Jack in the Beanstalk Land

All right then, the fog is back. At this point, we'd welcome the bugs that come with hot, sunny days in the country. The ridge is wrapped in cloud, all is quiet, even the birds' dawn chorus is silent.

All edges soften, as if we've burrowed into drifts of cotton gauze, and shapes on the horizon blur. Up close, the colors of the garden pop with intensity. Condensation falls like raindrops from the trees, damp cobwebs shimmer in the grass. Today we can watch a movie, drink hot chocolate, play scrabble. Yet, we are longing for the sun.

Yesterday morning, we had a few delicious moments above the fog, one of my most favorite experiences here. It's as if we've become residents of a mystical archipelago, with ridge-top islands stretching up and down the coast. All we have to do is summon a golden boat and sail over a sea of clouds. So felt the lucky few who made it to the top of Mount Olympus, home of the gods.

Grandiose metaphors aside, the one we prefer in our rustic, hobbit-home, is the story of Jack in the Beanstalk. We must give credit for this romantic, fairy-tale vision of Big Sur to the gentleman who owns the property we live on. Witnessing the fog-blanket phenomenon some years back, he exclaimed, "It's Jack in the Beanstalk land!"

Yes, we can imagine happy Jack emerging from the clouds at the top of a giant beanstalk. The great green stalk sways in the muted light of a foggy day as Jack steps across the fog-carpet to the hillside below our house. Like us, he had no idea what his impulse buy of those mysterious beans would bring. He's curious and determined to explore this magical land.

Sometimes doing the eccentric thing, like trading a cow for beans or jumping off the merry-go-round of mainstream modern life, can bring unexpected riches. The goose that laid the golden egg, the talking harp, and the giants (minus the fee-fi-fo-fum bit) are all here, on the top of Partington Ridge.

Photo by Linda Sonrisa

Jack in the Beanstalk illustration by Jackie Willcox Smith

Bug Sur

After what seemed like months of depressing drippy fog, we in Big Sur are opening our hearts to the joy of these past sunny days. The smells of sun-warmed roses, wild-flowers, sweet-peas and sage fill the air around us, up the ridges and into our gardens. Ahhh, finally we have our Summer.

We dance on the grass, we work on our tans. And we bring out the mosquito nets and bug spray. If we're feeling really vicious, out come the electronic tennis racquet thingies that zap the nasty little monsters into oblivion. As I write this in the early morning, sitting outside on my blue Adirondack chair, gazing down at the fog-banketed sea, I'm about to get up and saturate myself in OFF! Deep Woods Insect Repellent VII. West Nile Virus be gone!

There are lots of bugs in in Big Sur, and they tend to be larger and more omnipresent than they are elsewhere. Big, hairy tarantulas crossing the road signify rain. Multiple scorpions in your house tell you to "wake up!" Wolf spiders (which no longer scare me in the middle of the night) scramble across bathroom tiles, while the dreaded "No-see-ums" attack our scalps on warm summer evenings.

Recently a neighbor introduced almost a hundred beehives onto the ridge right above us, a truly daunting colony of fierce honeybees. They are apparently very thirsty and spend most of their day racing at great speed up and down the mountain from the hives to our pond, where they hang out above the water lillies, freaking out the pond's resident fish and visiting dragonflies (not to mention us.)

The bees' industrious buzzing mimics the South African Vuvuzela horns of the recent world cup soccer matches, especially in their incessant quality. To date we've received a total of three painful stings, one on the tender bare foot of yours truly. Unfortunately, one cannot herd bees, but since their sheer volume is annoying to many, we're told they will be leaving soon to make their honey for other brave bee farmers.

Coating oneself in bug spray is not conducive to love-making (think kisses followed by grimaces) and yet, to be indoors during this time of year would be absurd. Thank goodness for cool breezes, slightly lower temperatures, and for natural repellent oils, patches and sprays.

Yesterday evening, as we alternately sprayed ourselves and smashed mosquitoes between our palms, we heard news of a genetically modified mosquito that would not carry malaria. "But what will it do to the birds that eat them?" we wondered. How are we impacting the whole chain of life by tinkering with genetic material? Big questions about a little bug.

"Why did god make mosquitoes?" I asked someone recently. "To piss us off," he replied. If anger and irritation is our teacher, a way to learn non-attachment, then mosquitoes are profound instructors. The Buddhist perspective here would mean not becoming Alpha Mosquito and waging war on them, but on co-existing with them peacefully. To have compassion towards all sentient beings includes extending it to the tiniest of insects, which flee from their impending deaths at our hands. Spiritual awakening through mosquitoes? Well, why not?
Dragonfly photo by Linda Sonrisa
others courtesy of howstuffworks.com

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