step outside our doors, take some deep breaths, watch a sunset, or go for a walk, we feel immensely better.

Without beauty of some kind, the human soul shrivels, angst festers, lives go off the rails. Staying open to nature, to art, to love, by feeling this pulse of energy, we stay in touch with Life.

I visited not one but two precious City gardens this weekend, and the Geranium cuttings my friend Hiroko gave me have inspired me to get dirty today in my garden beside the claw foot tub on the edge of the canyon. My vision is that our guests will scent their steaming baths with various types of fragrant Geraniums, as well with the Lavender and Rosemary nearby, so I’ll plant the stems with the soft sweet-smelling leaves, their shape repeated in purple in the center of each leaf.

Then I will weed, because I promised to. And my mushy, confused modern heart will be soothed by the love of our greatest Mother. She is the one we can always turn to, the one who lives in the Earth, the Sky, the Sea, and deeply, truthfully, inside each of us.


Perfect Morning
The Gram I remember
Photos by Linda Sonrisa