Stop the World --

I want to get off!

This is the zeitgeist of Big Sur, the essential spirit of the place. Escaping here offers the hope of getting off the merry-go-round of Life, leaving behind the desperation and confusion of the mainstream world in order to find a little peace of mind.

Henry David Thoreau knew this essential mirage of the American condition, perhaps inspiring my friend Bob Nash, recovering from World War II when he bicycled from the Bay Area to Big Sur in 1951. They say Helmuth Deetjen (who founded the beloved Deetjens Inn in the 1930's) was running from the law when he built his home in Castro Canyon. And these are just a couple of famous folks from long ago. Ask any local how they landed here, and you'll get a story you won't forget.

Big Sur attracts entrepreneurs, executives and other Wall Street types as much as the more traditional bohemians: musicians and gypsies, sidewalk philosophers and bon-vivants. For decades now, Big Sur has drawn to her those who want to re-format global consciousness, write the Great American Novel, or just lose themselves contemplating Nature.

The problem is that we are the merry-go-round, not Life. We carry around inside us the seeds of our personal chaos, as wells as the potential for our our unique fulfillment. We stir the pot, or Life stirs us.

It doesn't matter if we live in Big Sur or New York City, in a condo in Dubai or a tiny shack in the Andes. Whether we live alone or surrounded by others, it seems we're uniquely designed as humans to feel, at least from time to time, gnawing discontent with the way things are in our lives. And get this: you're luckier if you do feel this longing to escape than if you don't.

Still, it helps to live amongst the shreds of the counter-culture here in Big Sur. People at least understand that you are here because living in the "real world" drove you mad. They understand how being in this particular environment soothes your soul.

You can hike in the forest, walk along the beach, sleep under the stars. You can watch the sun "sink into the ocean, like an old man at a spa", to quote a friend. You don't have to suffer in hideous traffic jams, or spend your days interacting with dozens of people who may never know (or care to know) your name. You can leave your car un-locked, sleep with your doors and windows open. Owls sing you lullabies, little birds wake you up in the morning, everyone pretty much knows your name (though I seem to go by "Toby's wife" to many.)

And yet, it's getting harder for all of us seeking to live just a little beyond the bright lights of that vast amusement park called civilization. Jobs and housing are more limited in Big Sur than ever before, leading to more commuting, and more time spent in mainstream reality.

The Internet has invaded our brains, the Siren song of so many distractions. Social networking makes us more and more like city folk in our ability to hear the mostly mundane, yet oddly enticing news from our friends in mere nano-seconds. Personally, I've grown over-fond of the "Submit" button, giving my poor little credit card an on-line workout.

A neighbor who is so unplugged that he checks his land-line phone message machine (remember those?) about once per week told me recently that he'd just finished re-reading Homer's The Iliad (in English, not ancient Greek, though he probably could have.) Others tell me of how they have technology-free days, especially for their kids. Stopping the world we know today, even if only for a few hours, allows us to hop off that painted pony and take some deep breaths in the here and now.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh speaks of lessons learned from her retreat in Connecticut in her much-loved book Gift from the Sea --

"The sense of values I have become more aware of here...are signposts toward another way of living. Simplicity of living, as much as possible, to retain a true awareness of life. Balance of physical, intellectual, and spiritual life. Space for significance and beauty. Time for solitude and sharing. Closeness to nature to strengthen understanding and faith in the intermittency of life. Life of the spirit, creative life, and the life of human relationships."

Photos by Linda Sonrisa

A little bit lighter, a little more sad

Turning Fifty ? !

A few weeks ago I shared with a friend that I was feeling somehow different that day than from any previous one so far: "I feel...a little bit lighter, a little more sad." "Could it be," he asked, smiling, "that you're growing up?" "Oh no, not that!" I replied. "Anything but that!"

What makes you feel good about growing older? Answer the first thing that comes to mind. I asked this question to several guests at my birthday party, before the dancing and champagne drinking got really underway. "Being in your power," "Being in your prime," "Not caring what others think of you (as much)," "Being comfortable in your own skin," "Not having to go through again what I went through to get to this point..."

And my pal Lane, the original hot bunny winemaker, weighed in via email a few days later with, "We are sparkly wonderful balls of energy at the core and I am trying to see if I can get back to the state of clean and blissful." As the Body gets older, the Spirit becomes magically younger. This contributes to living Life a little lighter, a little sadder, and hopefully with more of that Holy Grail of Maturity: Presence.

As my latest mentor Eckhart Tolle says, "Awareness is the power that is concealed within the present moment...Only Presence can undo the past in you and transform your state of consciousness."

I survived a California "Mad Men" kind of childhood, a time in a world now gone forever. But since it is my own time I remember it fondly, with a kind of wonder. I had a sunbonnet, girls always wore dresses to school, my parents listened to Dave Brubeck and went to topless bars, you get the picture. My Grandmother worked for NASA, and when men landed on the moon in July 1969 we all cheered and cried in front of the television.

These past few days, as the smoke clears after my 50th "intimate bash" here on Partington, I feel again this lightness and sadness. Full and happy with so many memories, including the unforgettable start to the party: My husband in his pork-pie hat and Hawaiian shirt, blowing away a rattlesnake (that he was unable to trap) with my Dad's 38 revolver, itself a piece of history.

I feel I've reached a summit. I know that my life is immeasurably rich and full of love. Perhaps now I am descending from that peak, letting go, bit by bit, and feeling lighter and freer in this new process. Somehow, this feels right and good. Not that there will not be great dramas and adventures to come, but may they come (fingers crossed for luck) with more and more wisdom and gentleness.

May all of us spin lightly and joyfully into the next moments of Life!

The Free Box Provides

Strange as it may seem, there are shop-a-holics in this town. Thankfully, if we become embarrassingly intimate with the hardworking UPS driver and the kindly Postal workers, there is the local Free Box, where we can deposit used items and, in exchange, "shop" for odd and wonderful things we never knew we needed.

The humble Free Box, (a community drop off for household and clothing re-cycleable items) lives in an open air hallway behind Nepenthe's historic restaurant. Here are a few free Box winners over the years: a leather jacket in good condition, jeans that fit perfectly, an excellent yoga mat, and Tiffany gold cuff-links. As well as some losers: an enormous stuffed bunny missing its ears, countless mis-shaped sweaters, fancy shoes that are really too big, cookbooks from the 1970's that we'll never read.

When I was a girl I rebelled against back-to-school department store visits with my mother, since the dressing rooms at the mall became another stage for our ongoing mother-daughter battles. As a coping strategy, I began exploring the local Salvation Army thrift store.

I ended up on the "most interestingly dressed" list at my suburban high school by wearing Chinese satin gowns with cowboy boots, flowing white poet blouses, faded jeans, and vintage pumps. With adolescent flair, I began defining myself as a fashion non-conformist, not knowing I would soon evolve into a grown-up "fashion victim". (Which I did, in spades, as anyone who knows me can confirm.)

I love to shop. It's my drug of choice. I shop when I'm sad, I shop when I'm happy. I shop when I have money in my pocket, and when all I have on hand is my battered, woe-begone credit card. I shop to have a flash of that warm, sweet feeling of abundance and a kind of safety. As long as I have a new a) skirt b) boots c) set of linens d) baskets e) lawn furniture, etc. everything's all right, at least for a while.

This line of thought always recalls to me that 1970's song by The Tubes: "What do you want from Life?", that lists all the material things that American citizens are entitled to, ending with "a baby's arm holding an apple". A play on words, which, finally, after 30+ years, I just got.

I tell myself that like eating, drinking and finding shelter, in some ways we must shop to survive. Historic trade routes led to global exploration and empires. Marketplaces, like those in Ancient Greece, were public spaces set aside for vendors to trade and citizens to assemble. One could argue that commerce contributed to the birth of democracy. So shopping is not all bad.

However, at this stage of life it's time to begin purging from our closets some of the many possessions that simply don't make sense anymore, and here the Free Box comes in handy as well. So this is a Free Box alert! to all my neighbors. You know who you are. I'll see you in the that dark, magical hallway sometime soon.

Magical serendipity

Everyone has a personal tale or two about the road, and its role in the adventure of living in Big Sur. Mine is a story of serendipity.

Years and years ago, when I was a city-dweller, I would escape my cubicle and drive my little commuter car down Highway One to dip into the healing waters at Esalen, to hike steep mountains and dance on pristine beaches.

I'd drive up and down the highway, my arm stretched out the window, hand pressing against the wind. I would return to my city life restored, and perhaps just a little more present in my world.

A shutterbug, I snapped a shot of the often-photographed row of colorful mailboxes at the foot of Partington Ridge. A couple of years later I showed this picture to my fiancé, who'd been living on the Ridge the day I drove by. Tucked between the mailboxes was a bit of trash that he remembered picking up. Our paths had crossed -- him probably wishing he could scold the litterbug as I drove on down the highway, my camera holding an image of where my own mailbox would be some day.

Now I help others plan their escapes from the modern world to stay in the rustic time-capsule known as Deetjens Inn. As I speak with guests, I remember the fear and wonder we feel when we step into the unknown, even if it's only a 3 or 6 hour drive away. Our Inn guests are unique in their determination to have the experience Deetjens offers, of coming home to a more gracious, gentler world.

But magical serendipity, perhaps more abundant in Big Sur, does not protect us from the impermanence of life, whether we're meeting, almost meeting by accident, or parting ways. Last week our Deetjens community suffered a blow when the beloved Caroline Provost, who selected and arranged the Inn's fresh-cut flowers for over a decade, left us suddenly and too soon. She always gave her smiles and her love to us, and will be missed like nobody's business.

When we are surprised by the death of someone we love, the world tilts on its axis differently, as if a nuclear bomb had just detonated underground, changing the landscape we walk on forever. What can we do but send our prayers after the one who has gone ahead of us?

Caroline the Queen of the Flowers gave us a priceless parting gift: a deeper knowing of how little time we have, and how important it is to meet each other in the moment with all the love we have to give.

Mailboxes by Toby Rowland-Jones
Toby and Caroline in happier times --

The Wedding Tree

All right, I'll admit it, here's one of my secrets: I have a special, very feminine tree that I like to hug. It comforts me to tuck my head against her tree belly, and look up and down the coast, peeking out at the world as if from behind Mama, holding onto her skirts.

This small oak grows on the point below below us, on a finger of land forming the side of one of Partington's many small canyons. She's been festooned with prayer flags and slightly pruned for a nice trim shape. She's witnessed the words of lovers, sheltered sunset watchers, and been the subject of many mystical landscape paintings.

Big Sur's mountain ridges spread away from her to the north and south, her backdrop is the ever-changing ocean and sky. From under her branches, I feel a frisson of vertigo, as if I was a red-tailed hawk swooping down towards the sea.

Probably the most interesting (and most often commented on) aspect of the Wedding Tree is that if you look at her with soft eyes, she is in fact a woman, her torso plunged into the land, legs reaching up into the air. She has an upside down "muffin top" and a serious belly button. The question, as my painter friend wondered, is whether she is diving down into the earth, or jumping up out of it.

Maybe she's doing handsprings, leaping from ridge to ridge over the ages, or maybe she's an Esalen tribal princess, transformed into an oak in some ancient, indigenous fairy tale. Either way, she is our Tree Goddess.

One morning last week I woke up like the rest of the world: after listening to city sounds in my bed, I drank a cup of coffee, walked out onto the street, got in my car and drove to an office building, where I talked about the business world all day.

How blessed I felt when the very next morning, wearing only my bathrobe, cowboy hat and sturdy shoes, playing pied piper to my three eccentric cats (who go on walks with us) I began my day leaning against the Wedding Tree's warm tummy and soaking up the strength of her primeval thighs.

Quiet Days in Big Sur

The road is quiet. It has a stillness, like an empty stadium after a big game. One wants to walk slowly around its curves breathing deeply, stand in yoga poses at the vista points, and dance along the tops of the stone walls that stare down at the sea.

Without traffic (and there's been almost none at all this past week) Highway One invites contemplation. This quiet feeling permeates our daily lives right now. Perhaps the landscape's level of grandeur needs an empty stage to remind us of the solitude it lived in for so very, very long.

The ancient, enormous forces that shaped this land are more evident when we're shaken out of our daily routines. The road has a secret, which we are distracted from learning when it's busy with tourist traffic: this ribbon of road is the edge of the world as we know it.

Friday evening, as I drove home from the valley towards the ridge, my pickup truck was the only beast on the road for some ten miles. As I dimmed the headlights on the straightaways, the slopes of the cliffs transformed into sleeping animals, while pine trees loomed large along the asphalt trail. The flashes of darkness, then silver moonlight, recalled earlier times when night travel happened only when the moon was full.

Recently, Big Sur folks have made "border crossings" over the slide twice daily, a source of annoyance, but also of amusement and community. As the rains have slowed, people have reported enjoying a brisk morning walk beside their neighbors (even in an un-caffeinated state!) while helping each other push carts full of groceries back up and over the collapsed road in the afternoon.

Since the walkovers have been carefully timed, I learned a new expression in Spanish while driving my friend Mary to the bridge at 6:40 am: "Písale!" (meaning "Step on it!" ) she yelled over the roar of my truck careening through the Big Sur Valley at just over 60 mph. As I watched Mary walk towards the bend in the road, her pack on on her back, I found myself thinking about refugees crossing a mountain pass, leaving Shangri-la...

All of us living here have our road warrior stories. Title this new chapter the "Rocky Creek Slide" and add to it another chapter, begun two days ago, "Alder Creek Monster Slide" which we're told will keep Highway One to the south of Gorda closed for a month. After seeing this photo, you'll believe it.

As of April 15, the only way into Big Sur is over Nacimiento-Fergusson Road. A 2-3 hour detour which begins in the basin of the Valley of the Oaks in Jolon. Now here's more good news: tucked into the corner of this valley is Mission San Antonio de Padua. Built in 1771, it contains countless timeless pieces of the past in its small museum. There's also a wine press, a millstone, and as my young friend Nigel demonstrates here, a 200 year-old olive tree.

Visiting the Missions has always moved me, maybe because they remind me of my 1960's California childhood experience of struggling to build them out of sugar cubes, cardboard and clay in elementary school.

Saint Anthony is the patron saint of lost things, the one who guides us to hidden treasures, so it seems appropriate to visit him on your way to Big Sur. This route to the coast has its share of surprises too: perhaps you'll see the mysterious herd of thundering elk, smell the grape jelly scent of fields of lupine or feel a calm sense of awe as you come to the crest of the mountain above Lucia.

As the Buddhist teaching goes: Impermanence is the essence of life (or as my Dad used to say, The only constant in life is change). On this Friday, April 22 Highway One will re-open at the Rocky Creek Slide. This latest news proves again that it's possible to simultaneously feel great relief and nostalgia for difficult times.

Nigel at the Mission Olive tree photo by Margaret Goeden

Here we go again

Just when we think we're really part of the 21st century here in Big Sur (cell phones, satellite TV, internet cafés under the redwoods) Mother Nature comes along and whompers us.

This is what She did last week, the day before St. Paddy's Day. The fields and mountains in Big Sur are shamrock green, while the earth is wet and getting wetter with the Spring storms. Last Wednesday the southbound lane on Highway One, between Rocky Creek and Bixby Bridge, collapsed in magnificent fashion, beginning a decisive slide down a 200' sandy cliff towards the sea.

I snapped the photo above while crossing over the danger zone the morning after the event, carrying bags to our car in the bright cold sunlight on the "other side". Since it's a tiny dinosaur of a cell phone camera, I had to get very close to the buckling asphalt, to the concern of those around me.

"Honey, it's not a screen-saver," my husband said. Wait, holding a camera makes you a superhero, right? Walking back across the damaged road without shielding myself with technology, the scene somehow became more real.

I asked the two gentleman standing above the gaping hole that was once a highway, "So when are the engineers showing up to fix this?" "Engineers don't fix things, we fix things!" they said emphatically.

"What about putting in a one-lane road over there?" Playing the know-it-all local, I pointed to the empty flat space next to the northbound lane. "It's not so stable," replied the Sheriff standing nearby. So I jumped up high, landing firmly on the pavement, just to see what would happen. "Good thing you're little" they said and we all had a good laugh in the early morning sunshine.

Those of us who were here for 1998's El Niño season remember months of an impassable highway, reduced employment, insanely long "town runs" for supplies. And yet, in light of recent global events, this one just doesn't feel like such a hardship.

"Hardship" is defined as "a condition that is difficult to endure; suffering; deprivation; oppression". What we are experiencing here, (as a friend said wisely as we conferred at the Post Office yesterday) is “inconvenience”.

It's dark, stormy, and cold this morning, but there is a songbird singing in the wet woods beside our house, high true notes, as if it were warm and sunny outside, singing for his mate, to help build his nest and comfort him on the coming summer evenings.

Did I say it was cold? People are beginning to get concerned with filling their propane tanks, and grateful for the wood they've held onto over the winter months. Fortunately, I am one of those who still find it romantic to build a fire. We are living like quasi-gypsies: flashlights, vitamins and overnight bags in the car, ready for a sleepover somewhere other than home, due to a downed tree, power line or slide.

Fields of lupin and poppies are on the way, early spring Daffodils are drooping but beautiful. A symphony of happy frogs, birdsong and pouring rain: it's Spring in Big Sur!


Itty bitty pictures taken by Linda Sonrisa on her cell phone